Skin Tight

7

Of the four plastic surgeons who had worked with Dr. Rudy Graveline at the Durkos Center, only one had remained in Miami after the clinic closed. His name was George Ginger, and Stranahan found him on a tennis court at Turnberry Isle in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Mixed doubles, naturally.

Stranahan watched the pudgy little man wheeze back and forth behind the baseline, and marveled at the atrociousness of his hairpiece. It was one of those synthetic jobs, the kind you’re supposed to be able to wear in the shower. In Dr. George Ginger’s case, the thing on his head looked a lot like a fresh road kill.

Each point in the tennis game became its own little comedy, and Stranahan wondered if this stop was a waste of time, an unconscious stall on his part. By now he knew exactly where to locate Rudy Graveline; the problem was, he didn’t know what to ask him that would produce the truth. It was a long way from Vicky Barletta to Tony the Eel, and Stranahan still hadn’t found the thread, if there was one. One way or another, Dr. Graveline was central to the mystery, and Stranahan didn’t want to spook him. For now, he wanted him safe and contented at Whispering Palms.

S tranahan strolled into the dead lane of the tennis court and said, “Dr. Ginger?”

“ Yo!” said the doctor, huffing.

Stranahan knew about guys who said yo.

“W eneedto talk.”

“Do we now?” said Dr. Ginger, missing an easy backhand. His doubles partner, a lanky, overtanned woman, shot Stranahan a dirty look.

“Just take a minute,” Stranahan said.

Dr. Ginger picked up two of the tennis balls. “Sorry, but I’m on serve.”

“No, you’re not,” Stranahan said. “And besides, that was the set.” He’d been following the match from a gazebo two courts over.

As Dr. Ginger intently bounced one of the balls between his feet, the other players picked up their monogrammed club towels and calfskin racket covers and ambled off the court.

Solemnly George Ginger said, “The tall fellow was my lawyer.”

“Every doctor should have a lawyer,” said Mick Stranahan. “Especially surgeons.”

Ginger jammed the tennis balls into the pockets of his damp white shorts. “What’s this all about?”

“ Rudy Graveline.”

“I’veheard of him.”

This was going to be fun, Stranahan thought. He loved it when they played cool.

“You worked for him at the Durkos Center,” Stranahan said to George Ginger. “Why don’t you be a nice fellow and tell me about it?”

George Ginger motioned Stranahan to follow. He picked a quiet patio table with an umbrella, not far from the pro shop.

“Who are you with?” the doctor inquired in a low voice.

“The board,” Stranahan said. Any board would do; Dr. Ginger wouldn’t press it.

After wiping his forehead for the umpteenth time, the doctor said, “There were four of us-Kelly, Greer, Shulman, and me. Graveline was the managing partner.”

“Business was good?”

“It was getting there.”

“Then why did he close the place?”

“I’m still not certain,” George Ginger said.

“But you heard rumors.”

“Yes, we heard there was a problem with a patient. The sort of problem that might bring in the state.”

“One of Rudy’s patients?”

George Ginger nodded. “A young woman is what we heard.”

“Her name?”

“I don’t know.” The doctor was quite a lousy liar.

“How bad a problem?” Stranahan went on.

“I don’t know that, either. We assumed it was a major fuckup, or else why would Graveline pull out so fast?”

“Didn’t any of you guys bother to ask?”

“Hell, no. I’ve been to court before, buddy, and it’s no damn fun. None of us wanted to get dragged down that road. Anyway, we show up for work one day and the place is empty. Later we get a certified check from Rudy with a note saying he’s sorry for the inconvenience, but good luck with our careers. Before you know it, he’s back in business at Bal Harbour-of all places-with a frigging assembly-line operation. A dozen boob jobs a day.”

Stranahan said, “Why didn’t you call him?”

“What for? Old times’ sake?”

“That certified check, it must’ve been a good one.”

“It was,” Dr. Ginger conceded, “very generous.”

Stranahan picked up the doctor’s graphite tennis racket and plucked idly at the strings. George Ginger eyed him worriedly. “Do you remember the day the police came?” Stranahan asked. “The day a young female patient disappeared from a bus bench in front of the clinic?”

“I was offthat day.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Stranahan studied him through the grid of the racket strings.

“I remember hearing about it,” George Ginger said lamely.

“That happened right before Dr. Graveline split, didn’t it?”

“I think so, yes.”

Stranahan said, “You consider yourself a bright man, Dr. Ginger? Don’t look so insulted, it’s a serious question.” He put the tennis racket down on the patio table.

“I consider myself to be intelligent, yes.”

“Well, then, didn’t you wonder about the timing? A girl gets snatched from in front of your office, and a few weeks later the boss closes up shop. Could that be the fuckup you guys heard about? What do you think?”

Sourly, George Ginger said, “I can’t imagine a connection.” He picked up his tennis racket and, with a touch of pique, zipped it into its carry case.

Stranahan stood up. “Well, the important thing is, you still got your medical license. Now, where can I find the rest of the stooges?”

Dr. Ginger wrapped the towel around his neck, a real jock gesture. “Kelly moved to Michigan. Shulman’s up in Atlanta, working for some HMO. Dr. Greer is deceased, unfortunately.”

“Do tell.”

“Don’t you guys have it in your files? I mean, when a doctor dies?”

“Not in every case,” Stranahan bluffed.

George Ginger said, “It happened maybe six months after Durkos closed. A hunting accident up around Ocala.”

“Who else was there?”

“I really don’t know,” the doctor said with an insipid shrug. “I’m afraid I’m not clear about all the details.”

“Why,” said Mick Stranahan, “am I not surprised?”

The Rudy Graveline system was brilliant in its simplicity: Sting, persuade, operate, then flatter.

On the wall of each waiting room at Whispering Palms hung a creed: vanity is beautiful. Similar maxims were posted in the hallways and examining rooms. what’s wrong with perfection? was one of Rudy’s favorites. Another: to improve one’s self, improve one’s face. This one was framed in the spa, where post-op patients relaxed in the crucial days following their plastic surgery, when they didn’t want to go out in public. Rudy had shrewdly recognized that an after-surgery spa would not only be a tremendous money-maker, it would also provide important positive feedback during recovery. Everyone there had fresh scars and bruises, so no patient was in a position to criticize another’s results.

As best as he could, Reynaldo Flemm made mental notes of Whispering Palms during his tour. He was posing as a male exotic dancer who needed a blemish removed from his right buttock. For the purpose of disguise, Flemm had dyed his hair brown and greased it straight back; that was all he could bear to do to alter his appearance. Secretly, he loved it when people stared because they recognized him from television.

As it happened, the nurse who greeted him at Whispering Palms apparently never watched In Your Face. She treated Flemm as any other prospective patient. After a quick tour of the facilities, she led him to a consultation room, turned off the lights and showed him a videotape about the wonders of cosmetic surgery. Afterwards she turned the lights back on and asked if he had any questions.

“How much will it cost?” Reynaldo Flemm said.

“That depends on the size of the mole.”

“Oh, it’s a big mole,” Reynaldo said. “Like an olive.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to show her the size of his fictional growth.

The nurse said, “May I see it?”

“No!”

“Surely you’re not shy,” she said. “Not in your line of work.”

“I’ll show it to the doctor,” Flemm said. “No one else.”

“Very well, I’ll arrange for an appointment.”

“With Dr. Graveline, please.”

The nurse smiled. “Really, Mr. LeTigre.”

Flemm had come up with the name Johnny LeTigre all by himself. It seemed perfect for a male go-go dancer.

“Dr. Graveline doesn’t do moles,” the nurse said in a chilly tone. “One of our other excellent surgeons can take care of it quite easily.”

“It’s Dr. Graveline or nobody,” Flemm said firmly. “This is my dancing career, my life we’re talking about.”

“I’m sorry, but Dr. Graveline is not available.”

“For ten grand I bet he is.”

The nurse tried not to seem surprised. “I’ll be right back,” she said lightly.

When he was alone, Reynaldo Flemm checked himself in the mirror to see how the disguise was holding up. All he needed was a date and time to see the doctor, then he’d come back with Willie and a camera for the showdown-not out on the street, but inside the clinic. And if Graveline ordered them out, Reynaldo and Willie would be sure to leave through the spa exit, tape rolling. It would be dynamite stuff; even Christina would have to admit it.

The nurse returned and said, “Come with me, Mr. LeTigre.”

“Whereto?”

74 Carl Hiaasen

“Dr. Graveline has agreed to see you.”

“Now?” Flemm squeaked.

“He only has a few minutes.”

A cold prickle of panic accompanied Reynaldo Flemm as he followed the nurse down a long pale-blue hallway. About to meet the target of his investigation and here he was, defenseless-no camera, no tape, no notebooks. He could blow the whole story if he wasn’t careful. The only thing in Flemm’s favor was the fact that he also had no script. He wouldn’t know what to ask even if the opportunity presented itself.

The nurse abandoned him in a spacious office with a grand view of north Biscayne Bay, foamy with whitecaps. Reynaldo Flemm barely had time to snoop the joint over before Dr. Rudy Graveline came in and introduced himself. Reynaldo took a good close look, in case he might later have to point him out to Willie from the TV van: Lean build, medium height, sandy brown hair. Had a golfer’s tan but not much muscle. Overall, not a bad-looking guy.

Rudy Graveline didn’t waste any time. “Let’s see your little problem, Mr. LeTigre.”

“Hold on a minute.”

“It’s onlya mole.”

“To you, maybe,” Reynaldo Flemm said. “Before we go any further, I’d like to ask you some questions.” He paused, then: “Questions about your background.”

Dr. Graveline settled in behind a gleaming onyx desk and folded his hands. “Fire away,” he said amiably.

“What medical school did you go to?”

“Harvard,” Rudy replied.

Reynaldo nodded approvingly.

He asked, “How long have you been in practice?”

“Sixteen years,” Dr. Graveline said.

“Ah,” said Reynaldo Flemm. He couldn’t think of much else to ask, which was fine with Rudy. Sometimes patients wanted to know how high the doctor had placed in his med school class (dead last), or whether he was certified by a national board of plastic and reconstructive surgeons (he was not). In truth, Rudy had barely squeaked through a residency in radiology and had never been trained in plastic surgery. Still, no law prevented him from declaring it to be his speciality; that was the beauty of the medical profession-once you got a degree, you could try whatever you damn well pleased, from brain surgery to gynecology. Hospitals might do some checking, but never the patients. And failing at one or more specialties (as Rudy had), you could always leave town and try something else.

Still stalling, Reynaldo Flemm said, “What’s involved in an operation like this?”

“First we numb the area with a mild anesthetic, then we use a small knife to remove the mole. If you need a couple sutures afterward, we do that, too.”

“W hat about a scar?”

“No scar, I guarantee it,” said Dr. Graveline.

“For ten grand, you’re damn right.”

The doctor said, “I didn’t realize male strippers made that much money.”

“They don’t. It’s inheritance.”

If Flemm had been paying attention, he would have noticed a hungry flicker in Dr. Graveline’s expression.

“Mr. LeTigre, you won’t mind some friendly professional advice?”

“Of course not.”

“Your nose,” Rudy ventured. “I mean, as long as you’re going to all the trouble of surgery.”

“What the hell is wrong with my nose?”

“It’s about two sizes too large for your face. And, to be honest, your tummy could probably come down an inch or three. I can do a liposuction after we excise the mole.”

Reynaldo Flemm said, “Are you kidding? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Rudy said. “This is my specialty. I just thought someone in a job like yours would want to look their very best.”

Flemm was getting furious. “I do look my very best!”

Dr. Graveline put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward.

Gently he said, “With all respect, Mr. LeTigre, we seldom choose to see ourselves the way others do. It’s human nature.”

“I ’ve heard enough,” Reynaldo Flemm snapped.

“If it’s the money, look, I’ll do the mole and the fat suction as a package. Toss in the rhinoplasty for nothing, okay?”

Flemm said, “I don’t need a goddamn rhinoplasty.”

“Please,” said Dr. Graveline, “go home and think about it. Take a good critical look at yourself hi the mirror.”

“Fuck you,” said Reynaldo Flemm, and stormed out of the office.

“It’s no sin to have a big honker,” Rudy Graveline called after him. “Nobody’s born perfect!”

One hour later, as Rudy was fitting a Mentor Model 7000 Gel-Filled Mammary Prosthesis into the left breast of the future Miss Ecuador, he was summoned from the operating suite to take an urgent phone call from New York.

The semi-hysterical voice on the other end belonged to Maggie Gonzalez.

“Take some deep breaths,” Rudy advised.

“No, you listen. I got a message on my machine,” Maggie said. “The phone machine at my house.”

“Who was it from?”

“ Stranahan. That investigator.”

“Really.” Dr. Graveline worked hard at staying calm; he took pride hi his composure. He asked, “What was the message, Maggie?”

“Three words: ‘It won’t work.’ “

Dr. Graveline repeated the message out loud. Maggie sounded like she was bouncing off the walls.

“Don’t come back here for a while,” Rudy said. “I’ll wire you some more money.” He couldn’t think clearly with Maggie hyperventilating into the phone, and he did need to think. It won’t work. Damn, he didn’t like the sound of that. How much did Stranahan know? Was it a bluff? Rudy Graveline wondered if he should call Chemo and tell him to speed things up.

“What are we going to do?” Maggie demanded.

“It’s being done,” the doctor said.

“Good.” Maggie didn’t ask specifically what was being done. Specifically, she didn’t want to know.

After lunch, Mick Stranahan stopped by the VA hospital, but for the second day in a row the nurses told him that Timmy Gavigan was asleep. They said it had been another poor night, that the new medicine was still giving him fevers.

Stranahan was eager to hear what his friend remembered about Dr. Rudy Graveline. Like most good cops, Timmy never forgot an interview; and like most cops, Timmy was the only one who could read his own handwriting. The Barletta file was full of Gavigan-type scribbles.

After leaving the VA, Stranahan drove back to the marina at Key Biscayne. On the skiff out to Stiltsville, he mentally catalogued everything he knew so far.

Vicky Barletta had disappeared, and was probably dead.

Her doctor had closed up shop a few weeks later and bought out his four partners for fifty thousand dollars apiece.

One of those partners, Dr. Kenneth Greer, had never cashed his check-this according to microfiche records at the bank.

Approximately seven months after Rudy Graveline closed the Durkos Center, Dr. Kenneth Greer was shot to death while hunting deer in the Ocala National Forest. The sheriff’s office had ruled it an accident.

The hunter who had somehow mistaken Kenneth Greer for a white-tail buck had given his name as T. B. Luckner of 1333 Carter Boulevard in Decatur, Georgia. If the sheriff in Ocala had troubled himself to check, he would have found that there was no such person and no such address.

The nurse who participated in Victoria Barletta’s surgery had recently gone to New York to sell her story to a TV producer.

Shortly afterwards, a paid killer named Tony the Eel showed up to murder Mick Stranahan. Tony, with a brand-new face.

Then the TV producer arrived in Miami to take Stranahan’s picture for a prime-time special.

All traced to a four-year-old kidnapping that Mick Stranahan had never solved.

As he steered the boat into the Biscayne Channel, angling out of the messy following chop, he gunned the outboard and made a beeline for his stilt house. The tide was up, making it safe to cross the flats.

On the way, he thought about Rudy Graveline. Suppose the doctor had killed Vicky. Stranahan checked himself-make that Victoria, not Vicky. Better yet, just plain Barletta. No sense personalizing.

But suppose the doctor had killed her, and suppose Greer knew, or found out. Greer was the only one who didn’t cash the buyout check-maybe he was holding out for more money, or maybe he was ready to blab to the authorities.

Either way, Dr. Graveline would have had plenty of motive to silence him.

And if, for some reason, Dr. Graveline had been led to believe that Mick Stranahan posed a similar threat, what would stop him from killing again?

Stranahan couldn’t help but marvel at the possibility. Considering all the cons and ex-cons who’d love to see him dead-hoods, dopers, scammers, bikers and stickup artists-it was ironic that the most likely suspect was some rich quack he’d never even met.

The more Stranahan learned about the case, and the more he thought about what he’d learned, the lousier he felt.

His spirits improved somewhat when he spotted his model friend Tina stretched out on the sun deck of the stilt house. He was especially pleased to notice that she was alone.