Maury Lykes turned crimson. "Mind your own damn business." Cirque de Soleil was auditioning in town, and he'd hooked up with a pair of Czech spinners whose combined age was at least thirty-five. "Where's our girl?" he asked.
"Pilates on the patio," Chemo said.
"What's that thing you got there?"
"Cow motivator."
Maury Lykes exhaled. "Oh Jesus."
"Don't worry. It won't leave a mark."
"Honestly? Anything I don't need to know, I don't wanna know." Hurriedly he led Chemo into one of the bedrooms and shut the door. "Okay," he said, "about Star Island."
"Lay it out."
"Between you and me, I can't afford any more surprises. All this fuckin' drama."
Chemo said, "Exactly."
"Loose ends, whatever. I'm tryin' to run a business here."
"You got enough headaches," the bodyguard agreed.
They briefly discussed the particulars. "But nobody else can know," Maury Lykes said.
"I wasn't gonna send out invitations."
"How's fifty sound?"
"Like you're jerkin' my chain."
"Seventy-five," Maury Lykes countered. "Best I can do."
Chemo's smile belonged in a Gahan Wilson cartoon. The promoter didn't know whether to laugh or crap his pants.
"Maury, you're a goddamn liar. Eighty grand, with forty up front."
"Deal. Now tell me the truth--how's she doing?"
"Cherry?" Chemo's lips curled in distaste. "She's a pain in the ass, but I'm keepin' her straight. Why do you think she hates my guts?"
Maury Lykes turned away. He was standing at a window that overlooked Biscayne Bay. The sun was in his eyes, so he slipped into his blue-mirrored Oakleys.
"When Michael died," he said, "his backlist shot through the roof. Every album he ever made went back on the charts. Same for Elvis, same for Lennon. But Cherry Pye is no Jacko, and she's no Beatle. She OD's and there'll be a decent retail bump for maybe a month, mainly iTunes, depending on how long they drag out the toxicology. But after that, she's basically finished. Her catalog ain't exactly timeless, okay?"
Chemo was twirling the cattle prod like a baton. "Is this my problem?" he said.
The promoter wheeled around, nervously rubbing his hands together. Chemo thought the shiny sunglasses made him look like a giant deerfly.
"We've sold seventeen, maybe eighteen mil in tickets for the Skantily tour," Maury Lykes said, "but, unfortunately, the show's not insured. Nobody would touch her because of all the rehabs, so I had to start my own company and write the fucking coverage myself--which leaves yours truly on the hook in a semi-disastrous way if Cherry's inconsiderate enough to pull a Heath Ledger. So what I'm sayin', my brother, is this: I need you to keep this airhead alive for as long as possible, because she's got no goddamn shelf life once she croaks."
Chemo said, "Can't help you there. Sorry."
"What do you mean?"
"After tomorrow, I'll be movin' on."
"To do what?"
"High-end evictions. The banks, they're hard up for muscle."
"Please," Maury Lykes said, "I'm begging you, don't go."
"No, it's the smart play. Once this thing's done, you won't want me around."
The promoter paused to think about it, and he had to agree.
"Besides," said Chemo, "one more day, I'll end up killin' her myself."
Maury Lykes manufactured a lighthearted laugh, in hopes that the man was joking.
21
As his nickname suggested, Ruben "Whaddup" Coyle was not a man of broad vocabulary. He nevertheless was popular with a particular kind of woman, owing to his stature as a player in the National Basketball Association. Whaddup Coyle currently was listed as a point guard on the roster of the first-place Miami Heat, though he'd been sidelined indefinitely with a groin pull. The injury had occurred not on the basketball court but rather on a three-meter diving board at a private estate in Coconut Grove, while Whaddup Coyle was being ridden reverse cowgirl-style by his real-estate agent, a natural redhead who seemed intent on moving the property.
It was a nice place, six bedrooms and a basement gym, but Whaddup Coyle was looking to rent, not buy. He got traded on average every nineteen months, so he never stayed with one team long enough to flip a house and come out ahead on the deal. And, as even Whaddup Coyle knew, the market in South Florida was especially suck-ass. He made his modest housing intentions known shortly after he and his realtor fell off the diving board, while he was dog-paddling with groin afire toward the marble steps of the pool. The real-estate agent toweled off, wrung out her contraceptive sponge and frostily referred Whaddup Coyle to some rental firm in the Gables. She never called again, yet he soldiered on.
Within a week he'd found a two-story on Venetian Isle that featured not only a lap pool but a billiard room. Best of all, it was only fifteen minutes from South Beach, where Whaddup Coyle was doing most of his rehabilitating, usually into the wee hours. During his journeyman NBA career, Whaddup Coyle had earned a reputation for ragged off-court behavior. Consequently, the coaching staff of the Miami Heat had asked him to please employ a car service whenever he went clubbing. They felt entitled to such a request, since they were paying Whaddup Coyle the profane sum of five million dollars a year and he was scoring--before his injury--a measly seven points a game. The least he could do was hire a driver and stay out of trouble.
But Whaddup Coyle said no thanks. He leased a liquid-silver supercharged XKR convertible, which he soon thereafter wrapped around a pine tree after leaving the Forge (fatigue, he told the state troopers). The second Jaguar he drove off the Rickenbacker into Biscayne Bay (the cop who found him was a hoops fan, and gave a friendly read on the Breathalyzer). A third convertible rolled off the Fisher Island ferry into Government Cut, the vehicle carelessly left in Drive while Whaddup Coyle was distracted by a young heiress to an Italian shoe-polish fortune (swimming, fortunately, was among her myriad talents).
Now Whaddup Coyle was on his fourth Jag, and the leasing company had warned it would be his last. He'd also received a stern phone call from his coach, who'd gotten wind of the other mishaps and now wanted Whaddup Coyle to come in for a physical, which was league code for a urine test and drug screen. Because of the contractual repercussions attached to proof of substance abuse, Whaddup Coyle contrived to forestall the medical exam as long as possible and allow his six-foot-six system to repurify itself. He swore off marijuana, cocaine and opiates, heroically limiting himself to alcohol, which was not only legal but disappeared from the bloodstream within hours after intake.
Sunday nights being relatively quiet on South Beach, Whaddup Coyle had difficulty finding a party after the Heat-Nets game. His favorite hangouts were dead, so he tried the Shore Club, where he traded phone numbers with a Finnish model who promised to meet him later at the Rose Bar in the Delano. She showed up with a utility infielder for the Arizona Diamondbacks and proposed they all get a room. At first Whaddup Coyle was cold to the idea, but eventually his curiosity about Scandinavian poon outweighed his disdain for baseball players. He thought it actually might be fun to show off in front of the little runt.
So he charged the room to his Platinum Card, and up the elevator they went. The last thing Whaddup Coyle remembered with clarity was chugging the dregs from a magnum of unpronounceable champagne while the model and the infielder grappled on the carpet, snorting like goats. One of them would pause every so often to suck on Whaddup Coyle's toes, which failed to make him feel like an equal participant.
Now, he gradually came to perceive that he was back in the Jag, slumped over the steering wheel. The top was up, the engine was running, his feet were bare and dawn was breaking. A man was rapping on the windshield, and Whaddup Coyle assumed he was a cop--with any luck, a reader of the sports pages. Whaddup Coyle aimed a sheepish smile at the broad silhouette.
"Whaddup, Officer?"
"You're in no shape to drive."
"Big fun last night."
&nb
sp; "Out," the man said.
Emerging from the car, Whaddup Coyle saw that his visitor was most definitely not a police officer. The man's skin was baked brown, like an Indian's, and one eye was messed up. He wore a funky trench coat and his scalp was shaved bald, except for two mismatched sprouts that rattled with red and green attachments.
Whaddup Coyle labored to steady himself. He was distressed to observe that the Jaguar's rear end was crumpled; apparently he'd backed into the concrete wall of a kosher bakery and nodded off. A flattened tin garbage can protruded from beneath one of the rear wheels.
"Aw shit," he said.
The stranger got into the XKR and revved the engine.
"Say, whaddup?" re-inquired Whaddup Coyle.
"It's drivable," the man said.
"Are you for real jackin' this bitch?"
"Call it a loan."
"Fuck that," Whaddup Coyle said. "This is my ride, old man."
When he seized the guy by the shoulder, something metallic and heavy came down upon his hand. It was the barrel of a shotgun, and Whaddup Coyle wondered why he hadn't noticed it earlier. He thought: I must be totally trashed.
"Here's the deal," the man said.
"Naw, we're cool." Whaddup Coyle backpedaled until he found himself braced against the bakery wall. He felt woozy and nauseated.
"Where are your shoes?" the stranger asked.
"Fuck if I know."
The man pointed. "Collins is thataway. It's your best shot at a taxi." Then he drove off in the imported convertible.
As drunk as Whaddup Coyle was, he realized it would be counterproductive at that moment to summon the authorities. The police report would likely make mention of his polluted condition and then a story would wind up in the Herald, which wouldn't improve his standing with the coach.
So he decided to go home and sleep it off. Later he would phone the leasing company and say the Jaguar had been stolen from his driveway during the night. That way, if the car turned up, they wouldn't blame him for the damage. Had to be the thief who wrecked it, right? So please send over a new one right away--that's what Ruben "Whaddup" Coyle would say. Liquid silver, same as the others.
It was a sweet plan, and he congratulated himself for stitching it together so swiftly. Then he doubled over and keeled unconscious into a box of stale pumpernickel.
Had D. T. Maltby not been such a cheapskate, he wouldn't have found himself in the sticky position of being interviewed by an overly diligent Monroe County detective.
"It's no big deal," he insisted.
"A break-in is always a big deal," Detective Reilly said, not bothering to add: Especially at the Ocean Reef Club.
"What did the intruder look like, Mr. Maltby?"
"Just a bum. You know, some pathetic crackhead."
The former lieutenant governor had no intention of identifying Clinton Tyree or steering law enforcement in the direction of that vengeful degenerate. Maltby had called the police only because the insurance company required a report and a case number.
"Was he tall or short?" Reilly asked.
"I really couldn't say. See, he was sittin' down."
"Defecating in your dryer."
"Washer," Maltby said tightly.
"You're absolutely sure he didn't say anything?"
"Look, I already told you what happened--he took a shit and ran off. Could you please just write up the report?"
The detective asked Maltby why he'd waited days before reporting the break-in.
"Because I didn't want to bother you folks over somethin' this dumb--it's the damn insurance people who made me call."
Reilly said, "It's not dumb, Mr. Maltby, it's a felony home invasion. You say nothing was stolen."
"No, sir."
"That's pretty weird to think this person broke in just for the purpose of--"
"Hey, people are nuts," Maltby interjected uselessly.
"--emptying his bowels in your washing machine, even though there was a perfectly comfortable bathroom down the hall."
"Obviously the guy's a sicko." Maltby was becoming exasperated. "But, come on, it's not the crime of the century."
"A speedboat was stolen from one of your neighbors on the same night."
"So I heard." Maltby was hoping Tyree had taken off for the Bahamas. Maybe he would capsize in the Gulf Stream and drown.
The detective said a wandering vagrant had been implicated in some recent bizarre incidents on North Key Largo. "Do you know a man named Jackie Sebago?"
Maltby's tongue turned to chalk. He never should have bothered with the insurance. He should have bitten the bullet and paid for a new goddamn washer out of his own pocket. Now here he was, lying through his teeth to a cop.
"The name doesn't ring a bell," he said.
Reilly related that Mr. Sebago and several associates had been hijacked on Card Sound Road by a deranged-looking street person carrying a sawed-off shotgun. "He described the man as tall with a partially bald head and one bad eye. The suspect also had a young woman with him. Mr. Sebago was personally assaulted in an unusual way."
"That's awful," Maltby said with a false wince.
He preferred that the detective remain unaware he had illegally fixed the building permits for Jackie Sebago's town-house project, and then unfixed them after being threatened by the ex-governor, his former partner in politics, who shat in his Whirlpool. After the break-in, Maltby had jammed the tracks of all the sliding doors with broom handles. Still he hadn't slept a wink.
Reilly said, "What I'm thinking--you're a well-known person in Florida."
"Not really. Not anymore."
"But what happened to you is so ... "
"Warped?"
"Personal," said Reilly. "It seems almost like a grudge thing."
Maltby stiffened up to scoff. "That's ridiculous. I never saw that jerk before in my life. And he didn't have a gun, or a girlfriend."
"Maybe somebody paid him to throw a scare in you," the detective speculated. It was the same theory he'd floated past Jackie Sebago the day before. "Are you involved in any unpleasant business situations?"
"None."
"Personal disputes?"
"Nope."
"What about your wife, Mr. Maltby? Are there any family circumstances that could stir up this kind of hostility?"
"Hell no!" Maltby was beside himself. "Holy Jesus, it's just some wingnut happened to pick my house to pinch a loaf in. He's probably halfway to Key West and meanwhile my laundry's piling up, okay? All I need is for you to write up a damn report so I can put in for a new washing machine."
"Of course," said Reilly, reaching for his clipboard. "But this time you might consider one of those front-loading models."
"Not funny."
"In case the guy comes back."
If the Star Island session unfolded as Bang Abbott anticipated, he would finish the day with enough stark portraits for a lavish coffee-table volume, to be rushed into print within weeks of Cherry's final breath.
Such were the heights of his delusion.
"You're a silly man," Ann DeLusia said.
"Hold still." He snapped half a dozen more frames.
"Let's see 'em," she said.
He was studying the images of Ann in the viewfinder. "The tatt's fading," he remarked.
"Not fast enough."
"Have you put on some weight? Check out your little jelly roll in this one."
"Drop dead, Claude."
Actually, the photos looked pretty good--Ann cuffed to the bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the motel room. Bang Abbott was pleased with himself; shooting with a different trigger finger wasn't so hard, once he'd gotten used to it.
"Where's my little black dress?" she asked.
"Forget it. You shot me."
"That was your own fault. Don't be such a wuss-boy."
He said, "The dress is a filthy rag. Besides, I need it for Star Island."
"Tell me you're not giving it to her!"
"Absolutely. It'll look lik
e she wore it to a gang bang."
"You, sir," Ann said, "are all class. Here, let me see."
He handed over the camera and she scrolled critically through the frames. "I told you I don't do well in captivity," she said. "Where's the damn delete button?"
Bang Abbott took back the Nikon and erased the pictures click-click-click. "They made you look real, and that's the whole idea. To come across as human."
"As opposed to what--a werewolf?" said Ann.
Breakfast was a prehistoric granola bar that he dug out of his camera bag. He ate nothing himself, which was unprecedented. She could see he was jumpy and wired, suggesting at least a residual connection to reality. There's no way, thought Ann, that today will go exactly as planned. It was about time Claude got nervous.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Forty-four."
"Ever been married?"
"What for?"
"Oh yeah, I forgot. You paparazzi studs get laid all the time. On Learjets, no less."
"It was a Gulfstream."
Ann said, "Fifty bucks says she won't even remember."
He winked. "A hundred says she'll never forget."
"Silly man."
"Rich man," said Bang Abbott. He unlocked the cuffs and told her to put on some clothes, which meant the frumpy cotton dress he'd bought at the secondhand shop.
"Is it time, Claude?"
"Yup," he said. "Get your cute little bum in gear."
The kid from room service was quavering in the coat closet. Chemo reached in and administered another zing with the cattle prod.
"Tell me again," he said. "Don't leave anything out."
When the kid stopped thrashing, he wheezed through the list of what he'd brought to Cherry's suite: Xanax, tramadol, Ecstasy, Bayer gelcaps, Ex-Lax, banana nut Cheerios and a bottle of Stoli.
"But she didn't do it all!" he cried.
Chemo was ticked off at himself for making another bush-league mistake. Cherry had only been pretending to sleep when he snuck downstairs for a steak. He couldn't have been gone more than an hour, but he returned to the suite just as the kid from room service was creeping out. The wiry little ape sported a fresh hickey on his sternum, which was visible only because Cherry had peeled off his tuxedo jacket and shirt. The suck mark bore a signature--"Cherish"--scrawled with a pink Sharpie.