Skin Tight

Office: 555-6600Nights and Emergencies: 555-6677

“How nice,” Christina remarked. “She took our money and got a face-lift.”

Stranahan said, “Something’s not right. She ought to be in bed.”

“Maybe she went for brunch at the Four Seasons.”

He shook his head. “These scrips are only two days old, so that’s when she had the surgery. She’s still got to be swollen up like a mango. Would you go out in public looking like that?”

“Depends on how much dope I ate.”

“No,” Stranahan said, scanning the room, “Something’s not right. She ought to be here.”

“What do you want to do?”

Stranahan said they should go downstairs and wait in the lobby; in her condition, Maggie shouldn’t be hard to spot. “But first,” he said, “let’s really go through this place.”

Christina went to the dresser. Under a pile of Maggie’s bras and panties she found three new flowered bikinis, the price tags from the Plaza Shops still attached. Maggie was definitely getting ready for Maui.

“Oh, Miss Marks,” Stranahan sang out. “Lookie here.”

It was a video cassette in a brown plastic sleeve. The sleeve was marked with a sticker from Midtown Studio Productions.

Stranahan tossed Christina the tape. She tossed it back.

“We can’t take that, it’s larceny.”

He said, “It’s not larceny to take something you already own.”

“What do you mean?”

“If this is what I think it is, you’ve paid for it already. The Barletta story, remember?”

“We don’t know that. Could be anything-home movies, maybe.”

Stranahan smiled and stuffed the cassette into his coat. “Only one way to find out.”

“No,” Christina said.

“Look, you got a VCR at your place. Let’s go watch the tape. If I’m wrong, then I’ll bring it back myself.”

“Oh, I see. Just sneak in, put it back where you got it, tidy up the place.”

“Yeah, if I’m wrong. If it turns out to be Jane Fonda or something. But I don’t think so.”

Christina Marks knew better; it was madness, of course. She could lose her job, blow a perfectly good career if they were caught. But, then again, this hadn’t turned out to be the typical Reynaldo Flemm expose. She had damn near gotten machine-gunned over this one, so what the hell.

Grudgingly she said, “Is it Beta or VHS?”

Stranahan gave her a hug.

Then they heard the key in the door.

The two couples said nothing for the first few seconds, just stared. Mick Stranahan and Christina Marks had the most to contemplate: a woman wrapped in tape, and a beanpole assassin with one arm down to his knees.

Maggie Gonzalez was the first to speak: “It’s him.”

“Who?” Chemo asked. He had never seen Stranahan up close, not even at the stilt house.

“Him,” Maggie repeated through the bandages. “What’re you doing in my room?”

“Hello, Maggie,” Stranahan said, “assuming it’s you under there. It’s sure been a long time.”

“And you!” Maggie grunted, pointing at Christina Marks.

“Hi, again,” said Christina. “I thought you’d be in Hawaii by now.”

Chemo said, “I guess everybody’s old pals except me.” He pulled the.38 out of his overcoat. “Nobody move.”

“Another one who watches too much TV,” Stranahan whispered to Christina.

Chemo blinked angrily. “I don’t like you one bit.”

“I assumed as much from the fact you keep trying to kill me.” Stranahan had seen some bizarros in his day, but this one took the cake. He looked like Fred Munster with bulimia. One eye on the gun, Stranahan asked, “Do you have a name?”

“No,” Chemo said.

“Good. Makes for a cheaper tombstone.”

Chemo told Maggie to close the door, but Maggie didn’t move. The sight of the pistol had made her nauseated all over again, and she was desperately trying to keep down her breakfast bagels.

“What’s the matter now?” Chemo snapped.

“She doesn’t look so hot,” Christina said.

“And who the fuck are you, Florence Nightingale?”

“What happened to your arm?” Christina asked him. A cool customer she was; Stranahan admired her poise.

Chemo got the impression that he was losing control, which made no sense, since he was the one with the pistol. “Shut up, all of you,” he said, “while I kill Mr. Stranahan here. Finally.”

At these words, Maggie Gonzalez upchucked gloriously all over Chemo’s gun arm. Given his general translucence, it was impossible to tell if Chemo blanched. He did, however, wobble perceptibly.

Mick Stranahan stepped forward and punched him ferociously in the Adam’s apple. The man went down like a seven-foot Tinkertoy, but did not release his grip on the gun. Maggie backed up and screamed, a primal wail that poured from the hole in her bandage and filled the hallway. Stranahan decided there was no time to finish the job. He pushed Christina Marks through the doorway and told her to go for the elevator. Gagging and spitting blood, Chemo rolled out of his fetal curl and took a wild shot at Christina as she ran down the hall. The bullet twanged impotently off a fire extinguisher and was ultimately stopped by the opulent Plaza wallpaper.

Before Chemo could fire again, Stranahan stomped on his wrist, still slippery from Maggie’s used bagels. Chemo would not let go of the gun. With a growl he swung his refurbished left arm like a fungo bat across his body. It caught Stranahan in the soft crease behind the knee and brought him down. The two men wrestled for the pistol while Maggie howled and clawed chimp-like at her swaddled head.

It was a clumsy fight. Tangled in the killer’s gangliness, Stranahan could not shield himself from a clubbing by Chemo’s oversized left arm. Whatever it was-and it wasn’t a human fist-it hurt like hell. His skull chiming, Stranahan tried to break free.

Suddenly he felt the dull barrel of the.38 against his throat. He flinched when he heard the click, but nothing else followed. No flash, no explosion, no smell. The bullet, Chemo’s second and only remaining round, was a dud. Chemo couldn’t believe it-that asshole in Queens had screwed him royal.

Stranahan squirmed loose, stood up, and saw that they had attracted an audience. All along the corridor, doors were cracked open, some more than others. Under Maggie’s keening he could hear excited voices. Somebody was calling the police.

Stranahan groped at his coat to make sure that the videotape was still in his pocket, kicked Chemo once in the groin (or where he estimated that the giant’s groin might be), then jogged down the hallway.

Christina Marks was considerate enough to hold the elevator.