Skin Tight

25

Mick Stranahan asked Al Garcia to wait in the car while he went to see Kipper Garth. The law office was a chorus of beeping telephones as Stranahan made his way through the labyrinth of modular desks. The secretaries didn’t bother to try to stop him. They could tell he wasn’t a client.

Inside his personal sanctum, Kipper Garth sat in a familiar pose, waiting for an important call. He was tapping a Number 2 pencil and scowling at the speaker box. “I did exactly what you wanted,” he said to Stranahan. “See for yourself.”

The Nordstroms’ malpractice complaint was clipped in a thin brown file on the corner of Kipper Garth’s desk. He had been waiting all day for the moment to show his brother-in-law how well he had done. He handed Stranahan the file and said, “Go ahead, it’s all there.”

Stranahan remained standing while he read the lawsuit. “This is very impressive,” he said, halfway down the second page. “Maybe Katie’s right, maybe you do have some genuine talent.”

Kipper Garth accepted the compliment with a cocky no-sweat shrug. Stranahan resisted the impulse to inquire which bright young paralegal had composed the document, since the author could not possibly be his brother-in-law.

“This really happened?” Stranahan asked. “The man lost an eye to a… “

“Hooter,” Kipper Garth said. “His wife’s hooter, fortunately. Means we can automatically double the pain-and-suffering.”

Stranahan was trying to imagine a jury’s reaction to such a mishap. The case would never get that far, but it was still fun to think about.

“Has Dr. Graveline been served?”

“Not yet,” Kipper Garth reported. “He’s ducked us so far, but that’s fine. We’ve got a guy staking out the medical clinic, he’ll grab him on the way in or out. The lawsuit’s bad enough, but your man will go ape when he finds out we’ve got a depo scheduled already.”

“Excellent,” Stranahan said.

“He’ll get it postponed, of course.”

“It doesn’t matter. The whole idea is to keep the heat on. That’s why I brought this.” Stranahan handed Kipper Garth a page of nine names, neatly typed.

“The witness li st,” Stranahan explained. “I want you to file it with the court as soon as possible.”

Skimming it, Kipper Garth said, “This is highly unusual.”

“How would you know?”

“It is, dammit. Nobody gives up their witnesses so early in the case.”

“You do,” said Mick Stranahan. “As of now.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Heat, Jocko, remember? Send one of the clerks down to the courthouse and put this list in the Nordstrom file. You might even courier a copy over to Graveline’s place, just for laughs.”

Kipper Garth noticed that all but one of the names on the witness list belonged to other doctors-specifically, plastic and reconstructive surgeons: experts who would presumably testify to Rudy Graveline’s shocking incompetence in the post-op treatment of Mrs. Nordstrom’s encapsulated breast implants.

“Not bad,” said Kipper Garth, “but who’s this one?” With a glossy fingernail he tapped the last name on the list.

“That’s a former nurse,” Stranahan said.

“Disgruntled?”

“You might say that.”

“And about what,” said Kipper Garth, “is she prepared to testify?”

“The defendant’s competence,” Stranahan replied, “or lack thereof.”

Kipper Garth stroked a chromium sideburn. “Witness-wise, I think we’re better off sticking with these hotshot surgeons.”

“ Graveline won’t give a shit about them. The nurse’s name is what will get his attention. Trust me.”

With feigned authority, the lawyer remarked that testimony from an embittered ex-employee wouldn’t carry much weight in court.

“We’re not going to court,” Stranahan reminded him. “Not for malpractice, anyway. Maybe for a murder.”

“You’re losing me again,” Kipper Garth admitted.

“Stay lost,” said Stranahan.

George Graveline’s tree-trimming truck was parked off Crandon Boulevard in a lush tropical hammock. Buttonwoods, gumbo limbo, and mahogany trees-plenty of shade for George Graveline’s truck. The county had hired him to rip out the old trees to make space for some tennis courts. Before long a restaurant would spring up next to the tennis courts and, after that, a major resort hotel. The people who would run the restaurant and the hotel would receive the use of the public property for practically nothing, thanks to their pals on the county commission. In return, the commissioners would receive a certain secret percentage of the refreshment concessions. And the voters would have brand-new tennis courts, whether they wanted them or not.

George Graveline’s role in this civic endeavor was small, but he went at it with uncharacteristic zest. In the first two hours he and his men cleared two full acres of virgin woods. Afterwards George Graveline sat down in the truck cab to rest, while his workers tossed the uprooted trees one at a time into the automatic wood chipper.

All at once the noise died away. George Graveline opened his eyes. He could hear his foreman talking to an unfamiliar voice behind the truck. George stuck his head out the window and saw a stocky Cuban guy in a brown suit. The Cuban guy had a thick mustache and a fat unlit cigar in one corner of his mouth.

“What can I do for you?” George Graveline asked.

The Cuban guy reached in his coat and pulled out a gold police badge. As he walked up to the truck, he could see George Graveline’s Adam’s apple sliding up and down.

Al Garcia introduced himself and said he wanted to ask a few questions.

George Graveline said, “You got a warrant?”

The detective smiled. “I don’t need a warrant, chico.”

“You don’t?”

Garcia shook his head. “Nope. Here, take a look at this.” He showed George Graveline the police composite of Blondell Wayne Tatum, the man known as Chemo. “Ever see this bird before?”

“No, sir,” said the tree trimmer, but his expression gave it away. He looked away too quickly from the drawing; anyone else would have stared.

Garcia said, “This is a friend of your brother’s.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No?” Garcia shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Well, that’s good to know. Because this man’s a killer, and I can’t think of one good reason why he’d be hanging out with a famous plastic surgeon.”

George Graveline said, “Me neither.” He turned on the radio and twirled the tuner knob back and forth, pretending to look for his favorite country station. Garcia could sense the guy was about to wet his pants.

The detective said, “I’m not the first homicide man you ever met, am I?”

“Sure. What do you mean?”

“Hell, it was four years ago,” Garcia said. “You probably don’t even remember. It was outside your brother’s office, the place he had before he moved over to the beach.”

With a fat brown finger George Graveline scratched his neck. He scrunched his eyebrows, as if trying to recall.

Garcia said: “Detective’s name was Timmy Gavigan. Skinny Irish guy, red hair, about so big. He stopped to chat with you for a couple minutes.”

“No, I surely don’t remember,” George said, guardedly.

“I’ll tell you exactly when it was-it was right after that college girl disappeared,” Garcia said. “Victoria Barletta was her name. Surely you remember. There must’ve been cops all over the place.”

“Oh yeah.” Slowly it was coming back to George; that’s what he wanted the cop to think.

“She was one of your brother’s patients, the Barletta girl.”

“Right,” said George Graveline, nodding. “I remember how upset Rudolph was.”

“But you don’t remember talking to Detective Gavigan?”

“I talked to lots of people.”

Garcia said, “The reason I mention it, Timmy remembered you.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You know, he never solved that damn case. The Barletta girl, after all these years. And now he’s dead, Timmy is.” Garcia stepped to the rear of the truck. Casually he put one foot on the bumper, near the hitch of the wood chipper. George Graveline opened the door of the truck and leaned out to keep an eye on the Cuban detective.

The two men were alone. George’s workers had wandered off to find a cool place to eat lunch and smoke some weed; it was hard to unwind with a cop hanging around.

Curiously Al Garcia bent over the wood chipper and peered at a decal on the engine mount. The decal was in the cartoon likeness of a friendly raccoon. “Brush Bandit-is that the name of this mother?”

“That’s right,” said George Graveline.

“How does it work exactly?”

George motioned sullenly. “You throw the wood into that hole and it comes out here, in the back of the truck. All grinded up.”

Garcia whistled over his cigar. “Must be some nasty blade.”

“It’s a big one, yessir.”

Garcia took his foot off the truck bumper. He held up the drawing of Chemo one more time. “You see this guy, I want you to call us right away.”

“Surely,” said George Graveline. The detective gave him a business card. The tree trimmer glanced at it, decided it was authentic, slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.

“And warn your brother,” Garcia said. “Just in case the guy shows up.”

“You betcha,” said George Graveline.

Back in the unmarked county car, parked a half-mile down the boulevard at the Key Biscayne fire station, Mick Stranahan said: “So how’d it go?”

“Just like we figured,” Garcia replied. “Nada.”

“What do you think of Timmy’s theory? About how they got ridofthe body?”

“If the doctor really killed her then, yeah, it’s possible. That’s quite a machine brother George has got himself.”

Stranahan said, “Too bad brother George won’t flip.”

Garcia rolled up the windows and turned on the air-conditioning to cool off. He knew what Stranahan was thinking and he was right: Brother George could blow the whole thing wide open. If Maggie were dead or gone, the videotape alone would not be enough for an indictment. They would definitely need George Graveline to talk about Vicky Barletta.

“I’m going for some fresh air,” Stranahan said. “Why don’t you meet me back here in about an hour?”

Garcia said, “Where the hell you off to?”

Stranahan got out of the car. “For a walk, do you mind? Go get some coffee or flan or something.”

“Mick, don’t do anything stupid. It’s too nice a day for being stupid.”

“Hey, it’s a lovely day.” Stranahan slammed the car door and crossed the boulevard at a trot.

“Shit,” Garcia muttered. “Mierda!”

He drove down to the Oasis restaurant and ordered a cup of overpowering Cuban coffee. Then he ordered another.

George Graveline was still alone when Mick Stranahan got there. He was leaning against the truck fender, staring at his logger boots. He looked up at Stranahan, straightened, and said, “You put that damn cop on my ass.”

“Good morning, George,” said Stranahan. “It’s certainly nice to see you again.”

“Fuck you, hear?”

“Are we having a bad day? What is it-cramps?”

George Graveline was one of those big, slow guys who squint when they get angry. He was squinting now. Methodically he clenched and unclenched his fists, as if he were practicing isometrics.

Stranahan said, “George, I’ve still got that problem I told you about last time. Your brother’s still got some goon trying to murder me. I’m really at the end of my rope.”

“Y ougotthat right.”

“My guess,” continued Stranahan, “is that you and Rudy had a brotherly talk after last time. My guess is that you know exactly where I can locate this goony hit man.”

“Screw you,” said George Graveline. He kicked the switch on the wood chipper and the motor growled to life.

Stranahan said, “Aw, what’d you do that for? How’m I supposed to hear you over all that damn racket?”

George Graveline lunged with both arms raised stiff in fury, a Frankenstein monster with Elvis jowls. He was clawing for Stranahan’s neck. Stranahan ducked the grab and punched George Graveline hard under the heart. When the tree trimmer didn’t fall, Stranahan punched him twice in the testicles. This time George went down.

Stranahan placed his right foot on the husky man’s neck and applied the pressure slowly, shifting his weight from heel to toe. By reflex George’s hands were riveted to his swollen scrotum. He was helpless to fight back. He made a noise like a tractor tire going flat.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Stranahan muttered. “Isn’t it possible to have a civilized conversation in this town without somebody trying to kill you?”

It was a rhetorical question but George Graveline couldn’t hear it over the wood chipper, anyway. Stranahan leaned over and shouted: “Where’s the goon?”

George did not answer promptly, so Stranahan added more weight on the Adam’s apple. George was not squinting anymore; both eyes were quite large.

“Where is he?” Stranahan repeated.

When George’s lips started moving, Stranahan let up. The voice that came out of the tree trimmer’s mouth had a fuzzy electronic quality. Stranahan knelt to hear it.

“Works on the beach,” said George Graveline.

“Can we be more specific?”

“A ta club.”

“What club, George? There’s lots of nightclubs on Miami Beach.”

George blinked and said, “Gay Bidet.” Now it was done, he thought. His brother Rudy was a goner.

“Thank you, George,” said Stranahan. He removed his shoe from the tree trimmer’s throat. “This is a good start. I’m very encouraged. Now let’s talk about Vicky Barletta.”

George Graveline lay there with his head in the moist dirt, his groin throbbing. He lay there worrying about his brother the doctor, about what horrible things would happen to him all because of George’s big mouth. Rudy had confided in him, trusted him, and now George had let his brother down. Lying there dejectedly, he decided that no matter how much pain was inflicted upon him, he wasn’t going to tell Mick Stranahan what had happened to that college girl. Rudy had made a mistake, everybody makes mistakes. Why, one time George himself got a work order mixed up and cut down a whole row of fifty-foot royal palms, when it was mangy old Brazilians he was supposed to chop. Still they didn’t put him in jail or anything, just made him pay a fine. Hundred bucks a tree, something like that. Why should a doctor be treated any different? As he reflected upon Rudy’s turbulent medical career, George Graveline removed one of his hands from his swollen scrotum. The free hand happened to settle on a hunk of fresh-cut mahogany concealed by his left leg. The wood was heavy, the bark coarse and dry. George closed his fingers around it. It felt pretty good.

Still kneeling, Mick Stranahan nudged George Graveline’s shoulder and said, “Penny for your thoughts.”

And George hit him square on the back of the skull.

Stranahan didn’t see the blow, and at first he thought he’d been shot. He heard a man shouting and what sounded like an ambulance. The rescue scene played vividly in his imagination. He waited to feel the paramedics’ hands ripping open his shirt. He waited for the cold clap of the stethoscope on his chest, for the sting of the I.V. needle in his arm. He waited for the childlike sensation of being lifted onto the stretcher.

None of this came, yet the sound of the ambulance siren would not go away. In his crashing sleep, Stranahan grew angry. Where were the goddamn EMTs? A man’s been shot here!

Then, blessedly, he felt someone lifting him. Lifting him under the arms, someone strong. It hurt, oh, God, how it hurt, but that was all right-at least they had come. But then he was falling again, falling or dying, he couldn’t be sure. And in his crashing sleep he heard the moan of the siren rise to such a pitch that he wanted to cover his ears and scream for it to stop, please God.

And it did stop.

Somebody shut off the wood chipper.

Stranahan awoke to the odd hollow silence that follows a sharp echo. His eardrums fluttered. The air smelled pungently of cordite. He found himself on his knees, weaving, a drunk waiting for communion. His shirt was damp, his pulse rabbity. He checked himself and saw he was mistaken, he hadn’t been shot. There was no ambulance, either, just the tree truck.

Al Garcia sat on the bumper. His gun was in his right hand, which hung heavily at his side. He was as pale as a flounder.

There was no sign of George Graveline anywhere.

“You all right?” Stranahan asked.

“No,” said the detective.

“W here’s the tree man?”

With the gun Garcia pointed toward the bin of the tree truck, where the wood chipper had spit what bone and jelly was left of George Graveline.

After he had tried to feed Mick Stranahan into the maw.

And Al Garcia had shot him twice in the back.

And the impact of the bullets had slammed him face-forward down the throat of the tree-eating machine.