“Al, don’t take all the fun out of it.” The man from the medical examiner reached into the blades of the wood chipper and carefully plucked out an item that the untrained eye would have misidentified as a common black woolly-bear caterpillar.
The coroner held it up for Al García to see.
The detective frowned. “What, do I get a prize or something? It’s a sideburn, for Chrissakes.”
“Very good,” said the coroner.
García flicked the soggy nub of his cigar into the bushes and went looking for George Graveline’s crew of tree trimmers. There were three of them sitting somberly in the backseat of a county patrol car. Al García got in front, on the passenger side. He turned around and spoke to them through the cage. The men’s clothes smelled like pot. García asked if any of them had seen what had happened, and to a one they answered no, they’d been on their lunch break. The officers from Internal Review had asked the same thing.
“If you didn’t see anything,” García said, “then you don’t have much to tell the reporters, right?”
In unison the tree trimmers shook their heads.
“Including the name of the alleged victim, right?”
The tree trimmers agreed.
“This is damned serious,” said García. “I don’t believe you boys would purposely obstruct a homicide investigation, would you?”
The tree trimmers promised not to say a word to the media. Al García asked a uniformed cop to give the men a lift home, so they wouldn’t have to walk past the minicams on their way to the bus stop.
By this time, the ambulance was backing out, empty. García knocked on the driver’s window. “Where’s the guy you were working on?”
“Blunt head wound?”
“Right. Big blond guy.”
“Took off,” said the ambulance driver. “Gobbled three Darvocets and said so long. Wouldn’t even let us wrap him.”
García cursed and bearishly swatted at a fresh-cut buttonwood branch.
The ambulance driver said, “You see him, be sure and tell him he oughta go get a skull X-ray.”
“You know what you’d find?” García said. “Shit for brains, that’s what.”
REYNALDO Flemm picked up an attractive young woman at a nightclub called Biscayne Baby in Coconut Grove. He took her to his room at the Grand Bay Hotel and asked her to wait while he ran the water in the Roman tub. Still insecure about his impugned physique, Reynaldo didn’t want the young woman to see him naked in the bright light. He lowered himself into the bath, covered the vital areas with suds, double-checked himself in the mirrors, then called for the young woman to join him. She came in the bathroom, stripped, and climbed casually into the deep tub. When Reynaldo tickled her armpits with his toes, the young woman politely pushed his legs away.
“So, what do you do?” he asked.
“I told you, I’m a legal secretary.”
“Oh, yeah.” When Reynaldo got semi-blitzed on screwdrivers, his short-term memory tended to vapor-lock. “You probably recognize me,” he said to the young woman.
“I told you already—no.”
Reynaldo said, “Normally my hair’s black. I colored it this way for a reason.”
He had revived the Johnny LeTigre go-go dancer disguise for his confrontation with Dr. Rudy Graveline. He had dyed his hair brown and slicked it straight back with a wet comb. He looked like a Mediterranean sponge diver.
“Imagine me with black hair,” he said to the legal secretary, who flicked a soap bubble off her nose and said no, she still wouldn’t recognize him.
He said, “You get TV, right? I’m Reynaldo Flemm.”
“Yeah?”
“From In Your Face.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Ever seen it?”
“No,” said the secretary, “but I don’t watch all that much television.” She was trying to be nice. “I think I’ve seen your commercials,” she said.
Flemm shrunk lower in the tub.
“Is it, like, a game show?” the woman asked.
“No, it’s a news show. I’m an investigative reporter.”
“Like that guy on 60 Minutes?”
Reynaldo bowed his head. Feeling guilty, the secretary slid across the tub and climbed on his lap. She said, “Hey, I believe you.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
She felt a little sorry for him; he seemed so small and wounded among the bubbles. She said, “You certainly look like you could be on television.”
“I am on fucking television. I’ve got my own show.”
The woman said, “Okay, whatever.”
“I could loan you a tape—you got a VCR?”
The secretary told him to hush. She put her lips to his ear and said, “Why don’t we try it right here?”
Reynaldo halfheartedly slipped one arm around her waist and began kissing her breasts. They were perfectly lovely breasts, but Reynaldo’s heart wasn’t in it. After a few moments the woman said, “You’re not really in the mood, huh?”
“I was.”
“I’m sorry. Here, let me do your back.”
Reynaldo’s buttocks squeaked as he turned around in the tub so the secretary could scrub him. He watched her in the mirror; her hands felt wondrously soothing. Eventually he closed his eyes.
“There you go,” she said, kneading his shoulder blades. “My great big TV star.”
Reynaldo found he was getting excited again. He touched himself, underwater, just to make sure. He was smiling until he opened his eyes and saw something new in the mirror.
A man standing in the doorway. The man with the tarpon gaff.
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Mick Stranahan.
The woman squealed and dove for a towel. Reynaldo Flemm groped for floating suds to cover his withering erection.
“I was looking for Christina,” Stranahan said. He walked up to the Roman tub with the gaff held under one arm, like a riding crop. “She’s not in her hotel room.”
“How’d you find me?” Reynaldo’s voice was reedy and taut, definitely not an anchorman’s voice.
“Miami is not one of the world’s all-time great hotel towns,” Stranahan said. “Hotshot celebrities like you always end up in the Grove. But tell me: Why’s Christina still registered out at Key Biscayne?”
Nervously the secretary said, “Who’s Christina?”
Stranahan said: “Ray, I asked you a question.” He poked the fish gaff under the suds and scraped the point across the bottom of the tub. The steel screeched ominously against the ceramic. Reynaldo Flemm drew up his knees and sloshed protectively into a corner.
“Chris doesn’t know I’m here,” he said. “I ditched her.”
Stranahan told the legal secretary to get dressed and go home. He waited until she was gone from the bathroom before he spoke again.
“I checked Christina’s room at the Sonesta. She hasn’t been there for two days.”
Reynaldo said, “What’re you going to do to me?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the tarpon gaff. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he said, “Don’t hurt me.”
“For Christ’s sake.”
“I mean it!”
“Are you crying?” Stranahan couldn’t believe it—another dumb twit overreacting. “Just tell me about Christina. Her notebooks were still in the room, and so was her purse. Any ideas?”
“Uuunnngggh.” The pink of Flemm’s tongue showed between his front teeth. It was a cowering, poodle-like expression, amplified by trembling lips and liquid eyes.
“Settle down,” said Stranahan. His head felt like it was full of wet cement. The Darvocets had barely put a ripple in the pain. What a shitty day.
He said, “You haven’t seen her?”
Violently Reynaldo shook his head no.
They heard a door slam—the secretary, making tracks. Stranahan used the gaff to pull the plug in the Roman tub. Wordlessly he watched the soapy water drain, leaving Reynaldo bare and shriveled and flecked with suds.
“What’s with the h
airdo?” Stranahan asked.
Reynaldo composed himself and said, “For a show.”
Stranahan tossed him a towel. He said, “I know what you’re doing. You’re acing Christina out of the Barletta story. I saw your notes on the table.”
Flemm reddened. It had taken him three hours to come up with ten questions for Dr. Rudy Graveline. Carefully he had printed the questions on a fresh legal pad, the way Christina Marks always did. He had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to memorize them before calling it quits and heading over to Biscayne Baby for some action.
“I don’t care about your show,” Stranahan said, “but I care about Christina.”
“Me, too.”
“It looked like somebody pushed his way into her hotel room. There was a handprint on the door.”
Reynaldo said, “Well, it wasn’t mine.”
“Stand up,” Stranahan told him.
Flemm wrapped himself into the towel as he stood up in the tub. Stranahan measured him with his eyes. “I believe you,” he said. He went back to the living room to wait for Reynaldo to dry off and get dressed.
When Flemm came out, wearing an absurd muscle shirt and tight jeans, Stranahan said, “When are you going to see the doctor?”
“Soon,” Reynaldo replied. Then, blustery: “None of your business.” He felt so much tougher with a shirt on.
Stranahan said, “If you wait, you’ll have a better story.”
Reynaldo rolled his eyes—how many times had he heard that one! “No way,” he said. The snide pomposity had returned to his voice.
“Ray, I’m only going to warn you once. If something’s happened to Christina because of you, or if you do something that brings her any harm, you’re done. And I’m not talking about your precious TV career.”
Flemm said, “You sound pretty tough, long as you’ve got that hook.”
Stranahan tossed the tarpon gaff at Reynaldo and said, “There—see if it works for you, too.”
Reynaldo quickly dropped it on the carpet. As a rule he didn’t fight with crazy people unless cameras were rolling. Otherwise, what was the point?
“I hope you find her,” Reynaldo said.
Stranahan stood to leave. “You better pray that I do.”
AT the Gay Bidet, Freddie didn’t even bother to get up from the desk to introduce himself. “I’m gonna tell you the same as I told that Cuban cop, which is nothing. I got a policy not to talk about employees, past or present.”
Stranahan said, “But you know the man I’m asking about.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Is he here?”
“Ditto,” said Freddie. “Now get the fuck gone.”
“Actually, I’m going to look around.”
“Oh, you are?” Freddie said. “Like hell.” He punched a black buzzer under the desk. The door opened and Stranahan momentarily was drowned by the vocal stylings of the Fabulous Foreskins, performing their opening set. The man who entered Freddie’s office was a short muscular Oriental. He wore a pink Gay Bidet security T-shirt, stretched to the limit.
Freddie said, “Wong, please get this dog turd out of my sight.”
Stranahan waved the tarpon gaff and its sinister glint caused Wong to hesitate. Disdainfully Freddie glowered at the bouncer and said, “What happened to all that kung-fu shit?”
Wong’s chest began to swell.
Stranahan said, “I’ve had a lousy day, and I’m really in no mood. You like having a liquor license?”
Freddie said, “What’re you talkin’ about, do I like it?”
“Because you oughta enjoy it tonight, while you can. If you don’t answer my questions, here’s what happens to you and this toilet bowl of a nightclub: First thing tomorrow, six nasty bastards from Alcohol and Beverage come by and shut your ass down. Why? Because you lied when you got your liquor license, Freddie. You got a felony record in Illinois and Georgia, and you lied about that. Also, you’ve been serving to minors, big time. Also, your bartender just tried to sell me two grams of Peruvian. You want, I can keep going.”
Freddie said, “Don’t bother.” He instructed Wong to get lost. When they were alone again, he said to Stranahan, “That rap in Atlanta was no good.”
“So you’re not a pimp. Excellent. The beverage guys will be very impressed, Freddie. Be sure to tell them you’re not a pimp, no matter what the FBI computer says.”
“What the fuck is it you want?”
“Just tell me where I can find my tall, cool friend. The one with the face.”
Freddie said, “Truth is, I don’t know. He took off a couple days ago. Picked up his paycheck and quit. Tried to give me back the T-shirt, the dumb fuck—like somebody else would wear the damn thing. I told him to keep it for a souvenir.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Stranahan asked.
“Nope. He had two broads with him, you figure it out.” Freddie flashed a mouthful of nubby yellow teeth. “Creature from the Black Lagoon, and still he gets more poon than me.”
“What did the women look like?” Stranahan asked.
“One, I couldn’t tell. Her face was all busted up, cuts and bruises and Band-Aids. He must’ve beat the hell out of her for something. The other was a brunette, good-looking, on the thin side. Not humongous titties but nice pointy ones.”
Stranahan couldn’t decide whether it was Freddie or the music that was aggravating his headache. “The thin one—was she wearing blue jeans?”
Freddie said he didn’t remember.
“Did they say anything?”
“Nope, not a word.”
“Did he have a gun?”
Freddie laughed again. “Man, he doesn’t need a gun. He has that whirly thing on his arm.” Freddie told Stranahan what the thing was and how the man known as Chemo would use it.
“You’re kidding.”
“Like hell,” said Freddie. “Guy was the best goddamn bouncer I ever had.”
Stranahan handed the club owner a fifty-dollar bill and the phone number of the bait shop at the marina. “This is in case he comes back. You call me before you call the cops.”
Freddie pocketed the money. Reflectively he said: “Freak like that with two broads, man, it just proves there’s no God.”
“We’ll see,” said Stranahan.
CHAPTER 28
CHEMO’S first instinct was to haul ass with the doctor’s cash, which was more than he would see in a couple of Amish lifetimes. Forget about the Stranahan hit, just blow town. Maggie Gonzalez told him, don’t be such a small-timer, remember what we’ve got here: A surgeon on the hook. A money machine, for God’s sake. Maggie assured him that a million, even two million, was do-able. There wasn’t anything that Rudy Graveline wouldn’t give to save his medical license.
Goosing the Bonneville along Biscayne Boulevard, Chemo said, “What I’ve got now, I could get my face patched and still have enough for a year in Barbados. Maybe even get some real hair—those plug deals they stick in your scalp. I read where that’s what they did to Elton John.”
“Sure,” Maggie said. “I know some doctors who do hair.”
She was trying to play Chemo the way she played all her men, but it wasn’t easy. Beyond his desire for a clear complexion, she had yet to discover what motivated him. While Chemo appreciated money, he hardly displayed the proper lust for it. As for sex, he expressed no interest whatsoever. Maggie chose to believe that he was deterred by her bruises and bandages; once the face-lift had healed, her powers of seduction would return. Then the only obstacle would be a logistical one: What would you do with the Weed Whacker under the sheets?
As Chemo pulled up to the Holiday Inn at 125th Street, Maggie said, “If it would make you feel better, we could move to a nicer hotel.”
“What would make me feel better,” Chemo said, “is for you to give me the keys to the suitcase.” He turned off the ignition and held out his right hand.
Maggie said, “You think I’m dumb enough to try and rip you off?”
“Y
es,” said Chemo, reaching for her purse. “Plenty dumb enough.”
CHRISTINA Marks heard the door open and prayed it was the maid. It wasn’t.
The lights came on and Chemo loomed incuriously over the bed. He checked the knots at Christina’s wrists and ankles, while Maggie stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
After Chemo removed the towel from her mouth, Christina said, “What’s the matter with her?”
“She thinks I don’t trust her. She’s right.”
“For what it’s worth,” Christina said, “she already conned my boss out of a bundle.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Chemo sat on the corner of the bed, counting the cash that he had taken from Dr. Rudy Graveline’s pockets. Counting wasn’t easy with only one hand. Christina watched inquisitively. After he was finished, Chemo put five thousand in the suitcase with the rest of the haul; forty-two hundred went down the heels of his boots. He slid the suitcase under the bed.
“How original,” Christina said.
“Shut up.”
“Could you untie me, please? I have to pee.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“You want me to wet the bed?” she said. “Ruin all your cash?”
Chemo got Maggie out of the bathroom and made her help undo the knots. They had bound Christina to the bed frame with nylon clothesline. Once freed, she rubbed her wrists and sat up stiffly.
“Go do your business,” Chemo said. Then, to Maggie: “Stay with her.”
Christina said, “I can’t pee with somebody watching.”
“What?”
“She’s right,” Maggie said. “I’m the same way. I’ll just wait outside the door.”
“No, do what I told you,” Chemo said.
“There’s no window in there,” Christina said. “What’m I going to do, escape down the toilet?”
When she came out of the bathroom, Chemo was standing by the door. He led her back to the bed, made her lie down, then tied her again—another tedious chore, one-handed.
“No gag this time,” Christina requested. “I promise not to scream.”