Skin Tight

2

On the fourth of January, the sun came out, and Dr. Rudy Graveline smiled. The sun was very good for business. It baked and fried and pitted the facial flesh, and seeded the pores with vile microscopic cancers that would eventually sprout and require excision. Dr. Rudy Graveline was a plastic surgeon, and he dearly loved to see the sun.

He was in a fine mood, anyway, because it was January. In Florida, January is the heart of the winter tourist season and a bonanza time for cosmetic surgeons. Thousands of older men and women who flock down for the warm weather also use the occasion to improve their features. Tummy tucks, nose jobs, boob jobs, butt jobs, fat suctions, face lifts, you name it. And they always beg for an appointment in January, so that the scars will be healed by the time they go back North in the spring.

Dr. Rudy Graveline could not accommodate all the snowbirds, but he did his damnedest. All four surgical theaters at the Whispering Palms Spa were booked from dawn to dusk in January, February, and halfway into March. Most of the patients asked especially for Dr. Graveline, whose reputation greatly exceeded his talents. While Rudy usually farmed the cases out to the eight other plastic surgeons on staff, many patients got the impression that Dr. Graveline himself had performed their surgery. This is because Rudy would often come in and pat their wrinkled hands until they nodded off, blissfully, under the nitrous or IV Valium. At that point Rudy would turn them over to one of his younger and more competent protege’s.

Dr. Graveline saved himself for the richest patients. The regulars got cut on every winter, and Rudy counted on their business. He reassured his surgical hypochondriacs that there was nothing abnormal about having a fifth, sixth, or seventh blepharoplasty in as many years. Does it make youfeel better about yourself? Rudy would ask them. Then it’s worth it, isn’t it? Of course it is.

Such a patient was Madeleine Margaret Wilhoit, age sixty-nine, of North Palm Beach. In the course of their acquaintance, there was scarcely a square inch of Madeleine’s substantial physique that Dr. Rudy Graveline had not altered. Whatever he did and whatever he charged, Madeleine was always delighted. And she always came back the next year for more. Though Madeleine’s face reminded Dr. Graveline in many ways of a camel, he was fond of her. She was the kind of steady patient that offshore trust funds are made of.

On January fourth, buoyed by the warm sunny drive to Whispering Palms, Rudy Graveline set about the task of repairing for the fifth, sixth, or seventh time (he couldn’t remember exactly) the upper eyelids of Madeleine Margaret Wilhoit. Given the dromedarian texture of the woman’s skin, the mission was doomed and Rudy knew it. Any cosmetic improvement would have to take place exclusively in Madeleine’s imagination, but Rudy (knowing she would be ecstatic) pressed on.

Midway through the operation, the telephone on the wall let out two beeps. With a gowned elbow the operating-room nurse deftly punched the intercom box and told the caller that Dr. Graveline was in the middle of surgery and not available.

“It’s fucking important, tell him,” said a sullen male voice, which Rudy instantly recognized.

He asked the nurse and the anesthetist to leave the operating room for a few minutes. When they were gone, he said to the phone box: “Go ahead. This is me.”

The phone call was made from a pay booth in Atlantic City, New Jersey, not that it would have mattered to Rudy. Jersey was all he knew, all he needed to know.

“You want the report?” the man asked.

“Of course.”

“It went lousy.”

Rudy sighed and stared down at the violet vectors he had inked around Madeleine’s eyes. “How lousy?” the surgeon said to the phone box.

“The ultimate fucking lousy.”

Rudy tried to imagine the face on the other end of the line, in New Jersey. In the old days he could guess a face by the voice on the phone. This particular voice sounded fat and lardy, with black curly eyebrows and mean dark eyes.

“So what now?” the doctor asked.

“Keep the other half of your money.”

What a prince, Rudy thought.

“What if I want you to try again?”

“Fine byme.”

“So what’ll that cost?”

“Same,” said Curly Eyebrows. “Deal’s a deal.”

“CanI think onit?”

“Sure. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

Rudy said, “It’s just that I didn’t count on any problems.”

“The problem’s not yours. Anyway, this shit happens.”

“I understand,” Dr. Graveline said.

The man in New Jersey hung up, and Madeleine Margaret Wilhoit started to squirm. It occurred to Rudy that maybe the old bag wasn’t asleep after all, and that maybe she’d heard the whole conversation.

“Madeleine?” he whispered in her ear.

“ Unngggh.”

“A re you okay?”

“Fine, Papa,” Madeleine drooled. “When do I get to ride inthe sailboat?”

Rudy Graveline smiled, then buzzed for the nurse and anesthetist to come back and help him finish the job.

During his time at the State Attorney’s Office, Mick Stranahan had helped put many people in jail. Most of them were out now, even the murderers, due to a federal court order requiring the state of Florida to seasonally purge its overcrowded prisons.

Stranahan accepted the fact that some of these ex-cons harbored bitterness against him, and that more than a few would be delighted to see him dead. For this reason, Stranahan was exceedingly cautious about visitors. He was not a paranoid person, but took a practical view of risk: When someone pulls a gun at your front door, there’s really no point to asking what he wants. The answer is obvious, and so is the solution.

The gunman who came to the stilt house was the fifth person that Mick Stranahan had killed in his lifetime.

The first two were North Vietnamese Army regulars who were laying trip wire for land mines near the town of Dak Mat Lop in the Central Highlands. Stranahan surprised the young soldiers by using his sidearm instead of his M-16, and by not missing. It happened during the second week of May 1969, when Stranahan was barely twenty years old.

The third person he killed was a Miami holdup man named Thomas Henry Thomas, who made the mistake of sticking up a fried-chicken joint while Stranahan was standing in line for a nine-piece box of Extra Double Crispy. To supplement the paltry seventy-eight dollars he had grabbed from the cash register, Thomas Henry Thomas decided to confiscate the wallets and purses of each customer. It went rather smoothly until he came down the line to Mick Stranahan, who calmly tookaway Thomas Henry Thomas’s.38-caliber Charter Arms revolver and shot him twice in the right temporal lobe. In appreciation, the fried-chicken franchise presented Stranahan with three months’ worth of discount coupons and offered to put his likeness on every carton of Chicken Chunkettes sold during the month of December 1977. Being broke and savagely divorced, Stranahan took the coupons but declined the celebrity photo.

The shooting of Thomas Henry Thomas (his obvious character flaws aside) was deemed serious enough to dissuade both the Miami and metropolitan Dade County police from hiring Mick Stranahan as an officer. His virulent refusal to take any routine psychological tests also militated against him. However, the State Attorney’s Office was in dire need of a streetwise investigator, and was delighted to hire a highly decorated war veteran, even at the relatively tender age of twenty-nine.

The fourth and most important person that Mick Stranahan killed was a crooked Dade County judge named Raleigh Goomer. Judge Goomer’s specialty was shaking down defense lawyers in exchange for ridiculous bond reductions, which allowed dangerous felons to get out of jail and skip town. It was Stranahan who caught Judge Goomer at this game and arrested him taking a payoff at a strip joint near the Miami airport. On the trip to the jail, Judge Goomer apparently panicked, pulled a.22 somewhere out of his black nylon socks, and fired three shots at Mick Stranahan. Hit twice in the right thigh, Stranahan still managed to seize the gun, twist the barrel up the judge’s right nostril, and fire.

A special prosecutor sent down from Tampa presented the case to the grand jury, and the grand jury agreed that the killing of Judge Raleigh Goomer was probably self-defense, though a point-blank nostril shot did seem extreme. Even though Stranahan was cleared, he obviously could no longer be employed by the State Attorney’s Office. Pressure for his dismissal came most intensely from other crooked judges, several of whom stated that they were afraid to have Mr. Stranahan testifying in their courtrooms.

On June 7, 1988, Mick Stranahan resigned from the prosecutor’s staff. The press release called it early retirement, and disclosed that Stranahan would be receiving full disability compensation as a result of injuries suffered in the Goomer shooting. Stranahan wasn’t disabled at all, but his family connection with a notorious personal-injury lawyer was sufficient to terrify the county into paying him off. When Stranahan said he didn’t want the money, the county promptly doubled its offer and threw in a motorized wheel-chair. Stranahan gave up.

Not long afterwards, he moved out to Stiltsville and made friends with the fish.

A marine patrol boat pulled up to Mick Stranahan’s place at half-past noon. Stranahan was on the top deck, dropping a line for mangrove snappers down below.

“Got a second?” asked the marine patrol officer, a sharp young Cuban named Luis Cordova. Stranahan liked him all right.

“Come on up,” he said.

Stranahan reeled in his bait and put the fishing rod down. He dumped four dead snappers out of the bucket and gutted them one at a time, tossing their creamy innards in the water.

Cordova was talking about the body that had washed up on Cape Florida.

“Rangers found it yesterday evening,” he said. “Lemon shark gottheleft foot.”

“That happens,” Stranahan said, skinning one of the fish filets.

“The M.E. says it was one hell of a stab wound.”

“I’m gonna fry these up for sandwiches,” Stranahan said. “You interested in lunch?”

Cordova shook his head. “No, Mick, there’s some jerks poaching lobster down at Boca Chita so I gotta be on my way. Metro asked me to poke around out here, see if somebody saw anything. And since you’re the only one out here… “

Stranahan glanced up from the fish-cleaning. “I don’t remember much going on yesterday,” he said. “Weather was piss-poor, that I know.”

He tossed the fish skeletons, heads still attached, over the rail.

“Well, Metro’s not all that excited,” Cordova said.

“How come? Who’s the stiff?”

“Name of Tony Traviola, wise guy. Jersey state police got a fat jacket on him. Tony the Eel, loan-collector type. Not a very nice man, from what I understand.”

Stranahan said, “They think it’s a mob hit?”

“I don’t know what they think.”

Stranahan carried the filets into the house and ran them under the tap. He was careful with the water, since the tanks were low. Cordova accepted a glass of iced tea and stood next to Stranahan the kitchen, watching him roll the filets in egg yolk and bread crumbs. Normally Stranahan preferred to be left alone when he cooked, but he didn’t want Luis Cordova to go just yet.

“T hey found the guy’s boat, too,” the marine patrolman went on. “It was a rental out of Haulover. White Seacraft.” Stranahan said he hadn’t seen one of those lately. “Few specks of blood was all they found,” Cordova said. “Somebody cleaned it pretty good.”

Stranahan laid the snapper filets in a half inch of oil in a frying pan. The stove didn’t seem to be working, so he got on his knees and checked the pilot light-dead, as usual. He put a match to it and, before long, the fish started to sizzle. Cordova sat down on one of the wicker barstools. “So why don’t they think it was the mob?” Stranahan asked.

“I didn’t say they didn’t, Mick.”

Stranahan smiled and opened a bottle of beer.

Cordova shrugged. “They don’t tell me every little thing.”

“First of all, they wouldn’t bring him all the way down to Florida to do it, would they, Luis? They got the exact same ocean up in Jersey. So Tony the Eel was already here on business.”

“Makes sense,” Cordova nodded.

“Second, why didn’t they just shoot him? Knives are for kids, not pros.”

Cordova took the bait. “Wasn’t a knife,” he said. “It was too big, the M.E. said. More like a javelin.”

“That’s not like the guineas.”

“No,” Cordova agreed.

Stranahan made three fish sandwiches and gave one to the marine patrolman, who had forgotten about going after the lobster poachers, if there ever were any.

“T he other weird thing,” he said through a mouthful of bread, “is the guy’s face.”

“W hat about it?”

“It didn’t match the mug shots, not even close. They made him through fingerprints and dentals, but when they got the mugs back from the FBI it looked like a different guy altogether. So Metro calls the Bureau and says you made a mistake, and they say the hell we did, that’s Tony Traviola. They go back and forth for about two hours until somebody has the brains to call the M.E.” Cordova stopped to gulp some iced tea; the fish was steaming in his cheeks.

Stranahan said, “And?”

“Plastic surgery.”

“No shit?”

“At least five different operations, from his eyes to his chin. Tony the Eel, he was a regular Michael Jackson. His own mother wouldn’t have known him.”

Stranahan opened another beer and sat down. “Why would a bum like Traviola get his face remade?”

Cordova said, “Traviola did a nickel for extortion, got out of Rahway about two years ago. Not long afterwards a Purolator truck gets hit, but the robbers turn up dead three days later-without the loot. Classic mob rip. The feds put a warrant out for Traviola, hung his snapshot in every post office along the Eastern seaboard.”

“Good reason to get the old shnoz bobbed,” Stranahan said.

“That’s what they figure.” Cordova got up and rinsed his plate in the sink.

Stranahan was impressed. “You didn’t get all this out of Metro, did you?”

Cordova laughed. “Hey, even the grouper troopers got a computer.”

This was a good kid, Stranahan thought, a good cop. Maybe there was hope for the world after all.

“I see you went out and got the newspaper,” the marine patrolman remarked. “What’s the occasion, you got a pony running at Gulfstream?”

Hell, Stranahan thought, that was a stupid move. On the counter was the Herald, open to the page with the story about the dead floater. Miami being what it is, the floater story was only two paragraphs long, wedged under a tiny headline between a one-ton coke bust and a double homicide on the river. Maybe Luis Cordova wouldn’t notice.

“You must’ve got up early to get to the marina and back,” he said.

“Grocery run,” Stranahan lied. “Besides, it was a nice morning for a boat ride. How was the fish?”

“Delicious, Mick.” Cordova slapped him on the shoulder and said so long.

Stranahan walked out on the deck and watched Cordova untie his patrol boat, a gray Mako outboard with a blue police light mounted on the center console.

“If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call, Luis.”

“No sweat, it’s Metro’s party,” the marine patrolman said. “Guy sounds like a dirtbag, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Stranahan said, “I feel sorry for that shark, the one that ate his foot.”

Cordova chuckled. “Yeah, he’ll be puking for a week.”

Stranahan waved as the police boat pulled away. He was pleased to see Luis Cordova heading south toward Boca Chita, as Luis had said he would. He was also pleased that the young officer had not asked him about the blue marlin head on the living-room wall, about why the sword was mended together with fresh hurricane tape.

Timmy Gavigan had looked like death for most of his adult life. Now he had an excuse.

His coppery hair had fallen out in thickets, revealing patches of pale freckled scalp. His face, once round and florid, looked like somebody had let the air out.

From his hospital bed Timmy Gavigan said, “Mick, can you believe this fucking food?” He picked up a chunk of gray meat off the tray and held it up with two fingers, like an important piece of evidence. “This is your government in action, Mick. Same fuckers that want to put lasers in outer space can’t fry a Salisbury steak.”

Stranahan said, “I’ll go get us some take-out.”

“Forget it.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“I got about five gallons of poison in my bloodstream, Mick. Some new formula, experimental super juice. I told ‘em to go ahead, why the hell not? If it kills just one of those goddamn cells, then I’m for it.”

Stranahan smiled and sat down.

“A man came out to see me the other day. He was using your name, Tim.”

Gavigan’s laugh rattled. “Not too bright. Didn’t he know we was friends?”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. He was telling people he was you, trying to find out where my house was.”

“But he didn’t tell you he was me?”

“No,” Stranahan said.

Gavigan’s blue eyes seemed to light up. “Did he find your place?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And?”

Stranahan thought about how to handle it.

“Hey, Mick, I haven’t got loads of time, okay? I mean, I could check out of this life any second now, so don’t make me choke the goddamn story out of you.”

Stranahan said, “It turns out he was a bad guy from back East. Killer for the mob.”

“Was?” Gavigan grinned. “So that’s it. And here I thought you’d come by just to see how your old pal was hanging in.”

“That, too,” Stranahan said.

“But first you want me to help you figure it out, how this pasta-breath tied us together.”

“I don’t like the fact he was using your name.”

“How d’you think I feel?” Gavigan handed Stranahan the dinner tray and told him to set it on the floor. He folded his papery hands on his lap, over the thin woolen blanket. “How would he know we was friends, Mick? You never call, never send candy. Missed my birthday three years in a row.”

“That’s not true, Timmy. Two years ago I sent a strip-o-gram.”

“You sent that broad? I thought she just showed up lonely at the station and picked out the handsomest cop. Hell, Mick, I took her to Grand Bahama for a week, damn near married her.”

Stranahan was feeling better; Timmy knew something. Stranahan could tell from the eyes. It had come back to him.

Gavigan said, “Mick, that girl had the finest nipples I ever saw. I meant to thank you.”

“Anytime.”

“Like Susan B. Anthony dollars, that’s how big they were. Same shape, too. Octagonal.” Gavigan winked. “You remember the Barletta thing?”

“Sure.” A missing-person’s case that had turned into a possible kidnap. The victim was a twenty-two-year-old University of Miami student. Victoria Barletta: brown eyes, black hair, five eight, one hundred and thirty pounds. Disappeared on a rainy March afternoon.

Still unsolved.

“We had our names in the paper,” Gavigan said. “I still got the clipping.”

Stranahan remembered. There was a press conference. Victoria’s parents offered a $10,000 reward. Timmy was there from Homicide, Stranahan from the State Attorney’s Office. Both of them were quoted in the story, which ran on the front pages of the Herald and the Miami News.

Gavigan coughed in a way that startled Mick Stranahan. It sounded like Timmy’s lungs had turned to custard.

“Hand me that cup,” Gavigan said. “Know what? That was the only time we made the papers together.”

“Timmy, we got in the papers all the time.”

“Yeah, but not together.” He slurped down some ginger ale and pointed a pale bony finger at Stranahan. “Not together, bucko, trust me. I save all the clippings for my scrapbook. Don’t you?”

Stranahan said no.

“You wouldn’t.” Gavigan hacked out a laugh.

“S o you think this Mafia guy got it out of the papers?”

“Not the Mafia guy,” Gavigan said, “but the guy who hired him. It’s a good possibility.”

“The Barletta thing was four years ago, Timmy.”

“Hey, I ain’t the only one who keeps scrapbooks.”

He yawned. “Think hard on this, Mick, it’s probably important.”

Stranahan stood up and said, “You get some rest, buddy.”

“I’m glad you took care of that prick who was using my name.”

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do.” Gavigan smiled. “Anyway, I’m glad you took care of him. He had no business lying like that, using my name.”

Stranahan pulled the blanket up to his friend’s neck.

“Good night, Timmy.”

“Be careful, Mick,” the old cop said. “Hey, and when I croak, you save the newspaper clipping, okay? Glue it on the last page of my scrapbook.”

“It’s a promise.”

“Unless it don’t make the papers.”

“It’ll makethedamn papers,” Stranahan said. “Buriedback in the truss ads, where you belong.”

Timmy Gavigan laughed so hard, he had to ring the nurse for oxygen.