Skin Tight

16

On his way to Miami International, Mick Stranahan stopped at his brother-in-law’s law office. Kipper Garth was on the speaker phone, piecing out a slip-and-fall to one of the Brickell Avenue buzzards.

Mick Stranahan walked in and said, “The files?”

Kipper Garth motioned to a wine-colored chair and put a finger to his waxy lips. “So, Chuckie,” he said to the speaker phone, “what’re you thinking?”

“Thinking maybe two hundred if we settle,” said the voice on the other end.

“Two hundred!” Kipper exclaimed. “Chuckie, you’re nuts. The woman tripped over her own damn dachshund.”

“Kip, they’ll settle,” the other lawyer said. “It’s the biggest grocery chain in Florida, they always settle. Besides, the dog croaked-that’s fifty grand right there for mental anguish.”

“But dogs aren’t even allowed in the store, Chuckie. If it was somebody else’s dachshund she tripped on, then we’d really have something. But this was her own fault.”

Sardonic laughter crackled over the speaker box. “Kip, buddy, you’re not thinking like a litigator,” the voice said. “I went to the supermarket myself and guess what: No signs!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean no No Dogs Allowed-type signs. Not a one posted in Spanish. So how was our poor Consuelo to know?”

“Chuckie, you’re beautiful,” said Kipper Garth. “If that ain’t negligence-”

“Two hundred thou,” Chuckie said, “that’s my guess. We’ll split sixty-forty.”

“Nope,” Kipper Garth said, staring coldly at the speaker box. “Half-and-half. Same as always.”

“Excuse me.” It was Mick Stranahan. Kipper Garth frowned and shook his head; not now, not when he was closing the deal. The voice on the phone said: “Kip, who’s that? You got somebody there?”

“Relax, Chuckie, it’s just me,” Stranahan said to the box. “You know-Kipper’s heroin connection? I just dropped by with my briefcase full of Mexican brown. Can I pencil you in for a kilo?”

Frantically Kipper Garth jabbed two fingers at the phone buttons. The line went dead and the speaker box hummed the dial tone. “You’re fucking crazy,” he said to Mick Stranahan.

“I’v e got a plane to catch, Jocko. Where are the Graveline files?”

“You’re crazy,” Kipper Garth said again, trying to stay calm. He buzzed for a secretary, who lugged in three thick brown office folders.

“There’s a conference room where you can read this shit in private.”

Mick Stranahan said, “No, this is fine.” With Kipper Garth stewing, Stranahan skimmed quickly through the files on Rudy Graveline. It was worse than he thought-or better, depending on one’s point of view.

“Seventeen complaints to the state board,” Stranahan marveled.

“Yeah, but no action,” Kipper Garth noted. “Not even a reprimand.”

Stranahan looked up, lifting one of the files. “Jocko, this is agold mine.”

“Well, Mick, I’m glad I could help. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s getting late and I’ve got a few calls to make.”

Stranahan said, “You don’t understand, I wanted this stuff foryou, not me.” Peevishly Kipper Garth glanced at his wristwatch. “You’re right, Mick, I don’t understand. What the hell do I want with Graveline’sfiles?”

“Names, Jocko.” Stranahan opened the top folder and riffled the pages dramatically. “You got seventeen names, seventeen leads on a silver platter. You got Mrs. Susan Jacoby and her boobs that don’t match. You got Mr. Robert Mears with his left eye that won’t close and his right eye that won’t open. You got, let’s see, Julia Kelly with a shnoz that looks like a Phillips screwdriver-Jesus, you see the Polaroid of that thing? What else? Oh, you got Ken Martinez and his lopsided scrotum… “

Kipper Garth waved his arms. “Mick, that’s enough! What would I want with all this crap?”

“I figured you’ll need it, Jocko.”

“For what?”

“For suing Doctor Rudy Graveline.”

“Very funny,” Kipper Garth said. “I told you, the man’s in my yacht club. Besides, he’s been sued before.”

“Sue him again,” Mick Stranahan said. “Sue the mother like he’s never been sued before.”

“He’d settle out. Doctors always settle.”

“Don’t let him. Don’t settle for anything. Not for ten million dollars. Sign up one of these poor misfortunate souls and go to the frigging wall.”

Kipper Garth stood up and adjusted his necktie, suddenly on his way to some important meeting. “I can’t help you, Mick. Get yourself another lawyer.”

“You don’t do this favor for me,” said Stranahan, “and I’ll go tell Katie about your trip to Steamboat next month with Inga or Olga or whatever the hell her name is, I got it written down here somewhere. And for future reference, Jocko, don’t ever put your ski bunny’s plane tickets on American Express. I know it’s convenient and all, but it’s very, very risky. I mean, with the computers they got these days, I can pull out your goddamned seat assignments-5A and 5B, I think it is.”

All Kipper Garth could say was: “How’d you do that?”

“I told you before, I’m still plugged in.” A travel agent in Coral Gables who owed him one. It was so damneasy Stranahan couldn’t bear to tell his brother-in-law.

“What’s the point of all this?” Kipper Garth asked.

“Never mind, just do it. Sue the asshole.”

The lawyer lifted his pinstriped coat off the back of the chair and checked it for wrinkles. “Mick, let me shop this around and get back to you.”

“No, Jocko. No referrals. You do this one all by yourself.”

The lawyer sagged as if struck by a brick.

“You heard me right,” Stranahan said.

“Mick, please.” It was a pitiable peep. “Mick, I don’t do this sortof thing.”

“Sure you do. I see the billboards all over town.”

Kipper Garth nibbled on a thumbnail to mask the spastic twitching of his upper lip. The thought of actually going to court had pitched him into a cold sweat. A fresh droplet made a shiny trail from the furrow of his forehead to the tip of his well-tanned nose.

“I don’t know,” he said, “it’s been so long.”

“Aw, it’s easy,” Stranahan said. “One of your paralegals can draw up the complaint. That’ll get the ball rolling.” With a thud he stacked the Graveline files on Kipper Garth’s desk; the lawyer eyed the file as if it were nitroglycerine.

“A gold mine,” Stranahan said encouragingly. “I’ll check back in a few days.”

“Mick?”

“Relax. All you’ve got to do is go down to the courthouse and sue.”

Wanly, Kipper Garth said, “I don’t have to win, do I?”

“Of course not,” Stranahan said, patting his arm. “It’ll never getthat far.”

Dr. Rudy Graveline lived in a palatial three-story house on northern Biscayne Bay. The house had Doric pillars, two spiral staircases, and more imported marble than the entire downtown art museum. The house had absolutely no business being on Miami Beach, but in fairness it looked no more silly or out of place than any of the other garish mansions. The house was on the same palm-lined avenue where two of the Bee Gees lived, which meant that Rudy had been forced to pay about a hundred thousand more than the property was worth. For the first few years the women whom Rudy dated were impressed to be in the Bee Gees’ neighborhood, but lately the star value had worn off and Rudy had quit mentioning it.

It was Heather Chappell, the actress, who brought it up first.

“I think Barry lives around here,” she said as they were driving back to Rudy’s house after dinner at the Forge.

“Barry who?” Rudy asked, his mind off somewhere.

“Barry Gibb. The singer. Staying alive, staying alive, ooh, ooh, ooh.”

As much as he loved Heather, Rudy wished she wouldn’t try to sing.

“You know Barry personally?” he asked.

“Oh sure. All the guys.”

“That’s Barry’s place there,” Rudy Graveline said, pointing. “And Robin lives right here.”

“Let’s stop over,” Heather said, touching his knee. “It’ll be fun.”

Rudy said no, he didn’t know the guys all that well. Besides, he never really liked their music, especially that disco shit. Immediately Heather sank into a deep pout, which she heroically maintained all the way back to Rudy’s house, up the stairs, all the way to his bedroom. There she peeled off her dress and panties and lay facedown on the king-sized bed. Every few minutes she would raise her cheek off the satin pillow and sigh disconsolately, until Rudy couldn’t stand it anymore.

“A re you mad at me?” he asked. He was in his boxer shorts, standing in the closet where he had hung his suit. “Heather, are you angry?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. Did I say something wrong? If I did, I’m sorry.” He was blubbering like a jerk, all because he wanted to get laid in the worst way. The sight of Heather’s perfect bare bottom-the one she wanted contoured-was driving him mad.

In a tiny voice she said, “I love the Bee Gees.”

“I’m sorry,” Rudy said. He sat on the corner of the bed and stroked her peachlike rump. “I liked their early stuff, I really did.”

Heather said, “I loved the disco, Rudy. It just about killed me when disco died.”

“I’m sorry I said anything.”

“You ever made love to disco music?”

Rudy thought: What is happening to my life?

“Do you have any Village People tapes?” Heather asked, giving him a quick saucy look over the shoulder. “There’s a song on their first album, I swear, I could fuck all night to it.”

Rudy Graveline was nothing if not resourceful. He found the Village People tape in the discount bin of an all-night record store across from the University of Miami campus in Coral Gables. He sped home, popped the cassette into the modular sound system, cranked up the woofers, and jogged up the spiral staircase to the bedroom.

Heather said, “Not here.” She took him by the hand and led him downstairs. “The fireplace,” she whispered.

“It’s seventy-eight degrees,” Rudy remarked, kicking off his underwear.

“It’s not the fire,” Heather said, “it’s the marble.”

One of the selling points of the big house was an oversized fireplace constructed of polished Italian marble. Fireplaces were considered a cozy novelty in South Florida, but Rudy had never used his, since he was afraid the expensive black marble would blister in the heat.

Heather crawled in and got on her back. She had the most amazing smile on her face. “Oh, Rudy, it’s so cold.” She lifted her buttocks off the marble and slapped them down; the squeak made her giggle.

Rudy stood there, naked and limp, staring like an idiot. “We could get hurt,” he said. He was thinking of what the marble would do to his elbows and kneecaps.

“Don’t be such a geezer,” Heather said, hoisting her hips and wiggling them in his face. She rolled over and pointed to

the twin smudges of condensation on the black stone. “Look,” she said. “Just like fingerprints.”

“Sort of,” Rudy Graveline mumbled.

She said, “I must be hot, huh?”

“I guess so,” Rudy said. His skull was ready to split; the voices of the Village People reverberated in the fireplace like mortar fire.

“Oh, God,” Heather moaned.

“What is it?” Rudy asked.

“The song. That’s my song.” She squeaked to her knees and seized him ferociously around the waist. “Come on down here,” she said. “Let’s dance.”

In order to prolong his tumescence, Dr. Rudy Graveline had trained himself to think of anything but sex while he was having sex. Most times he concentrated on his unit trusts and tax shelters, which were complicated enough to keep orgasm at bay for a good ten to fifteen minutes. Tonight, though, he concentrated on something different. Rudy Graveline was thinking of his daunting predicament-of Victoria Barletta and the upcoming television documentary about her death; of Mick Stranahan, still alive and menacing; of Maggie Gonzalez, spending his money somewhere in New York.

More often than not, Rudy found he could ruminate with startling clarity during the throes of sexual intercourse. He had arrived at many crucial life decisions in such moments-the clutter of the day and the pressure from his patients seemed to vanish in a crystal vacuum, a mystic physical void that permitted Rudy to concentrate on his problems in a new light and from a new angle.

And so it was that-even with Heather Chappell clawing his shoulders and screaming disco drivel into his ear, even with the flue vent clanging in the chimney above his head, and even with his knees grinding mercilessly on the cold Italian marble-Rudy was able to focus on the most important crisis of his life. Both pain and pleasure dissipated; it was as if he were alone, alert and sensitized, in a cool dark chamber. Rudy thought about everything that had happened so far, and then about what he must do now. It wasn’t a bad plan. There was, however, one loose end.

Rudy snapped out of his cognitive trance when Heather cried, “Enough already!”

“What?”

“I said you can stop now, okay? This isn’t a damn rodeo.” She was all out of breath. Her chest was slick with sweat.

Rudy quit moving.

“What were you thinking of?” Heather asked.

“Nothing.”

“Did you come?”

“Sure,” Rudy lied.

“You were thinking of some other girl, weren’t you?”

“No, I wasn’t.” Another lie.

He had been thinking of Maggie Gonzalez, and how he should have killed her two months ago.

The next day at noon, George Graveline arrived at the Whispering. Palms surgery clinic and demanded to see his brother, said it was an emergency. When Rudy heard the story, he agreed.

The two men were talking in hushed, worried tones when Chemo showed up an hour later.

“So what’s the big rush?” he said.

“Sit down,” Rudy Graveline told him.

Chemo was dressed in a tan safari outfit, the kind Jim Fowler wore on the Wild Kingdom television show.

Rudy said, “George, this is a friend of mine. He’s working for me on this matter.”

Chemo raised his eyebrows. “Happened to your thumb?” he said to George.

“Car door.” Rudy’s brother did not wish to share that painful detail of his encounter with Mick Stranahan.

George Graveline had a few questions of his own for the tall stranger, but he held them. Valiantly he tried not to stare at Chemo’s complexion, which George assessed as some tragic human strain of Dutch elm disease. What finally drew the tree trimmer’s attention away from Chemo’s face was the colorful Macy’s shopping bag in which Chemo concealed his newly extended left arm.

“Had an accident,” Chemo explained. “I’m only wearing this until I get a customized cover.” He pulled the shopping bag off the Weed Whacker. George Graveline recognized it immediately-the lightweight household model.

“Hey, that thing work?”

“You bet,” Chemo said. He probed under his arm until he found the toggle switch that jolted the Weed Whacker to life. It sounded like a blender without the top on.

George grinned and clapped his hands.

“That’s enough,” Rudy said sharply.

“No, watch,” said Chemo. He ambled to the corner of the office where Rudy kept a beautiful potted rubber plant.

“Oh no,” the doctor said, but it was too late. Gleefully Chemo chopped the rubber plant into slaw.

“Yeah!” said George Graveline.

Rudy leaned over and whispered, “Don’t encourage him. He’s a dangerous fellow.”

Basking in the attention, Chemo left the Weed Whacker unsheathed. He sat down next to the two men and said, “Let’s hear the big news.”

“Mick Stranahan visited George yesterday,” Rudy said. “Apparently the bastard’s not giving up.”

“ What’d he say?”

“All kinds of crazy shit,” George said.

Rudy had warned his brother not to tell Chemo about Victoria Barletta or the wood chipper or Stranahan’s specific accusation about what had happened to the body.

Rudy twirled his eyeglasses and said: “I don’t understand why Stranahan is so damn hard to kill.”

“Least we know he’s out of the hospital,” Chemo said brightly. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Not just yet,” Rudy said. He turned to his brother. “George, could I speak to him alone, please?”

George Graveline nodded amiably at Chemo on his way out the door. “Listen, you ever need work,” he said, “I could use youand that, uh… “

“Prosthesis,” Chemo said. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

When they were alone, Rudy opened the top drawer of his desk and handed Chemo a large brown envelope. Inside the envelope were an eight-by-ten photograph, two thousand dollars in traveler’s checks, and an airline ticket. The person in the picture was a handsome, sharp-featured woman with brown eyes and brown hair; her name was printed in block letters on the back of the photograph. The plane ticket was round-trip, Miami to LaGuardia and back.

Chemo said, “Is this what I think it is?”

“Another job,” Dr. Rudy Graveline said.

“It’ll cost you.”

“I‘m prepared for that.”

“Same as the Stranahan deal,” Chemo said.

“Twenty treatments? You don’t need twenty more treatments. Your face’ll be done in two months.”

“I’m not talking about dermabrasion,” Chemo said. “I’m talking about my ears.”

Rudy thought: Dear God, will it never end? “Your ears,” he said to Chemo, “are the last things that need surgical attention.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. All I’m saying is, once we finish the dermabrasions you’ll look as good as new. I honestly don’t believe you’ll want to touch a thing, that’s how good your face is going to look.”

Chemo said, “My ears stick out too far and you know it. You want me to do this hit, you’ll fix the damn things.”

“Fine,” Rudy Graveline sighed, “fine.” There was nothing wrong with the man’s ears, only what was between them.

Chemo tucked the envelope into his armpit and bagged up the Weed Whacker. “Oh yeah, one more thing. I’m out of that stuff formy face.”

“What stuff?”

“You know,” Chemo said, “the Wite-Out.”

Rudy Graveline found a small bottle in his desk and tossed it to Chemo, who slipped it into the breast pocket of his Jim Fowler safari jacket. “Call you from New York,” he said.

“Yes,” said Rudy wearily. “By all means.”