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a rare snow leopard cub at Busch Gardens, the death of the world’s oldest circus fire-eater in Sarasota, and an Ecstasy raid that snared a prominent transsexual evangelist.
    Crashing several company cars earned Bang Abbott his nickname, and he was on the verge of being fired from the
Times
when he’d stunned his editors by winning a Pulitzer Prize for spot news photography, one of the most prestigious awards in journalism. Bang Abbott’s self-nominated picture of a Canadian tourist being mangled by a lemon shark would soon become a focus of dispute, but for a short while he’d been able to bask in his triumph. Anticipating trouble down the road, he’d made a point of quickly spending the ten thousand dollars that had come with the Pulitzer, selecting a superb Japanese entertainment system for his small apartment in Clearwater Beach. As it did for all its award winners, the newspaper had presented Bang Abbott with a raise, which he’d pronounced insufficient.
The Boston Globe
and
Washington Post
made better offers, but these eventually were rescinded when the distasteful circumstances surrounding the shark photograph began leaking out.
    It was one night during that dark and turbulent period when the
Times
sent Bang Abbott to shoot a Hannah Montana concert in Tampa, an assignment he’d correctly perceived as punitive. Afterward he’d gone out for drinks with a group of paparazzi who were pursuing the young singer, and he had listened with hungry fascination to their lurid battle tales. It had dawned on Bang Abbott that he could make more dough with one titty shot of a wayward starlet than he would busting his hump for six months on a newspaper salary. Better still, freelance photographers were unbound byany of the snooty ethical rules against bribing tipsters, for example, or misrepresenting one’s self as, say, a CSI. A paparazzo was limited only by the breadth of his imagination and the size of his balls.
    Bang Abbott had left his new acquaintances roaring at the bar and driven directly to the newspaper office, where he’d furtively removed his Pulitzer certificate from a trophy case in the lobby. Five days later he was in Beverly Hills, trailing Cameron Diaz down Rodeo Drive. At first the all-night hours jarred his system, but Bang Abbott eventually came to believe it was the life he was meant for. Being punched, shoved, cursed, toe-stomped and spat upon didn’t bother him at all. The waiting could be a drag, but a hot chase was always fun.
    And the money … well, the money was excellent.
    Despite his sullied exit from conventional journalism, Bang Abbott never regretted his impoverished years as a daily news photographer. In truth, the experience helped make him a more agile and resourceful paparazzo. His predaceous instincts were exceptionally keen and much admired by competitors, which is why he was so enraged about being faked out of his shoes at the Stefano.
    Loath as he was to concede defeat, he knew there was no point in checking the numerous hospitals in the Miami area; Cherry Pye’s handlers were skilled at smuggling her in and out of medical facilities. In every city she visited, the services of a discreet physician were arranged in advance, with an agreement that he or she would serve on call for the duration of the superstar’s stay. If an emergency arose, the doctor would remain at Cherry’s side throughout the ordeal until she was safely aboard a private jet, homeward-bound. The woman never flew commercial unless she was traveling overseas.
    For that reason Bang Abbott didn’t waste his time staking out the nonstop clusterfuck known as Miami International. Instead he raced out to the Tamiami Executive Airport, which was favored by celebs sneaking in and out of the city. He parked near the charter-jet terminals in a shady area from which he could scout for an approaching black Suburban.
    At that very moment, a gaggle of Bang Abbott’s ruthless cohortswas swarming the doors of a sushi bar on