Tricky Business by Dave Barry Read Free Book Online Page B

one—was shut down by county health inspectors. A health department spokeswoman told the news media, which had somehow been alerted, that this was a standard random mass inspection, and that the inspectors had found dozens of violations. These were the very same inspectors who, until then, would not have cared if they had seen human thumbs in the fritter batter, as long as they got their little envelopes of cash.
    While a hungover Bobby Kemp was sitting in his office, trying to absorb this news, he got a call from the manager of his largest and busiest Professional Medical Doctors Discount Laser Eye and Cosmetic Surgery Clinic, who informed him that the clinic was being picketed by about a dozen ex-clients, who claimed they were the victims of botched surgical procedures.
    â€œThere’s a woman out there, she’s screaming, she’s pulling her goddamn pants down right in front of the TV cameras,” said the manager. “Claims we messed up a lipo on her buttocks. I gotta say, between you and me, her ass looks like one of those science-fair projects where some kid lets cottage cheese sit around for two weeks.”
    Kemp’s conversation with the clinic manager was interrupted by another phone call, which turned out to be a supervisor on the Extravaganza of the Seas, reporting that there had been a freak accident involving the big supply truck.
    â€œThe driver got out,” said the supervisor. “He’s OK.”
    â€œFuck the driver,” said Kemp. “What about the truck?”
    â€œI’m guessing the truck is not in great condition,” said the supervisor.
    â€œWhat do you mean, you’re guessing?” said Kemp.
    â€œI mean the truck is on the bottom of the bay.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œAlso, the workers are calling in sick.”
    â€œWhich workers?”
    â€œEverybody. Dealers, bartenders, waitresses, crew, everybody.”
    Kemp hung up. He put his face into his hands for a moment, then picked up the phone and punched, from memory, the cell-phone number of a high-ranking elected Miami-Dade County official who had received significant political support from Kemp in the form of paper sacks filled with cash.
    â€œHello?” said a voice.
    â€œBenny, this is me, Bobby Kemp.”
    A pause, then: “Benny’s not here.”
    â€œBenny, goddammit, I know that’s you. This is me, Bobby Kemp. I got a . . .”
    â€œWhoever this is, I don’t hear you. It’s a bad reception here.”
    â€œBenny, wait, I need to . . . Benny? Hello? Benny?”
    Nothing.
    â€œFuck,” said Kemp, slamming down the phone. He thought for a moment, looked up a number, called his lawyer’s office.
    When the lawyer got on the line, he said, “Listen, you got to get over here right now, because this Tarant asshole is fucking up my entire . . .”
    â€œI, ah, Bobby, I don’t think we can do that,” said the lawyer.
    â€œWhat?” said Kemp.
    â€œI just feel . . . that is, we feel, here at the firm, that, ah, in the interest of insuring that you get the best possible legal representation, to which you are absolutely entitled, no question, it’s, ah, our feeling that—and this is, believe me, strictly for your benefit—to avoid any suggestion of conflict, it would be for the best if there was, ah, a discontinuance, insofar as . . .”
    â€œThey got to you, you little needle-dick weasel,” said Kemp.
    â€œNow, Bobby, there’s no call for . . .”
    â€œThree hundred fifty fucking dollars an hour I been paying you to read leases I can already read myself, and now the one fucking time I need you to actually do something, you bail on me?”
    Dee Dee stuck her head in the door.
    â€œMr. Kemp? That guy? With the arms? From yesterday? He’s here. You want me to . . .”
    â€œHey, Bobby,” said Tarant, coming around Dee Dee. “How’s things?”
    â€œYou know how things