Skin Tight

24

The Aquasport wedged itself deep in the mangroves on Totten Key. The engine was dead, but the prop was still twirling when Mick Stranahan got there. Barefoot, he monkeyed through the slick rubbery branches until he could see over the side of the battered boat. In his right hand he held Luis Cordova’s.38.

He didn’t need it. Detective John Murdock wasn’t dead, but he would be soon. He lay motionless on the deck, his knees drawn up in pain. Blackish blood oozed from his nose. Only one eye was open, rhythmically illuminated by the strobing blue police light. Cracked but still flashing, the light dangled from a nest of loose wires on the console. It looked like a fancy electric Christmas ornament.

Stranahan felt his stomach shrink to a knot. He put the pistol in his jeans and swung his legs over the gunwale. “John?”

Murdock’s eye blinked, and he grunted weakly.

Stranahan said, “Try to take it easy.” Like the guy had a choice. “One quick question, I’ve got to ask. You fellows were going to kill me, weren’t you?”

“Damn right,” rasped the dying detective.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I can’t believe you’re still sore about Judge Goomer.”

Murdock managed a bloody grin and said, “You dumb fuck-wad.”

Stranahan leaned forward and brushed a horsefly off Murdock’s forehead. “But if it wasn’t revenge for the judge, then why pull something like this?” Silence gave him the answer. “Don’t tell me somebody paid you.”

Murdock nodded, or tried. His neck wasn’t working so well; it looked about twice as long as it was supposed to be.

Stranahan said, “You took money for this? From who?”

“Eat me,” Murdock replied.

“It was probably the doctor,” Stranahan speculated. “Or a go-between. That would make more sense.”

Murdock’s reply came out as a dank rattle. Mick Stranahan sighed. Queasiness at the sight of Murdock had given way to emotional exhaustion.

“John, it’s some kind of city, isn’t it? All I wanted out here was some peace and solitude. I was through with all this crap.”

Murdock gave a hateful moan, but Stranahan needed to talk. “Here I’m minding my own business, feeding the fish, not bothering a soul, when some guy shows up to murder me. At my very own house, John, in the middle of the bay! All because some goddamn doctor thinks I’m going to break open a case that’s so old it’s mildewed.”

The dying Murdock seemed hypnotized by the flashing blue light. It was ticking much faster than his own heart. One of the detective’s hands began to crawl like an addled blue crab, tracking circles on the blood-slickened deck.

Stranahan said, “I know it hurts, John, but there’s nothing I can do.”

In a slack voice Murdock said, “Fuck you, shithead.” Then his eye closed for the last time.

Mick Stranahan and Christina Marks were waiting when Luis Cordova pulled up to the dock at nine sharp the next morning.

“Where to?” he asked Stranahan.

“I’d like to go back to my house, Luis.”

“Not me,” said Christina Marks. “Take me to Key Biscayne. The marina is fine.”

Stranahan said, “I guess that means you still don’t want to marry me.”

“Not in a million years,” Christina said. “Not in your wildest dreams.”

Stranahan turned to Luis Cordova. “She didn’t get much sleep. The accommodations were a bit too… rustic.”

“I understand,” said the marine patrolman. “But, otherwise, a quiet night?”

“Fairly quiet,” Stranahan said.

The morning was sunny and cool. The bay had a light washboard ripple that made the patrol boat seem to fly. As they passed the Ragged Keys, Stranahan nudged Luis Cordova and pointed to the white-blue sky. “Choppers!” he shouted overthe engine noise. Christina Marks saw them, too: three Coast Guard rescue helicopters, chugging south at a thousand feet.

Without glancing from the wheel, Luis Cordova said, “There’s a boat overdue from Crandon. Two cops.”

“No shit?”

“They found a body this morning floating off Broad Creek. Homicide man named Salazar.”

“W hat happened?”

“Drowned,” yelled Luis Cordova. “Who knows how.”

Christina Marks listened to the two men going back and forth. She wasn’t sure how much Luis Cordova knew, but it was more than Stranahan would ever tell her. She felt angry and insulted and left out.

When they arrived at the stilt house, Stranahan took out the Smith.38 and returned it to Luis. The marine patrolman was relieved to see that it had not been fired.

Stranahan hoisted two of the duffel bags and hopped off the patrol boat.

From the dock he said, “Take care, Chris.” He wanted to say more, but it was the wrong time. She was still fuming about last night, furious because he wouldn’t tell her what had happened. She had kicked the coconut head off the scarecrow, that’s how mad she had gotten. It was at that moment he’d asked her to marry him. Her reply had been succinct, to say the least.

Now she turned away coldly and said to Luis Cordova: “Can we get going, please.”

Stranahan waved them off and trudged up the steps to inspect the looted house. The first thing he saw on the floor was the big marlin head; the tape on the fractured bill had been torn off in the fall. Stranahan stepped over the stuffed fish and went to the bedroom to check for the shotgun. It was still wedged up in the box spring where he had hidden it.

The.whole place was a mess all right, depressing but not irreparable. Stranahan was glad, in a way, to have such a large chore ahead of him. Take his mind off Murdock and Salazar and Old Rhodes Key. And Christina Marks, too.

She was the first woman he had loved who had ever said no to marriage. It was quite a feeling.

Luis Cordova came back to the stilt house as Mick Stranahan was finishing lunch. There was a burly new passenger on the boat: Sergeant Al Garcia.

Stranahan greeted them at the door and said, “Two Cubans with guns is never good news.”

Luis Cordova said, “Al is working the dead cops.”

“Cops plural?” Stranahan’s eyebrows arched.

Garcia sat down heavily on one of the barstools. “Yeah, we found Johnny Murdock inside the boat. The boat was up in a frigging tree.”

“Where?” Stranahan asked impassively.

“Not far from where you and your lady friend went camping last night.” Garcia patted his pockets and cursed. He was out of cigars. He took out a pack of Camels and lit one halfheartedly. He glanced up at the beakless marlin hanging from a new nail on the wall.

Luis Cordova said, “I told Al about how I gave you a lift down to the island after your house got trashed.”

Stranahan wasn’t upset. If asked, Luis would tell the truth about what he saw, what he knew for a fact. Most likely he had already told Garcia about loaning the two detectives a map of the bay. Nothing strange about that.

“You hear anything funny last night?” Al Garcia asked. “By the way, where’s the girl?”

“I don’t know,” Stranahan said.

“What about last night?”

“A boat went by about eleven. Maybe a little later. Sounded like an outboard. What the hell happened, Al-somebody do these guys?”

Garcia was puffing hard on the cigarette, and blowing circles of smoke, like he did with his stogies. “Way it looks,” he said, “they were going wide open. Missed the channel completely.”

“You said the boat was in a tree.”

“That’s how fast the bozos were going. Way it looks, Salazar got thrown, hit his head. He drowned right away but the tide tookhim south.”

“Broad Creek,” Luis Cordova said. “A mullet man found the body.”

Garcia went on: “Murdock stayed in the boat, but it didn’t save him. We’re talking major head trauma. The medical examiner thinks a mangrove branch or something snapped his neck. Same with Salazar. Figures it happened when they hit the trees.”

“W ide open?”

Luis Cordova said, “The throttle was all the way down. You got to be nuts to run that creek wide open at night.”

“Or amazingly stupid,” Stranahan said. “Let me guess who they were looking for.”

Garcia nodded. “You’re on some roll, Mick. A regular archangel of death, you are. First your ex, now Murdock and Salazar. I’m noticing that bad things happen to people who fuck with you. Seems to be a pattern going way back.”

Stranahan said, “I can’t help it these jerks don’t know how to drive a boat.”

Luis Cordova said, “It was an accident, that’s all.”

“I just find it interesting,” said Al Garcia. “Maybe the word is ironic, I don’t know. Anyway, you’re right, Mick. The two boys were coming to pay you a visit. They kept it real quiet around the shop, too. I can only guess why.” He reached in his jacket and took out a soggy white piece of paper. The paper was folded three times, pamphlet sized.

Garcia showed it to Stranahan. “We found this in Salazar’s back pocket.”

Stranahan knew what it was. He’d seen a thousand just like it. The word warrant was still legible in the standard judicial calligraphy. As he handed it back to Garcia, Stranahan wondered whether he was about to be arrested.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Garbage,” Garcia replied. He crumpled the sodden document in his right hand and lobbed it out a window into the water.

Stranahan smiled. “You liked the videotape.”

“Obviously,” said the detective.

At the Holiday Inn where they got a room, Maggie Gonzalez was going through the yellow pages column by column, telling Chemo which plastic surgeons were good enough to finish the dermabrasion treatments on his face; some of the names were new to her, but others she remembered from her nursing days. Chemo was stooped in front of the bathroom mirror, picking laconically at the patches left on his chin by Dr. Rudy Graveline.

Out of the side of his mouth, Chemo said, “Fucker’s not returning my calls.”

“It’s early,” Maggie said. “Rudy sleeps late on his day off.”

“I want to see some cash. Today.”

“Don’t worry.”

“The sooner I get the money, the sooner I can take care of this.” Meaning his skin. In the mirror, Chemo could see Maggie’s expression-at least, as much of it as the bandages revealed-and something that resembled genuine sympathy in her eyes. Not pity, sympathy.

She was the first woman who had ever looked at him that way. Certainly she seemed sincere about helping him find a new plastic surgeon. Chemo thought: She’s either a truly devoted nurse or a sneaky little actress.

Maggie ripped a page of physicians from the phone book and said offhandedly, “How much are we hitting him for?”

“A million dollars,” Chemo said. His sluglike lips quivered into a smile. “You said he’s loaded.”

“Yeah, he’s also cheap.”

“A minute ago you said don’t worry.”

“Oh, he’ll pay. Rudy’s cheap, but he’s also a coward. All I’m saying is, he’ll try to play coy at first. That’s his style.”

“Coy?” Chemo thought: What in the fuck is she talking about? “I wouldn’t know about coy,” he said. “I got a Weed Whacker strapped to my arm.”

Maggie said, “Hey, I’m on your side. I’m just telling you, he can be stubborn when he wants.”

“You know what I think? I think you’re in this for more than the money. I think you want to see a show.”

Maggie’s brown eyes narrowed above the gauze. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Chemo said, “I think you’d enjoy it if the boys got nasty with each other. I think you’ve got your heart set on blood.”

He was beaming as if he had just discovered the secret of the universe.

Dr. Rudy Graveline stared at the vaulted ceiling and contemplated his pitiable existence. Chemo had turned blackmailer. Maggie Gonzalez, the bitch, was still alive. So was Mick Stranahan. And somewhere out there a television crew was lurking, waiting to grill him about Victoria Barletta.

Aside from that, life was peachy.

When the phone rang, Rudy pulled the bedsheet up to his chin. He had a feeling it was more bad news.

“Answer it.” Heather Chappell’s muffled command came from beneath a pillow. “Answer the damn thing.”

Rudy reached out from the covers and seized the receiver fiercely, as if it were the neck of a cobra. The grim gassy voice on the other end of the line belonged to Commissioner Roberto Pepsical.

“You see the news on TV?”

“No,” Rudy said. “But I got the paper here somewhere.”

“There’s a story about two policemen who died.”

“Yeah, so?”

“In a boat accident,” Roberto said.

“Cut to the punch line, Bobby.”

“Those were the guys.”

“What guys?” asked Rudy. Next to him, Heather mumbled irritably and wrapped the pillow tightly around her ears.

“The guys I told you about. My guys.”

“Shit, “said Rudy.

Heather looked up raggedly and said: “Do you mind? I’m trying to sleep.”

Rudy told Roberto that he would call him right back from another phone. He put on a robe and hurried down the hall to his den, where he shut the door. Numbly he dialed Roberta’s private number, the one reserved for bagmen and lobbyists.

“Let me make sure I understand,” Rudy said. “You were using police officers as hit men?”

“They promised it would be a cinch.”

“And now they’re dead.” Rudy was well beyond the normal threshold of surprise. He had become conditioned to expect the worst. He said, “What about the money-can I get it back?”

Roberto Pepsical couldn’t believe the nerve of this cheapskate. “No, you can’t get it back. I paid them. They’re dead. You want the money back, go ask their widows.” The commissioner’s tone had become impatient and firm. It made Rudy nervous; the fat pig should have been apologizing all over himself.

Rudy said, “All right, then, can you get somebody else to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Do Stranahan. The offer’s still open.”

Roberto laughed scornfully on the other end; Rudy was baffled by this change of attitude.

“Listen to me,” the commissioner said. “The deal’s off, forever. Two dead cops is major trouble, Doctor, and you just better hope nobody finds out what they were up to.”

Rudy Graveline wanted to drop the subject and crawl back to bed. “Fine, Bobby,” he said. “From now on, we never even met. Good-bye.”

“Not so fast.”

Oh brother, Rudy thought, here we go.

Roberto said, “I talked to The Others. They still want the original twenty-five.”

“That’s absurd. Cypress Towers is history, Bobby. I’m through with it. Tell your pals they get zippo.”

“But you got your zoning.”

“I don’t needthedamn zoning,” Rudy protested. “They can have it back, understand? Peddle it to some other dupe.”

Roberta’s voice carried no trace of understanding, no patience for a compromise. “Twenty-five was the price of each vote. You agreed. Now The Others want their money.”

“Don’t you ever get sick of being an errand boy?”

“It’s my money, too,” Roberto said soberly. “But yeah, I do get sick of being an errand boy. I get sick a dealing with cheap scuzzbuckets like you. When it comes to paying up, doctors are the fucking worst.”

“Hey,” Rudy said, “it doesn’t grow on trees.”

“A deal is a deal.”

In a way, Roberto was glad that Dr. Graveline was being such a prick. It felt good to be the one to drop the hammer for a change. He said, “You got two business days to cover me and TheOthers.”

“What?” Rudy bleated.

“Two days, I‘m calling my banker in the Caymans and having him read me the balance in my account. If it’s not heavier by twenty-five, you’re toast.”

Rudy thought: This can’t be the same man, not the way he’s talking to me.

Roberto Pepsical went on, detached, businesslike: “Me and The Others got this idea that we-meaning the county-should start certifying all private clinics. Have our own testing, license hearings, bi-monthly inspections, that sort of thing. It’s our feeling that the general public needs to be protected.”

“Protected?” Rudy said feebly.

“From quacks and such. Don’t you agree?”

Rudy thought: The whole world has turned upside down.

“Most clinics won’t have anything to worry about,” Roberto said brightly, “once they’re brought up to county standards.”

“Bobby, you’re a bastard.”

After Rudy Graveline slammed down the phone, his hand was shaking. It wouldn’t stop.

At the breakfast table, Heather stared at Rudy’s trembling fingers and said, “I sure don’t like the looks of that.”

“Muscle spasms,” he said. “It’ll go away.”

“My surgery is tomorrow,” Heather said.

“I’m aware of that, darling.”

They had spent the better part of the morning discussing breast implants. Heather had collected testimonials from all her Hollywood actress friends who ever had boob jobs. Some of them favored the Porex line of soft silicone implants, others liked the McGhan Biocell 100, and still others swore by the Replicon. Heather herself was leaning toward the Silastic II Teardrop model, because they came with a five-year written warranty.

“Maybe I better check with my agent,” she said.

“Why?” Rudy asked peevishly.

“This is my body we’re talking about. My career.”

“All right,” Rudy said. “Call your agent. What do I know? I’m just the surgeon.” He took the newspaper to the bathroom and sat down on the John. Ten minutes later, Heather knocked lightly on the door.

“It’s too early on the coast,” she said. “Melody’s not in the office.”

“Thanks for the bulletin.”

“But a man called for you.”

Rudy folded the newspaper across his lap and braced his chin in his hands. “Who was it, Heather?”

“He didn’t give his name. Just said he was a patient.”

“That certainly narrows it down.”

“He said he came up with a number. I think he was talking about money.”

Crazy Chemo. It had to be. “What did you tell him?” Rudy asked through the door.

“I told him you were unavailable at the moment. He didn’t sound like he believed me.”

“Gee, I can’t imagine,” said Rudy.

“He said he’ll come by the clinic later.”

“Splendid.” He could hear her breathing at the door. “Heather, is there something else?”

“Yes, there was a man out front. A process server from the courthouse.”

Rudy felt himself pucker at both ends.

Heather said, “He rang the bell about a dozen times, but I wouldn’t open the door. Finally he went away.”

“Good girl,” Rudy said. He sprang off the toilet, elated. He flung open the bathroom door, carried Heather into the shower, and turned on the water, steamy hot. Then he got down on his bare knees and began kissing her silky, perfect thighs.

“This is our last day,” she said in a whisper, “before the operation.”

Rudy stopped kissing and looked up, the shower stream hitting him squarely in the nostrils. Through the droplets he could see the woman of his dreams squeezing her perfect breasts in her perfect hands. With a playful laugh, she said, “Say so long to these little guys.”

God, Rudy thought, what am I doing? The irony was wicked.

All the rich geezers and chunky bimbos he had conned into plastic surgery, patients with no chance of transforming their looks or improving their lives-now he finds one with a body and face that are absolutely flawless, perfect, classic, and she’s begging for the knife.

A crime against nature, Rudy thought; and he, the instrument of that crime.

He stood up and made reckless love to Heather right there in the shower. She braced one foot on the bath faucet, the other on the soap dish, but Rudy was too lost in his own locomotions to appreciate the artistry of her balance.

The faster he went, the easier it was to concentrate. His mind emptied of Chemo and Roberta and Stranahan and Maggie. Before long Rudy Graveline was able to focus without distraction on his immediate crisis: the blond angel under the shower, and what she had planned for the next day.

Before long, an idea came to Rudy. It came to him with such brilliant ferocity that he mistook it for an orgasm.

Heather Chappell didn’t particularly care what it was, as long as it was over. The hot water had run out, and she was freezing the orbs of her perfect bottom against the clammy bathroom tiles.