Skin Tight

  “Maybe,” said Mick Stranahan, “but you keep it. The block was cracked. I was ready to junk it anyway.”

  García drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, which meant he was running out of patience.

  “Hey, Mick?”

  “What?”

  “Did you blow up that asshole’s Jag?”

  Stranahan stared out at the bay and said, “Who?”

  “The doctor. The one who wants to kill you.”

  “Oh.”

  Something was not right with this guy, García thought. Maybe the funeral had put him in a mood, maybe it was something else.

  “We’re getting into an area,” the detective said, “that makes me very nervous. You listening, chico?”

  Stranahan pretended to be watching some topless girl on a sailboard.

  García said, “You want to play Charlie Bronson, okay, but let me tell you how serious this is getting. Forget the doctor for a second.”

  “Yeah, how? He’s trying to kill me.”

  “Well, chill on that for a minute and think about this: Murdock and Salazar got assigned to Chloe’s murder. Do I have to spell it out, or you want me to stop the car so you can go ahead and puke?”

  “Jesus,” said Mick Stranahan.

  Detectives John Murdock and Joe Salazar had been tight with the late Judge Raleigh Goomer, the one Stranahan had shot. Murdock and Salazar had been in on the bond fixings, part of the A-team. They were not Mick Stranahan’s biggest fans.

  “How the hell did they get the case?”

  “Luck of the draw,” García said. “Nothing I could do without making it worse.”

  Stranahan slammed a fist on the dashboard. He was damn tired of all this bad news.

  García said, “So they come out here to do a canvass, right? Talk to people at the boat ramp, the restaurant, anyone who might have seen your ex on the night she croaked. They come back with statements from two waitresses and a gas attendant, and guess who they say was with Chloe? You, Blue Eyes.”

  “That’s a goddamn lie, Al.”

  “You’re right. I know it’s a lie because I drive out here the next day on my lunch hour and talked to these same people myself. On my lunch hour! Show them two mugs, including yours, and strike out. Oh for ten. So Frick and Frack are lying. I don’t know what I can do about it yet—it’s a tricky situation, them sticking together on their story.” García took a cigar from his breast pocket. Wrapper and all, he jammed it in the corner of his mouth. “I’m telling you this so you know how goddamn serious it’s getting, and maybe you’ll quit this crazy car-bombing shit and give me a chance to do my job. How about it?”

  Absently, Stranahan said, “This is the worst year of my life, and it’s only the seventeenth of January.”

  García chewed the cellophane off the cigar. “I don’t know why I even bother to tell you anything,” he grumbled. “You’re acting like a damn zombie.”

  The detective made the turn into the marina with a screech of the tires. Stranahan pointed toward the slip where his aluminum skiff was tied up, and García parked right across from it. He kept the engine running. Stranahan tried to open the door, but García had it locked with a button on the driver’s side.

  The detective punched the lighter knob in the dashboard and said, “Don’t you have anything else you want to ask? Think real hard, Mick.”

  Stranahan reached across and earnestly shook García’s hand. “Thanks for everything, Al. I mean it.”

  “Hey, are we having the same conversation? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  Stranahan said, “It’s been a depressing week.”

  “Don’t you even want to know what the waitress and the pump jockey really said? About the guy with Chloe?”

  “What guy?”

  García clapped his hands. “Good, I got your attention. Excellent!” He pulled the lighter from the dash and fired up the cigar.

  “What guy?” Stranahan asked again.

  Making the most of the moment, García took his notebook from his jacket and read aloud: “White male, early thirties, approximately seven feet tall, two hundred thirty pounds, freckled, balding—”

  “Holy shit.”

  “—appeared to be wearing fright makeup, or possibly some type of Halloween mask. The waitresses couldn’t agree on what, but they all said basically the same thing about the face. Said it looked like somebody dragged it across a cheese grater.”

  Mick Stranahan couldn’t recall putting anybody in jail who matched that remarkable description. He asked García if he had any leads.

  “We’re busy calling the circuses to see who’s escaped lately,” the detective said sarcastically. “I swear, I don’t know why I tell you anything.”

  He pushed the button to unlock the doors. “We’ll be in touch,” he said to Stranahan, waving him out of the police car. “And stay away from the damn doctor, okay?”

  “You bet,” said Mick Stranahan. All he could think of was: Seven feet tall. Poor Chloe.

  DR. Rudy Graveline now accepted the possibility that his world was imploding, and that he must prepare for the worst. Bitterly he thought of all the crises he had survived, all the professional set-backs, the lawsuits, the peer review hearings, the hospital expulsions, the hasty relocations from one jurisdiction to another. There was the time he augmented the breasts of a two-hundred-pound woman who had wanted a reduction instead; the time he nearly liposuctioned a man’s gall bladder right out of his abdomen; the time he mistakenly severed a construction worker’s left ear while removing a dime-sized cyst—Rudy Graveline had survived all these. He believed he’d found safe haven in South Florida; having figured out the system, and how to beat it, he was sure he had it made. And suddenly, a botched nose job had come back to spoil it all. It didn’t seem fair.

  Rudy sat at his desk and leafed dispiritedly through the most recent bank statements. The Whispering Palms surgical complex was raking in money, but the overhead was high and the mortgage was a killer. Rudy had not been able to siphon off nearly as much as he had hoped. Once his secret plan had been to retire in four years with six million put away; it now seemed likely that he would be forced to get out much sooner, and with much less. Having already been banned from practicing medicine in California and New York—by far the most lucrative markets for a plastic surgeon—Rudy Graveline’s thoughts now turned to the cosmopolitan cities of South America, a new frontier of vanity, sun-baked and ripe with wrinkles; a place where a Harvard medical degree still counted for something. Riffling through his CDs, he wondered if it was too late to weasel out of the Old Cypress Towers project: get liquid and get gone.

  He was studying a map of Brazil when Heather Chappell, the famous actress, came into the office. She wore the pink terrycloth robe and bath slippers that Whispering Palms provided to all its VIP guests. Heather’s lipstick was candy apple, her skin had a caramel tan, and her frosted blond hair was thick and freshly brushed. She was a perfectly beautiful thirty-year-old woman who, for reasons unfathomable, despised her own body. A dream patient, as far as Rudy Graveline was concerned.

  She sat in a low-backed leather chair and said, “I’ve had it with the spa. Let’s talk about my operation.”

  Rudy said, “I wanted you to unwind for a couple of days, that’s all.”

  “It’s been a couple days.”

  “But aren’t you more relaxed?”

  “Not really,” Heather said. “Your masseur, what’s his name—”

  “Niles?”

  “Yeah, Niles. He tried to cornhole me yesterday. Aside from that, I’ve been bored to tears.”

  Rudy smiled with practiced politeness. “But you’ve had a chance to think about the different procedures.”

  “I didn’t need to think about anything, Dr. Graveline. I was ready the first night off the plane. Have you been dodging me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I heard your car got blown up.” She said it in a schoolgirl’s voice, like it was gossip she’d picked up in stu
dy hall.

  Rudy tried to neutralize his inflection. “There was an accident,” he said. “Very minor.”

  “The night I came, wasn’t it? That hunk in the parking lot, the guy who put me in the taxi. What’s going on with him?”

  Rudy ignored the question. “I can schedule the surgery for tomorrow,” he said.

  “Fine, but I want you to do it,” Heather said. “You personally.”

  “Of course,” Rudy said. He’d stay in the O.R. until they put her under, then he’d head for the back nine at Doral. Let one of the young hotshots do the knife work.

  “What did you decide?” he asked her.

  Heather stood up and stepped out of the slippers. Then she let the robe drop to the carpet. “You tell me,” she said.

  Rudy’s mouth went dry at the sight of her.

  “Well,” he said. “Let’s see.” The problem was, she didn’t need any surgery. Her figure, like her face, was sensational. Her tan breasts were firm and large, not the least bit droopy. Her tummy was tight and flat as an iron. There wasn’t an ounce of fat, a trace of a stretch mark, the slenderest serpentine shadow of a spider vein—not on her thighs, her legs, not anywhere. Nothing was out of proportion. Naked, Heather looked like an “after,” not a “before.”

  Rudy was really going to have to scramble on this one. He put on his glasses and said, “Come over here, Miss Chappell, let me take a closer look.”

  She walked over and, to his stupefaction, climbed up on the onyx desk, her bare feet squeaking on the slick black surface. Standing, she vamped a movie pose—one hand on her hip, the other fluffing her hair. As Rudy’s eyes traveled up those long legs, he nearly toppled over backward in his chair.

  “The nose, obviously,” Heather said.

  “Yes,” said Rudy, thinking: She has a great straight nose. What the hell am I going to do?

  “And the breasts,” Heather said, taking one in each hand and studying them. Like she was in the produce section, checking out the grapefruits.

  Bravely Rudy asked, “Would you like them larger or smaller?”

  Heather glared at him. “Bigger, of course! And brand-new nipples.”

  Jesus, Rudy muttered under his breath. “Miss Chappell,” he said, “I wouldn’t advise new nipples. There could be serious complications and, really, it isn’t necessary.” Little pink rosebuds, that’s what her nipples looked like. Why, Rudy wondered, would she ever want new ones?

  In a pouty voice, Heather said all right, leave the nipples. Then she pivoted on the desktop and patted her right thigh. “I want two inches off here.”

  “That much?” Rudy was sweating. He didn’t see it, plain and simple. Two inches of what?

  “Stand up,” Heather told him. “Look here.”

  He did, he looked hard. His chin was about three inches from her pubic bone. “Two inches,” Heather repeated, turning to show him the other thigh, “from both sides.”

  “As you wish,” the doctor said. What the hell, he’d be on the golf course anyway. Let the whiz kids figure it out.

  Heather dropped to her knees on the desk, so the two of them were nearly face-to-face. “And I want my eyelids done,” she said, pointing with a long cranberry fingernail, “and my neck, too. You said no scars, remember?”

  “Don’t worry,” Rudy assured her.

  “Good,” Heather said. “Anything else?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “How about my butt?” She spun around on the desk, showing it to Rudy; looking over one shoulder, waiting for his professional opinion.

  “Well,” said Rudy, running his fingers along the soft round curves.

  “Hey,” said Heather, “easy there.” She squirmed around to face him. “Are you getting worked up?”

  Rudy Graveline said, “Of course not.” But he was. He couldn’t figure it out, either; all the thousands of female bodies he got to see and feel. This was no ordinary lust, this was something fresh and wondrous. Maybe it was the way she bossed him around.

  “I saw you in Fevers of the Heart,” Rudy said, idiotically. He had rented the cassette for a pool party. “You were quite good, especially the scene on the horse.”

  “Sit down,” Heather told him, and he did. She was bare-assed on the desk, legs swinging mischievously on either side of him. He put a clammy hand on each knee. “Maybe now’s a good time to talk about money,” she said.

  For Rudy Graveline, the ultimate test of sobriety. In his entire career he had never traded sex for his surgical services, never even discounted. Money was money, pussy was pussy—a credo he drilled into his sure-handed young assistants. Some things in life you don’t give away.

  To Heather Chappell, he said, “I’m afraid it’s going to be expensive.”

  “Is it?” She swung one leg up and propped her foot on his right shoulder.

  “All these procedures at once, yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “How much, Dr. Graveline?”

  Up came the other leg, and Rudy was scissored.

  “Come here a second,” Heather said.

  Rudy Graveline was torn between the thing he loved the most and the thing he needed most: Sex and money. The warm feel of Heather’s bare heels on his shoulders was like the weight of the world. And heaven, too.

  Her toes tickled his ears. “I said, come here.”

  “Where?” Rudy peeped, reaching out.

  “God, are you blind?”

  CHEMO bought an Ingram submachine gun to go with his .22 pistol. He got it from a man who had come to the club one night with a bunch of Jamaicans. The man himself was not a Jamaican; he was from Colombia. Chemo found this out when he stopped him at the door and told him he couldn’t come inside the Gay Bidet with a machine gun.

  “But this is Miami,” the man had said with a Spanish accent.

  “I’ve got my orders,” Chemo said.

  The man agreed to let Chemo take the gun while he and his pals went inside, which turned out to be a smart thing. As the band was playing a song called “Suck Till You’re Sore”, a local skinhead gang went into a slam-dancing frenzy, and fights broke out all over the place. The Jamaicans took off, but the Colombian stayed behind to do battle. At one point he produced a pocketknife and tried to surgically remove the swastika tattoo off the proud but hairless chest of a teenaged skinhead. The band took a much-needed break while the Beach police rushed in for the arrests. Later, when Chemo spotted the Colombian in the back of the squad car, he tapped on the window and asked about the Ingram. The Colombian said keep it and Chemo said thanks, and slipped a twenty-dollar bill through the crack of the window.

  The thing Chemo liked best about the Ingram was the shoulder strap. He put it on and showed it to his boss, Freddie, who said, “Get the fuck outta here with that thing!”

  The next day, the eighteenth of January, Chemo got up early and drove out to Key Biscayne. He knew it would be unwise to go to the same marina where he had taken Chloe, so he looked around for another boat place. He found one near the Marine Stadium, where they race the big Budweiser speedboats. At first a kid with badly bleached hair tried to rent him a twenty-foot Dusky for a hundred ten dollars a day, plus a hundred fifty security deposit. Chemo didn’t have that kind of money.

  “Got a credit card?” the kid asked.

  “No,” said Chemo. “What about that thing over there?”

  “That’s a Jet Ski,” the kid said.

  It was designed like a waterbug with handlebars. You drove it like a motorcycle, only standing up. This one was yellow, with the word Kawasaki on the front.

  “You don’t want to try it,” the kid with yellow hair said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” the kid said, laughing, “you’re too tall, man. Hit a wake, it’ll snap your spine.”

  Chemo figured the guy was just trying to talk him into renting something bigger, something he didn’t need.

  “How much is the Jet Ski?” he said.

  “Twenty an hour, but you got to sign a waiver.” The ki
d was thinking that, as tall as this guy is, he doesn’t look healthy enough to ride a Jet Ski; he looks kind of tapped-out and sickly, like he’s been hanging from the wall of some dungeon for a couple months. The kid was thinking maybe he ought to ask if the guy knew how to swim, just in case.

  Chemo handed him two twenties.

  The kid said, “I’ll still need a deposit.”

  Chemo said he didn’t have any more money. The kid said he’d take Chemo’s wristwatch, but Chemo said no, he didn’t want to give it up. It was a Heuer diving watch, silver and gold links, made in Switzerland. Chemo had swiped it off a young architect who was overdosing in the men’s room at the club. While the jerk was lying there in the stall, trying to swallow his tongue, Chemo grabbed his wrist and replaced the Heuer with his own thirty-dollar Seiko with the fake alligator band.

  “No Jet Ski without a deposit,” said the kid with yellow hair.

  “How about a gun?” Chemo said.

  “What kind?”

  Chemo showed him the .22 and the kid said okay, since it was a Beretta he’d hang on to it. He stuck it in the front of his chinos and led Chemo to the Jet Ski. He showed Chemo how the choke and the throttle worked, and tossed him a bright red life vest.

  “You can change in the shed,” the kid said.

  “Change?”

  “You got a swimsuit, right?” The kid hopped back on the dock and gave Chemo the keys. “Man, you don’t want to ride these things in heavy pants.”

  “I guess not,” said Chemo, unbuckling his trousers.

  A shrimper named Joey agreed to take Christina Marks anywhere she wanted. When she gave him a hundred-dollar bill, Joey looked at it and said, “Where you going, Havana?”

  “Stiltsville,” Christina said, climbing into the pungent shrimp boat. “And I need a favor.”

  “You bet,” said Joey, tossing off the ropes.

  “After you drop me off, I need you to stay close. Just in case.”

  Joey aimed the bow down the canal, toward the mouth of Norris Cut. “In case what?” he asked.