Skin Tight

  WHEN the phone rang again in the Bonneville, Chemo gloated at Maggie Gonzalez. “I told you this would come in handy.”

  “Quit picking at your face.”

  “It itches like hell.”

  “Leave it be!” Maggie scolded. “You want it to get infected? Do you?”

  On the other end of the phone was Rudy Graveline. He sounded worse than suicidal.

  Chemo said, “Hey, Doc, you in your car? I’m in mine.”

  He felt like the king of the universe.

  “No, I’m home,” Rudy said. “We have a major problem.”

  “What’s this we stuff? I don’t have a problem. I got a hundred-twenty-odd grand, a brand-new face, a brand-new car phone. Life’s looking better every day.”

  Rudy said, “I’m delighted for you, I really am.”

  “You don’t sound too damn delighted.”

  “He got Heather.” The doctor choked out the words.

  “Who’s Heather?” Chemo said.

  “My . . . I can’t believe . . . when I got home, she was gone. He took her away.”

  Maggie asked who was on the line and Chemo whispered the doctor’s name. “All right,” he said to Rudy, “you better tell me what’s up.”

  Suddenly Rudy Graveline remembered what Curly Eyebrows had warned him about cellular phones, about how private conversations sometimes could be picked up on outside frequencies. In his quickening state of emotional deterioration, Rudy clearly envisioned—as if it were real—some nosy Coral Gables housewife overhearing his felonious litany on her Amana toaster oven.

  “Come to my house,” he instructed Chemo.

  “I can’t, I’m waiting on a call.”

  “This is it.”

  “What? You mean this is the phone call he—”

  “Yes,” Rudy said. “Get out here as fast as you can. We’re going on a boat ride.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  CHAPTER 32

  MAGGIE and Chemo left Christina Marks tied up in the trunk of the Bonneville, which was parked in Rudy Graveline’s flagstone driveway. Miserable as she was, Christina didn’t worry about suffocating inside the car; there were so many rust holes, she could actually feel a breeze.

  For an hour Maggie and Chemo sat on the white leather sofa in Rudy’s living room and listened to the doleful story of how he had come home to find his lover, his baby doll, his sweetie pie, his Venus, his sugar bunny, his punkin, his blond California sunbeam missing from the bedroom.

  They took turns studying the kidnap note, which said:

  “Ahoy! You’re Invited to a Party!”

  On the front of the note was a cartoon pelican in a sailor’s cap. On the inside was a hand-drawn chart of Stiltsville. Chemo and Rudy grimly agreed that something had to be done permanently about Mick Stranahan.

  Chemo asked about the fresh dark drops on the foyer, and Rudy said that it wasn’t Heather’s blood but someone else’s. In chokes and sighs he told them about the mishap at the clinic with Reynaldo Flemm. Maggie Gonzalez listened to the gruesome account with amazement; she had never dreamed her modest extortion scheme would come to this.

  “So, where is he?” she asked.

  “In there,” Rudy replied. “The Sub-Zero.”

  Chemo said, “The what? What’re you talking about?”

  Rudy led them to the kitchen and pointed at the cabinet-sized refrigerator. “The Sub-Zero,” he said.

  Maggie noticed that the aluminum freezer trays had been stacked on the counter, along with a half dozen Lean Cuisines and three pints of chocolate Häagen-Dazs.

  Chemo said, “That’s a big fridge, all right.” He opened the door and there was Reynaldo Flemm, upright and frosty as a Jell-O pop.

  “It was the only way he could fit,” explained Rudy. “See, I had to tear out the damn ice maker.”

  Chemo said, “He sure looks different on TV.” Chemo propped open the refrigerator door with one knee; the cold air made his face feel better.

  Maggie said nothing. This wasn’t part of the plan. She was trying to think of a way to sneak out of Rudy’s house and run. Go back to the motel room, grab the black Samsonite, and disappear for about five years.

  Chemo closed the freezer door. He pointed to more brownish spots on the bone-colored tile and said, “If you got a mop, she can clean that up.”

  “Wait a second,” Maggie said. “Do I look like a maid?”

  “You’re gonna look like a cabbage if you don’t do what I say.” Balefully Chemo brandished the Weed Whacker.

  Maggie recalled the savage thrashing of Rudy Graveline and said, “All right, put that stupid thing away.”

  While Maggie mopped, Rudy moped. He seemed shattered, listless, inconsolable. He needed to think; he needed the soothing rhythm of athletic copulation, the sweet crystal tunnel of clarity that only Heather’s loins could give him.

  The day had begun with such promise!

  Up before dawn to pack their bags. And the airline tickets—he had placed them in Heather’s purse while she slept. He would drive to the clinic, perform the operation on the male go-go dancer, collect the fifteen grand, and come home for Heather. Then it was off to the airport! Fifteen thousand was plenty for starters—a month or two in Costa Rica in a nice apartment. Time enough for Rudy’s Panamanian lawyer to liquidate the offshore trusts. After that, Rudy and Heather could breathe again. Get themselves some land up in the mountains. Split-level ranch house on the side of a hill. A stable, too; she loved to ride. Rudy envisioned himself opening a new surgery clinic; he had even packed his laminated Harvard diploma, pillowing it tenderly in the suitcase among his silk socks and designer underwear. San José was crawling with wealthy expatriates and aspiring international jet-setters. An American plastic surgeon would be welcomed vivaciously.

  Now, disaster. Heather—fair, nubile, perfectly apportioned Heather—had been snatched from her sickbed.

  “We need a boat,” Rudy Graveline croaked. “For tonight.”

  Chemo said, “Yeah, a big one. If I’m going back to that damn house I want to stay dry. See if you can find us a Scarab thirty-eight.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Just like they had on Miami Vice.”

  “You are nuts. Who’s going to drive it?” Rudy stared pointedly at the unwieldy garden tool attached to Chemo’s left arm. “You?”

  “Yeah, me. Just get on the phone, see what you can do. We’ve gotta move before the cops show up.”

  Rudy looked stricken by the mention of police.

  “Well, Jesus,” Chemo said, “you got a dead man in your fridge. This is a problem.”

  Maggie was rinsing the mop in the kitchen sink. She said, “I’ve got an idea about that. You might not like it, but it’s worth a try.”

  Rudy shrugged wearily. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I used to work for a surgeon who knew this guy . . . this guy who would buy certain things.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting—”

  “It’s up to you,” Maggie said. “I mean, Dr. Graveline, you’ve got yourself a situation here.”

  “Yeah,” said Chemo. “Your ice cream is melting.”

  THE man’s name was Kimbler, and his office was in Miami’s hospital district; a storefront operation on 12th Street, a purse-snatcher’s jog from Jackson Hospital or the Medical Examiner’s Office. The magnetic sign on the door of the office said: “International BioMedical Exports, Inc.” The storefront window was tinted dark blue and was obscured by galvanized burglar mesh.

  Kimbler was waiting for them when they arrived—Rudy, Chemo, Maggie, and Christina. Chemo had the Colt .38 in his pants pocket, pointed at Christina the whole time. He had wanted to leave her in the trunk of the Pontiac, but there was not enough room.

  Kimbler was a rangy thin-haired man with tortoise-shell glasses and a buzzard’s-beak nose. The office was lighted like a stock-room, with cheap egg-carton overheads. Rows of gray steel shelves covered both walls. The shelves were lined with old-fashioned Mason jars, and pre
served in the Mason jars were assorted human body parts: ears, eyeballs, feet, hands, fingers, toes, small organs, large organs.

  Chemo looked around and, under his breath, said, “What the fuck.”

  Kimbler gazed with equal wonderment at Chemo, who was truly a sight—his freshly sanded face glistening with Neosporin ointment, his extenuated left arm cloaked with its calfskin golf-bag cover, his radish-patch scalp, his handsome Jim Fowler safari jacket. Kimbler examined Chemo as if he were a prized future specimen.

  “This is some hobby you got,” Chemo said, picking up a jar of gall bladders. “This is better than baseball cards.”

  Kimbler said, “I’ve got the proper permits, I assure you.”

  Maggie explained that Kimbler sold human tissue to foreign medical schools. She said it was perfectly legal.

  “The items come from legitimate sources,” Kimbler added. “Hospitals. Pathology labs.”

  Items. Christina was nauseated at the concept. Or maybe it was just the sweet dead smell of the place.

  Kimbler said, “It may sound ghoulish, but I provide a much needed service. These items, discarded organs and such, they would otherwise go to waste. Be thrown away. Flushed. Incinerated. Overseas medical schools are in great need of clinical teaching aids—the students are extremely grateful. You should see some of the letters.”

  “No thanks,” Chemo said. “What’s a schlong go for these days?”

  “Pardon me?”

  Maggie cut in: “Mr. Kimbler, we appreciate you seeing us on short notice. We have an unusual problem.”

  Kimbler peered theatrically over the tops of his glasses. A slight smile came to his lips. “I assumed as much.”

  Maggie went on, “What we have is an entire . . . item.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s a pauper-type situation. Very sad—no family, no funds for a decent burial. We’re not even sure who he is.”

  Christina could scarcely contain herself. She had gotten a quick glimpse of a body as they angled it into the trunk of the Bonneville. A young man, that much she could tell.

  Kimbler said to Maggie: “What can you tell me of the circumstances? The manner of death, for instance.”

  She said, “An indigent case, like I told you. Emergency surgery for appendicitis.” She pointed at Rudy. “Ask him, he’s the doctor.”

  Rudy Graveline was stupefied. He scrambled to catch up with Maggie’s yarn. “I was doing . . . he had a chronic heart condition. Bad arrhythmia. He should’ve said something before the operation, but he didn’t.”

  Kimbler pursed his lips. “You’re a surgeon?”

  “Yes.” Rudy wasn’t dressed like a surgeon. He was wearing Topsiders, tan cotton pants, and a Bean crewneck pullover. He was dressed for a boat ride. “Here, wait.” He took out his wallet and showed Kimbler an I.D. card from the Dade County Medical Society. Kimbler seemed satisfied.

  “I realize this is out of the ordinary,” Maggie said.

  “Yes, well, let’s have a look.”

  Chemo pinched Christina by the elbow and said, “We’ll wait here.” He handed Maggie the keys to the Bonneville. She and Rudy led the man named Kimbler to the car, which was parked in a city lot two blocks away.

  When Maggie opened the trunk, Rudy turned away. Kimbler adjusted his glasses and craned over the corpse as if he were studying the brush strokes on a fine painting. “Hmmmmmm,” he said. “Hmmmmmm.”

  Rudy edged closer to block the view of the trunk, in case any pedestrians got curious. His concern was groundless, for no one gave the trio a second look; half the people in Miami did their business out of car trunks.

  Kimbler seemed impressed by what he saw. “I don’t get many whole cadavers,” he remarked. “Certainly not of this quality.”

  “We tried to locate a next of kin,” Rudy said, “but for some reason the patient had given us a phony name.”

  Kimbler chuckled. “Probably had a very good reason. Probably a criminal of some type.”

  “Every place we called was a dead end,” Rudy said, lamely embellishing the lie.

  Maggie stepped in to help. “We were going to turn him over to the county, but it seemed like such a waste.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Kimbler. “The shortage of good cadavers . . . by good, I mean white and well-nourished. Most of the schools I deal with—for instance, one place in the Dominican, they had only two cadavers for a class of sixty medical students. Tell me how those kids are ever going to learn gross anatomy.”

  Rudy started to say something but thought better of it. The whole deal was illegal as hell, no doubt about it. But what choice did he have? For the first time in his anal-retentive, hypercompulsive professional life he had lost control of events. He had surrendered himself to the squalid street instincts of Chemo and Maggie Gonzalez.

  Kimbler was saying, “Two measly cadavers, both dysenteries. Weighed about ninety pounds each. For sixty students! And this is not so unusual in some of these poor countries. There’s a med school on Guadeloupe, the best they could do was monkey skeletons. To help out I shipped down two hearts and maybe a half dozen lungs, but it’s not the same as having whole human bodies.”

  Shrewd haggler that she was, Maggie had heard enough. Slowly she closed, but did not lock, the rusty trunk of the Bonneville; Reynaldo Flemm had begun to thaw.

  “So,” she said, “you’re obviously interested.”

  “Yes,” said Kimbler. “How does eight hundred sound?”

  “Make it nine,” said Maggie.

  Kimbler frowned irritably. “Eight-fifty is pushing it.”

  “Eight seventy-five. Cash.”

  Kimbler still wore a frown, but he was nodding. “All right. Eight seventy-five it is.”

  Rudy Graveline was confused. “You’re paying us?”

  “Of course,” Kimbler replied. He studied Rudy doubtfully. “Just so there’s no question later, you are a medical doctor? I mean, your state license is current. Not that you need to sign anything, but it’s good to know.”

  “Yes,” Rudy sighed. “Yes, I’m a doctor. My license is up to date.” As if it mattered. If all went as planned, he’d be gone from the country by this time tomorrow. He and Heather, together on a mountaintop in Costa Rica.

  The man named Kimbler tapped cheerfully on the trunk of the Bonneville. “All right, then. Why don’t you pull around back of the office. Let’s get this item on ice straightaway.”

  MICK Stranahan brought Heather Chappell a mug of hot chocolate. She pulled the blanket snugly around her shoulders and said, “Thanks. I’m so damn cold.”

  He asked how she was feeling.

  “Beat up,” she replied. “Especially after that boat ride.”

  “Sorry,” Stranahan said. “I know it’s rough as hell—there’s a front moving through so we got a big westerly tonight.”

  Heather sipped tentatively at the chocolate. The kidnapper, whoever he was, watched her impassively from a wicker barstool. He wore blue jeans, deck shoes, a pale yellow cotton shirt, and a poplin Windbreaker. To Heather the man looked strong, but not particularly mean.

  In the middle of the living room was a card table, covered by an oilskin cloth. On the table was a red Sears Craftsman toolbox. The kidnapper had been carrying it when he broke into Dr. Graveline’s house.

  Heather nodded toward the toolbox and said, “What’s in there?”

  “Just some stuff I borrowed from Rudy.”

  The furniture looked like it came from the Salvation Army, but still there was a spartan coziness about the place, especially with the soft sounds of moving water. Heather said, “I like your house.”

  “The neighborhood’s not what it used to be.”

  “What kind of fish is that on the wall?”

  “It’s a blue marlin. The bill broke off, I’ve got to get it fixed.”

  Heather said, “Did you catch it yourself?”

  “No.” Stranahan smiled. “I’m no Hemingway.”

  “I read for Islands in the Stream. With George C. Sc
ott—did you see it?”

  Stranahan said no, he hadn’t.

  “I didn’t get the part, anyway,” said Heather. “I forget now who played the wife. George C. Scott was Hemingway, and there was lots of fishing.”

  The beakless marlin stared down from the wall. Stranahan said, “It used to be paradise out here.”

  Heather nodded; she could picture it. “What’re you going to do with me?”

  “Not much,” said Stranahan.

  “I remember you,” she said. “From the surgery clinic. That night in the parking lot, you put me in the cab. The night Rudolph’s car caught fire.”

  “My name is Mick.”

  Being a famous actress, Heather didn’t customarily introduce herself. This time she felt like she had to.

  Stranahan said, “The reason I asked how you’re feeling is this.” He held up three pill bottles and gave them a rattle. “These were on the nightstand by your bed. Young Dr. Rudy was keeping you loaded.”

  “Painkillers, probably. See, I just had surgery.”

  “Not painkillers,” Stranahan said. “Seconal 100s. Industrial-strength, enough to put down an elephant.”

  “What . . . why would he do that?”

  Stranahan got off the barstool and walked over to Heather Chappell. In his right hand was a small pair of scissors. He knelt down in front of her and told her not to move.

  “Oh, God,” she said.

  “Be still.”

  Carefully he clipped the bandages off her face. Heather expected the salty cool air to sting the incisions, but she felt nothing but an itchy sensation.

  Stranahan said, “I want to show you something.” He went to the bathroom and came back with a hand mirror. Heather studied herself for several moments.

  In a puzzled voice she said, “There are no marks.”

  “Nope. No scars, no bruises, no swelling.”

  “Rudolph said . . . See, he mentioned something about microsurgery. Lasers, I think he said. He said the scars would be so small—”

  “Bullshit.” Stranahan handed her the scissors. She gripped them in her right hand like a pistol.

  “I’m going in the other room for a little while,” he said. “Call me when you’re done and I’ll explain as much as I can.”