Skin Tight

14

On Washington Avenue there was a small shop that sold artificial limbs. Dr. Rudy Graveline went there on his lunch hour and purchased four different models of prosthetic hands. He paid cash and made sure to get a receipt.

Later, back at Whispering Palms, he arranged the artificial hands in an attractive row on the top of his onyx desk.

“What about this one?” he asked Chemo.

“It’s a beaut,” Chemo said trenchantly, “except I’ve already got one on that arm.”

“Sorry.” Rudy Graveline picked up another. “Then look here-state-of-the-art technology. Four weeks of therapy, you can deal blackjack with this baby.”

“Wrong color,” Chemo remarked.

Rudy glanced at the artificial hand and thought: Of course it’s the wrong color, they’re all the wrong damn color. “It’s a tough match,” the doctor said.”I looked for the palest one they had.”

“I hate them all,” Chemo said. “Why does it have to be a hand, anyway?”

“You didn’t like the mechanical hooks,” Rudy Graveline reminded him. “Talk about advanced, you could load a gun, even type with those things. But you said no.”

“Damn right I said no.”

Rudy put down the prosthesis and said: “I wish you wouldn’t take that tone with me. I’m doing the best I can.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Look, didn’t I advise you to see a specialist?”

“And didn’t I advise you, you’re crazy? The cops’ll be hunting all over.”

“All right,” Rudy said in a calming voice. “Let’s not argue.”

It had been three weeks since Chemo had shown up behind Whispering Palms on a blood-streaked water scooter-a vision that Dr. Rudy Graveline would carry with him for the rest of his life. It had happened during an afternoon consult with Mrs. Carla Crumworthy, heiress to the Crumworthy panty-shield fortune. She had come to complain about the collagen injections that Rudy Graveline had administered to give her full, sensual lips, which is just what every rheumatoid seventy-one-year-old woman needs. Mrs. Crumworthy had lamented that the results were nothing like she had hoped, that she now resembled one of those Ubangi tribal women from the National Geographic, the ones with the ceramic platters in their mouths. And, in truth, Dr. Rudy Graveline was concerned about what had happened because Mrs. Crumworthy’s lips had indeed grown bulbous and unwieldy and hard as cobblestones. As he examined her (keeping his doubts to himself), Rudy wondered if maybe he had injected too much collagen, or not enough, or if maybe he’d zapped it into the wrong spots. Whatever the cause, the result was undeniable: Mrs. Carla Crumworthy looked like a duck wearing mauve lipstick. A malpractice jury could have a ball with this one.

Dr. Graveline had been whisking through his trusty Rolodex, searching for a kind-hearted colleague, when Mrs. Crumworthy suddenly rose to her feet and shrieked. Pointing out the picture window toward Biscayne Bay, the old woman had blubbered in terror, her huge misshapen lips slapping together in wet percussion. Rudy had no idea what she was trying to say.

He spun around and looked out the window.

The yellow jet ski lay on its side, adrift in the bay. Somehow Chemo had dragged himself, soaking wet and stark naked, over the ledge of the seawall behind the clinic. He didn’t look well enough to be dead. His gray shoulders shivered violently in the sunshine, and his eyes flickered vaguely through puffy purple slits. Chemo swung the bloody stump to show Dr. Graveline what had happened to his left hand. He pointed gamely at the elastic wrist tourniquet that he had fashioned from his Jockey shorts, and Rudy would later concede that it had probably saved his life.

Mrs. Carla Crumworthy was quickly ushered to a private recovery suite and oversedated, while Rudy and two young assistant surgeons led Chemo to an operating room. The assistants argued that he belonged at a real trauma center in a real hospital, but Chemo adamantly refused. This left the doctors with no choice but to operate or let him bleed to death.

Gently discouraged from participating in the surgery, Rudy had been content to let the young fellows work unimpeded. He spent the time making idle conversation with the woozy Chemo, who had rejected a general anesthetic in favor of an old-fashioned intravenous jolt of Demerol.

Since that evening, Chemo’s post-op recovery had progressed swiftly and in relative luxury, with the entire staff of Whispering Palms instructed to accommodate his every wish. Rudy Graveline himself was exceedingly attentive, as he needed Chemo’s loyalty now more than ever. He had hoped that the killer’s spirits would improve at the prospect of reconstructing his abbreviated leftarm.

“A new hand,” Rudy said, “would be a major step back to a normal life.”

“I never had a normal life,” Chemo pointed out. Sure, he would miss the hand, but he was more pissed off about losing the expensive wristwatch.

“What are my other options?” Chemo asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, besides these things.” He waved his stump contemptuously at the artificial hands.

“Well,” Rudy said, “frankly, I’moutof ideas.” Hegathered the prostheses from his desk and put them back in the box. “I told you this isn’t my field,” he said to Chemo.

“You keep trying to dump me off on some other surgeon, but it won’t work. It’s you or nobody.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” Rudy said. He leaned forward in his chair and put on his glasses. “Can I ask, what’s that on your face?”

Chemo said, “It’s Wite-Out.”

After a careful pause, Dr. Graveline said, “Can I ask-”

“I might go out to the club later. I wanted to cover up these darn patches.”

Out of pity Rudy had agreed to dermabrade several more one-inch squares along Chemo’s chin.

“You covered them with Wite-Out?”

Chemo said, “Your secretary loaned me a bottle. The color’s just right.”

Rudy cleared his throat. “It’s not so good for your skin. Please, let me prescribe a mild cosmetic ointment.”

“Forget it,” said Chemo. “This’ll do fine. Now what about a new thing for my arm?” With his right hand he gestured at the bandaged limb.

Rudy folded his hands in his lap, a relaxed gesture that damn near exuded professional confidence. “As I said before, we’ve gone over most of the conventional options.”

Chemo said, “I don’t like therapy. I want something easy to use, something practical.”

“I see,” said Rudy Graveline.

“A nd durable, too.”

“Of course.”

“Also, I don’t want people to stare.”

Rudy thought: Beautiful. A seven-foot, one-handed geek with Wite-Out painted on his face, and he’s worried about people staring.

“So what do you think?” Chemo pressed.

“I think,” said Rudy Graveline, “we’ve got to use our imaginations.”

Detective John Murdock bent his squat, porky frame over the rail of the hospital bed and said, “Wake up, fuckwad.”

Which was pretty much his standard greeting.

Mick Stranahan did not open his eyes.

“Get out of here,” said Christina Marks.

Detective Joe Salazar lit a Camel and said, “You don’t look like a nurse. Since when do nurses wear blue jeans?”

“Good point,” said John Murdock. “I think you’re the one should get out of here.”

“Yeah,” said Joe Salazar. “We got official business with this man.” Salazar was as short as his partner, only built like a stop sign. Fat, florid face stuck on a pipestem body.

“Now I know who you are,” Christina said. “You must be Murdock and Salazar, the crooked cops.”

Stranahan nearly busted out laughing, but he pressed his eyes closed, trying to look asleep.

“I see what we got here,” said Murdock. “What we got here is some kinda Lily Tomlin.”

“Sure,” said Joe Salazar, though he didn’t know who his partner was talking about. He assumed it was somebody they’d arrested together. “Sure,” he chimed in, “a regular Lily Thomas.”

Christina Marks said, “The man’s asleep, so why don’t you come back another time?”

“And why don’t you go change your tampon or something?” snapped John Murdock. “We’ve got business here.”

“We got questions,” Joe Salazar added. When he took the Camel cigarette out of his mouth, Christina noticed, the end was all soggy and mulched.

She said, “I was there when it happened, if you want to ask me about it.”

Salazar had brought a Xerox of the marine patrol incident report. He took it out of his jacket, unfolded it, ran a sticky brown finger down the page until he came to the box marked Witnesses. “So you’re Initial C. Marks?”

“Yes,” Christina said.

“We’ve been looking all over Dade County for you. Two, three weeks we’ve been looking.”

“I changed hotels,” she said. She had moved from Key Biscayne over to the Grove, to be closer to Mercy Hospital.

John Murdock, the senior of the two detectives, took a chair from the corner, twirled it around, and sat down straddling it.

“Just like in the movies,” Christina said. “You think better, sitting with your legs like that?”

Murdock glowered. “What suppose we just throw your tight little ass in the women’s annex for a night or two, would you enjoy that? Just you and all the hookers, maybe a lesbo or two.”

“Teach you some manners,” Joe Salazar said, “and that’s not all.”

Christina smiled coolly. “And here I thought you boys wanted a friendly chat. Maybe I’ll just call hospital security and tell them what’s going on up here. After that, maybe I’ll call the newspapers.”

Mick Stranahan was thinking: She’d better be careful. These guys aren’t nearly as dumb as they look.

Murdock said, “One time we booked a big lesbo looked just like Kris Kristofferson. I’m not kidding, we’re talking major facial hair. And mean as a bobcat.”

“Resisting with violence, two counts,” Salazar recalled. “On top of the murder.”

“Manslaughter,” John Murdock cut in. “Actually, woman-slaughter, if there is such a thing. Jesus, what a mess. I can’t even think about it, so close to lunch.”

“Involved a fire hose,” Salazar said.

“I said enough,” Murdock protested. “Anyhow, I think she’s still in the annex. The one who looks like Kristofferson. I think she runs the drama group.”

Salazar said, “You like the theater, Miss Marks?”

“Sure,” Christina said, “but mainly I like television. You guys ever been on TV? Maybe you’ve heard of the Reynaldo Flemm show.”

“Yeah,” Joe Salazar said, excitedly. “One time I saw him get his ass pounded by a bunch of Teamsters. In slow motion, too.”

“ That asshole,” Murdock muttered.

“We finally agree,” Christina said. “Unfortunately, he happens to be my boss. We’re in town taping a big story.”

The two detectives glanced at one another, trying to decide on a plan without saying it. Salazar stalled by lighting up another Camel.

Lying in bed listening, Mick Stranahan figured they’d back off now, just to be safe. Neither of these jokers wanted to see his own face on prime-time TV.

Murdock said, “So tell us what happened.” Salazar stood in the empty corner, resting his fat head against the wall.

Christina said, “You’ve got photographic memories, or maybe you’d prefer to take some notes?” Murdock motioned to his partner, who angrily stubbed out his cigarette and dug a worn spiral notebook from his jacket.

She began with what she had seen from the wheelhouse of Joey’s shrimp boat-the tall man toting a machine gun on the jet scooter. She told the detectives about how Stranahan had battened down the stilt house, and how the man had started shooting into the corners. She told them how Stranahan had been wounded in the shoulder, and how he had fired back with a shotgun until he passed out. She told them she had heard a splash outside, then a terrible cry; ten, maybe fifteen minutes later she’d heard somebody rev up the jet ski, but she was too scared to go to a window. Only when the engine was a faint whine in the distance did she peer through the bullet holes in the front door to see if the gunman had gone. She told the detectives how she had half-carried Stranahan down the stairs to where his skiff was docked, and how she had hand-cranked the outboard by herself. She told them how he had groggily pointed across the bay and said there was a big hospital on the mainland, and by the time they got to Mercy there was so much blood in the bottom of the skiff that she was bailing with a coffee mug.

After Christina had finished, Detective John Murdock said, “That’s quite a story. I bet Argosy magazine would go for a story like that.”

Joe Salazar leafed through his notebook and said, “I think I missed something, lady. I think I missed the part where you explained why you’re at Stranahan’s house in the first place. Maybe you could repeat it.”

Murdock said, “Yeah, I missed that, too.”

“I’d be happy to tell you why I was there,” Christina said. “Mr. Flemm wanted Mr. Stranahan to be interviewed for an upcoming broadcast, but Mr. Stranahan declined. I went to his house in the hopes of changing his mind.”

“I’ll bet,” Salazarsaid.

“Joe, be nice,” said his partner. “Tell me, Miss Marks, why’d you want to interview some dweeb P.I.? I mean, he’s nobody. Hasn’t been with the State Attorney for years.”

From his phony coma Stranahan wondered how far Christina Marks would go. Not too far, he hoped.

“The interview involved a story we were working on, and that’s allIcan say.”

Murdock said, “Gee, I hope it didn’t concern a murder.”

“I really can’t-”

“Because murder is our main concern. Me and Joe.”

Christina Marks said, “I’ve cooperated as much as I can.”

“And you’ve been an absolute peach about it,” said Murdock. “Fact, I almost forgot why we came in the first place.”

“Yeah,” said Detective Joe Salazar, “the questions we got, you can’t really answer. Thanks just the same.”

Murdock slid the chair back to the corner. “See, we need to talk to Rip Van Rambo here. So I think you’d better go.” He smiled for the first time. “And I apologize for that wisecrack about the Kotex. Not very professional, I admit.”

“It was tampons,” Joe Salazar said.

“Whatever.”

Christina Marks said, “I’m not leaving this room. This man is recovering from a serious gunshot wound and you shouldn’t disturb him.”

“We spoke to his doctor-”

“You’re lying.”

“Okay, we put in a call. The guy never called back.”

Salazar walked up to the hospital bed and said, “He don’t look so bad. Anyway, three weeks is plenty of time. Wake him up, Johnny.”

“Have it your way,” Christina said. She got a legal pad from her shoulder bag, uncapped a felt-tip pen, and sat down, poised to write.

“Now what the hell are you doing?” Salazar said.

“Forget about her,” Murdock said. He leaned close to Stranahan’s face and sang, “Mi-ick? Mick, buddy? Rise and shine.”

Stranahan growled sleepily, blowing a mouthful of stale, hot breath directly into Murdock’s face.

“Holy Christ,” the detective said, turning away.

Salazar said, “Johnny, I swear he’s awake.” He cupped his hand at Stranahan’s ear and shouted: “Hey, fuckwad, you awake?”

“Knock it off,” Christina said.

“I know how you can tell,” Salazar went on. “Grab his dick. If he’s asleep he won’t do nothing. If he’s awake he’ll jump ten feet out of this frigging bed.”

Murdock said, “Aw, you’re crazy.”

“You think he’d let one of us grab his schlong if he was wide awake? I’m telling you, Johnny, it’s a sure way to find out.”

“Okay, you do it.”

“ Nuh-uh, we flip a coin.”

“Screw you, Joe. I ain’t touching the man’s privates. The county doesn’t pay me enough.”

Stranahan was lying there, thinking: Thattaboy, Johnny, stick tothe book.

From the corner Christina said, “Lay a finger on him, I’ll see that Mr. Stranahan sues the living hell out of both of you. When he wakes up.”

“Not that old line,” Salazar said with a laugh.

She said, “Beat the shit out of some jerk on the street, that’s one thing. Grab a man’s sexual organs while he’s lying unconscious in a hospital bed-try to get the union worked up about that. You guys just kiss your pensions good-bye.”

Murdock shot Christina Marks a bitter look. “When he wakes up, you be sure to tell him something, Tell him we know he drowned his ex-wife, so don’t be surprised if we show up in Stiltsville with a waterproof warrant. Tell him he’d be smart to sell that old house, too, case a storm blows it down while he’s off at Raiford.”

With secretarial indifference, Christina jotted every word on the legal pad. Murdock snorted and stalked out the door. Joe Salazar followed two steps behind, pocketing his own notebook, fumbling for a fresh Camel.

“Lady,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “you got to learn some respect for authority.”

That weekend, a notorious punkband called the Fudge Packers was playing the Gay Bidet. Freddie didn’t like them at all. There were fights every night; the skinheads, the Latin Kings, the 34th Street Players. This is what Freddie couldn’t understand: Why the spooks and spies even showed up for a band like this. Usually they had better taste. The Fudge Packers were simply dreadful-four frigging bass guitars, now what the hell land of music was that? No wonder everybody was fighting: take their minds off the noise.

Since Chemo had disappeared, Freddie had hired a new head bouncer named Eugene, guy used to play in the World Football League. Eugene was all right, big as a garbage dumpster, but he couldn’t seem to get people’s attention me way Chemo did. Also, he was slow. Sometimes it took him five minutes to get down off the stage and pound heads in the crowd. By comparison Chemo had moved like a cat.

Freddie also was worried about Eugene’s pro-labor leanings. One week at the Gay Bidet and already he was complaining about how loud the music was, could they please turn it down? You’re kidding, Freddie had said, turn it down? But Eugene said damn right, his eardrums were fucking killing him. He said if his ears kept hurting he might go deaf and have to file a workman’s comp, and Freddie said what’s that? Then Eugene started going on about all his football injuries and, later, some shit that had happened to him working construction down in Homestead. He told Freddie about how the unions always took care of him, about how one time he was laid up for six weeks with a serious groin pull and never missed a paycheck. Not one.

Freddie could scarcely believe such a story. To him it sounded like something out of Communist Russia. He was delighted the night Chemo came back to work.

“Eugene, you’re fired,” Freddie said. “Go pull your groin someplace else.”

“What?” said Eugene, cocking his head and leaning closer.

“Don’t pull that deaf shit with me,” Freddie warned. “Now get lost.”

On his way out of Freddie’s office, Eugene sized up his towering replacement. “Man, what happened to you?”

“Gardening accident,” Chemo replied. Eugene grimaced sympathetically and said good-bye.

Freddie turned to Chemo. “Thank God you’re back. I’m afraid to ask.”

“Go ahead. Ask.”

“I don’t think so,” Freddie said. “Just tell me, you okay?”

Chemo nodded. “Fine. The new band sounds like vomit.”

“Yeah, I know,” Freddie said. “Geez, you should see the crowd. Be careful in there.”

“I’m ready for them,” Chemo said, hoisting his left arm to show Freddie the new device. He and Dr. Rudy Graveline had found it on sale at a True Value hardware store.

“Wow,” said Freddie, staring.

“I got it rigged special for a six-volt battery,” Chemo explained. He patted the bulge under his arm. “Strap it on with an Ace bandage. Only weighs about nine pounds.”

“Neat,” said Freddie, thinking: Sweet Jesus, this can’t be what I think it is.

A short length of anodyzed aluminum piping protruded from the padding over Chemo’s amputation. Bolted to the end of the pipe was a red saucer-sized disc made of hard plastic. Coiled tightly on a stem beneath the disc was a short length of eighty-pound monofilament fishing line.

Freddie said, “Okay, now I’m gonna ask.”

“It’s a Weed Whacker,” Chemo said. “See?”