Skinny Dip

Fifteen

Joey Perrone had planned nothing more sinister than a shopping trip. At Dinner Key she hauled the kayak out of the water and tied it on top of the Suburban. Then she drove to Merrick Park, where she purchased a shoulder bag, a bikini, four pairs of Italian shoes, a canvas ball cap and hilarious Versace sunglasses. She was feeling almost human by the time she stopped at the Andalusia Bakery in search of a Key lime tart.

Then out of nowhere it hit her again, the fact that her husband had very nearly murdered her. If she hadn't known how to dive, she wouldn't be alive to enjoy the sunshine on her bare arms, Norah Jones on the radio, the scent of new purse leather. It had been Chaz's wish for her to end up in the steaming belly of a shark, or nibbled to pieces by crabs and needlefish.

That asshole, thought Joey, and headed straight for the interstate. Fifty minutes later she was removing the spare key from the bird feeder in her backyard. She entered the house through the rear door and turned off the alarm. A heavy chill took hold of her as she prowled through the familiar rooms; there was no trace of her anywhere.

From past incursions Joey was aware that Chaz had removed the obvious reminders-photographs, clothes, CDs. Now, though, even more was missing. Paintings and pencil sketches that she had picked out were gone from the walls. A crystal figurine of a dolphin that she'd given him for Valentine's Day had been taken from the bookcase. Four silver candle holders, a wedding present from her brother, had disappeared from the china cabinet. Her antique jewelry box was nowhere to be found.

Even in the kitchen, Chaz had expunged all traces. Where was the orchid that had hung in the window? Her coffee mug? The copper pot she'd bought for boiling his precious fucking spaghetti? It was as if she had never lived there, never been there, never existed.

Joey took a steak knife from a drawer and stalked to the bedroom with the notion of slashing his new silk sheets, which smelled like they'd been laundered in stale sangria. Chaz, so particular about Joey's perfumes, evidently let his bimbos drench themselves with any maggot-gagging aroma that happened to be on sale.

She raised the knife over her head, but that was as far as it got. This is pathetic, she thought, and not very original. She dropped the knife and flopped down on the bed-her side of the bed. She stared at the popcorn ceiling as she had hundreds of nights before, only now she felt like an intruder.

Which she was.

She had to give Chaz credit. He had thoroughly erased her from the home that had once been theirs. Joey's shoulders started shaking and her knees drew up, and she realized she was sobbing. It made her angry-no, furious-to be crying over a man who wanted her dead.

Just stop it! she told herself. Stop right now.

This isn't about losing Chaz. This is about pride and self-image and all that Dr. Phil crapola. How could my own husband come to hate me so much? What did I ever do to him?

"Nothing."

This Joey stated aloud, between sniffles.

"Not a damn thing."

She sat up, dabbing at her eyes with the top sheet.

"So, to hell with Chaz Perrone."

Joey slipped into the bathroom, wincing at her reflection; the puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. She sat down to pee, and to figure out what to do next. On the vanity was a jumbo bottle of Maalox chewables, the sight of which buoyed her spirits. For Chaz an ulcer would be excellent, she thought; a burning, bleeding ulcer the size of a tortilla.

Normally he didn't return from work until six o'clock, so Joey assumed that the slam of the car door had come from another driveway. When a key began jiggling the front doorknob, she tugged up her jeans, shot out of the bathroom, snatched the steak knife off the carpet and rolled beneath the bed.

Footsteps that seemed heavier than Chaz's plodded through the living room and then up the hall. Joey held her breath, thinking: Damn, I didn't flush. If he notices, it's all over.

She switched the knife to her right hand and tested her grip, the footfalls now approaching the bathroom doorway.

Of all the dumb ways to get caught, Joey thought morosely. The one time I forget to flush.

Life was so much simpler bossing a farm crew. You needed money, all you had to do was steal out of their pay. Most of the time they never said boo, they was so afraid you'd turn their asses over to the INS. Ship 'em back to Haiti or the D.R. or whatever godforsaken hellhole they come from. Adios, motherfuckers, do not pass Go.

The fentanyl had taken care of Tool's pain but not the sense of displacement. He stared at the seeping tooth marks on his knuckles and thought: I hate the city.

Partly it was Red's fault for not fronting him some cash. Tool had forgotten how tough it was to pry a dollar bill out of that rich little peckerwood. If Tool had been carrying even a ten spot, why, the driver of that soda truck wouldn't be on his way to the emergency room with his face stoved in like a rotten pumpkin.

Tool shook his head in exasperation. Hadn't he asked like a gentleman?

Hey, son, how 'bout a case of that Mountain Dew?

The driver had chuckled and said he couldn't sell straight off the truck; said so in a tone that Tool took as rude and belittling. The man hitching his eyebrows and asking, "How much is it worth to you, pops? Maybe I can make an exception."

Him not knowing, obviously, how desperate for refreshment a person under the influence of hospital-grade painkillers could be.

Tool didn't believe in beating around the bush, so he'd let the driver know that he wasn't in a position to pay for the case of Dew, on account of he had no money. Promised the guy he'd catch up with him later, though, next time the minimart was due for a soda delivery.

That got the driver laughing so hard that his head started bobbing up and down like a goddamn parrot, which Tool didn't care for one bit. Out on the farm, nobody laughed at him. Nobody dared to look even slightly happy when he came around.

The truck driver was a younger fella, broad and muscle-bound and full of hisself. Most men would've thought twice about doing what Tool done, but Tool right away marked the guy as a gym pussy. It was the smile that give him away, all those teeth so white and square, like the tiles in the John at the Greyhound depot. The driver, talking down to Tool like he was some sorta retard, Tool studying them shiny perfect teeth and thinking: This fucker's never taken a serious punch his entire life.

Then proceeding to hit the man square in the face, shattering to pieces that movie-star smile and the nose it was hung on. Down went the truck driver, and off walked Tool with a whole pallet of unrefriger-ated Mountain Dew-them two-liter jumbos, which he greatly favored. Driving back to the doctor's house, he guzzled a whole bottle warm, that's how blessed thirsty he was.

Now he stood belching in the hallway, trying to decide whether to take a leak or lie down or maybe call Red and make a pitch for some dough. The guys that bodyguard the president and movie stars and such, they get spendin' money. Tool was sure of it. He went in his room and kicked off his overalls and sat down bare-assed on the bed.

The cell phone that Red had loaned him had the speed-dial function pre-set to call Red's office in LaBelle. Lisbeth said that he was in a meeting, but she promised to pass along the message about Tool needing some cash ASAP.

Tool wiped his bloody hand on the blanket. I don't belong here, he thought. I'm not a city man.

He clicked on the television and there was Oprah, that black lady what had her own show. Tool had heard on Christian radio that Oprah was richer than some of the richest white people on earth, so he decided to tune in for a while and see what all the fuss was about. Damn if Oprah wasn't yakking with three movie actresses about what a hassle it was to be famous and have photographers snooping around, following you to the grocery and the ATM, whatever. Tool didn't feel one tiny bit sorry for her and them other gals, on account of they was rich enough to build twenty-foot walls around their mansions if they wanted. Butlers, bodyguards, the best of everything.

Tool found himself thinking about Maureen, the old lady at Elysian Manor, alone and dying of God knows what kind of rotten cancer. Damn nurses won't even let her out of the sack to take a shower or go to the can. There's somebody would trade places with them actresses in a heartbeat, Tool thought, Maureen would. She'd be smilin' and wavin' at them photographers, she'd be so grateful not to be sick.

He turned off the TV and trudged to the kitchen, where he emptied the refrigerator and started repacking it with Mountain Dew. Before long, the doctor walked in the door and asked Tool what in the name of God Almighty he was doing.

"What's it look like?" Tool said.

"But I'm expecting company!" Charles Perrone pulled a bottle of white wine out of a brown bag.

"It'll fit," said Tool. He held up his throbbing hand. "Hey, take a look here. See if it's infected."

Charles Perrone reacted as if a tarantula had been thrust in his face. Stumbling backward, he said, "I told you, man, I'm not that kind of doctor."

"Then what hell kind are you?" Tool advanced upon him, snatching the bottle of wine.

"I'm a biologist, not an M.D.," Charles Perrone said. "I study water pollution." He grimaced when the goon presented his punctured knuckles for inspection.

Tool said, "Some guy's mouth ran into my fist. Don't it look infected?"

"There's bandages and antibiotic cream in my backpack. I'll get some for you."

" 'Preciate that."

As Tool cleared a space in the freezer compartment for the wine, he wondered why a doctor of water pollution would need a bodyguard.

His voice calmer now, Charles Perrone said, "See, I've got a friend coming over in a little while."

Tool shrugged. "Goodie for you."

"What I meant is, maybe you could put on some clothes."

Tool glanced down at himself. "Actually, I'm pretty damn comfy as is. Mebbe I'll just go to bed."

"Thank you," said the doctor. "Thank you very much."

Chaz went into the bathroom, shut the door and dug the blue pills out of his pocket. His golfing buddy had said it would take about an hour; said to go easy the first time, figure out your tolerance level. Chaz gulped two of the tablets and washed them down with tap water. In the mirror he saw that Tool had pissed in the toilet bowl with the seat down and hadn't bothered to flush.

"Pig," Chaz grumbled. He swathed one hand in tissue and vehemently pressed the lever.

What was that moron doing in here anyway? Chaz wondered. He probably clogged the toilet in the guest bath with all that goddamn oily hair.

After a hurried shower, Chaz phoned Ricca and asked her to come over.

"Have I got a surprise for you," he said.

"I'm not in the mood."

"Oh, come on."

Ricca said, "I don't feel good. I'm going to bed early."

Chaz Perrone wasn't particularly astute at reading women, but he picked up on the fact that Ricca was upset.

"We'll talk when you get here," he said. "I'll make it all better."

"I told you, Chaz. I'm staying home."

"Not tonight. Please? Don't do this to me."

"Call me over the weekend."

"Wait, Ricca-if it's about what happened at lunch? Everything's back to normal, honey, that's what I'm trying to tell you. Bigger and better than ever, I promise-"

"You're not listening," she said curtly. "I'm whipped. I've had a shitty day, and now I'm saying good night."

The line went dead. Chaz Perrone cursed and slouched on the bed. It was for Ricca that he'd purchased the blue pills. He had wanted to demonstrate to her (and, admittedly, himself) that his problem was temporary and easily surmountable.

Now there was movement inside his underwear; slow but deliberate, the way an awakening snake uncoils. Anticipating the mother of all erections, Chaz despaired at the prospect of having no one with whom to share it. The clock was ticking inexorably toward readiness, but the possibilities for a partner were woefully limited. Unlike some of his friends, Chaz had no female fuck buddies to call upon in times of sudden need. The women with whom he had sex typically stopped associating with him as soon as the seedy core of his character came to light, usually within two or three months of the first assignation. Consequently, the names in Chaz's little black book fell into two categories:

former girlfriends who detested him, and current girlfriends who would eventually detest him.

With Ricca mysteriously out of commission for the night, Chaz's only backup was a dippy New Age reflexologist who went by the name of Medea. He'd met her during a round of golf at Boca North, where she offered massages at a juice bar between the ninth green and the tenth tee. Chaz had slept with Medea only three times, with mixed reviews. While she was avid enough as a lover (and as lithe as a howler monkey), she owned several annoying habits, including a proclivity to hum during intercourse. Her favorite tune was called "Tribal Dream," which Medea claimed had been written secretly for her by a man named Yanni. Another unendearing trait was the ritualistic lathering of her unclothed self (and, by contact, Chaz) with warm patchouli oil, the minty stink of which clung to the skin as obstinately as gum turpentine. No less distracting was her flamboyant taste in fashion. Chaz shuddered, recalling the night that her earrings (which could have doubled as hang gliders) first snagged and then painfully uprooted a tuft of his chest hair.

Finally, there was her goofball devotion to reflexology, which she insisted on practicing upon him before every sexual encounter; brutishly wrenching his limbs and fingers, clumsily corkscrewing his neck. For days afterward, Chaz would gulp Advils like popcorn.

That was Medea. She couldn't have sounded any happier to receive his phone call.

When she arrived at the house, Chaz was waiting at the door with the bottle of wine and a world-class boner.

Joey's memories of her family had lost detail over time, but in her mind she carried an indelible image of her parents arm in arm and smiling. That was how they appeared in most of the photographs she had saved-a close, contented couple. She remembered constant laughter in the house; her mother, in particular, found abundant humor in everyday life. Such an outlook must have been useful for operating a casino, a factory of human folly.

Now Joey imagined Hank and Lana Wheeler looking down from heaven and whimsically wondering if their only daughter had gone off the deep end. There was no denying the comedy of her predicament-

hiding under the bed while her husband was trying to line up a hot date.

"Have I got a surprise for you," Chaz was saying into the phone.

Apparently the unflushed toilet had not alerted him to the presence of a hostile intruder. Joey watched his pale, blue-veined feet pace the carpet. How easy it would be to reach out with the steak knife and spear one of those plump, hairless toes.

"Oh, come on," Chaz urged, in a tone well familiar to his unseen spouse. "We'll talk when you get here. I'll make it all better."

Joey studying her husband's toenails, hoping that some exotic swamp rot from the Everglades was pullulating invisibly beneath them.

"Not tonight. Please?" Chaz, turning it on. "Don't do this to me."

Ha! thought Joey. She's blowing him off.

"Wait, Ricca-if it's about what happened at lunch? Everything's back to normal, honey, that's what I'm trying to tell you. Bigger and better than ever, I promise-"

Now Joey had a name to attach to the presence at the other end of the line. Ricca. It rang a bell. Wasn't that the name of his hairstylist? Mrs. Charles Perrone idly flexed her fingers around the wooden handle of the steak knife.

"Shit," Chaz muttered, Ricca evidently having hung up on him. The box spring squeaked as he sat down heavily on the bed.

Sulking, Joey surmised. She eyed his bony pink ankles with their faint circumscribed tan lines. One bare heel displayed a nasty blister, the result of an ill-fitting golf shoe. The blister looked raw and quite painful, Joey thought, absently testing the point of the blade against her thumbnail.

There had been an earlier opening to make a break, a ten-minute window of opportunity when Chaz was in the shower and his male houseguest-the one with the elephant footsteps-had clomped into the guest room. For an instant Joey had considered slipping away; crawling from beneath the bed and darting out the back door. That would have been the wise move, and she'd seriously thought about it. But, then, when would she get another chance to observe her cheating, murderous husband at play?

She heard a sequence of beeps on the telephone keypad; Chaz punching in a new number.

"Medea?" he said.

Joey thinking: Oh, this ought to be rich.

"What're you doing tonight, hon?" he asked. "Wanna come over and listen to some music? Yeah… my place."

My place? Joey felt her jaws start to grind. She observed that Chaz was unconsciously tapping his feet; the bastard, feeling cocky again.

"Here's the address," he was saying. "Got a pencil?"

Joey listened intently as he dressed and groomed. She knew the whole sound track of his routine: the brisk uncapping of his stick deodorant, the soft rotary whine of the nose-hair clippers, the rhythmic plucking of floss through molars, the plangent yodel of his gargling.

Realizing what lay ahead, Joey should have felt trapped, if not panicky, for she truly had no desire to hear her husband heaving and snorting on top of another woman. Yet she remained strangely calm and anticipatory. Wouldn't it be the ideal occasion on which to return her wedding band, which she'd been carrying around like a bad penny since Mick Stranahan had rescued her? The timing of such a symbolic gesture would be critical, as Joey hoped for the ultimate effect upon Chaz Perrone and his visitor.

Whose name, it turned out, actually was Medea.

Joey heard her husband open the front door, a bit of cordial chatter in the living room, the pop of a cork. Then came the music-Celtic folk ballads, of all things, irrefutable proof of Chaz's wanton desperation.

It took him less than fifteen minutes to draw Medea to the bedroom. Scented candles and sticks of incense were lit, Joey forced to swallow a sneeze. As Medea fluttered about, preparing the love chamber, Joey appraised what little she could see-a gold ankle bracelet with a turquoise charm; a rudimentary tattoo of a rose; toenails glossed lavender; feet well tanned, though not dainty.

"I brought something," Medea said to Chaz, and within moments their clothes began hitting the floor in separate piles. Joey stole a peek at the tag in the peasant-style dress (size 10) and wondered if the woman was as tall as she was.

When Chaz dropped his pants, Medea said, "Well, hello there!"

"I told you we missed you." Chaz, insufferably pleased with himself.

"Here." Medea, patting the bed. "Let me give you a rub."

"That's okay. I'm plenty relaxed enough."

"Now, don't argue. Momma knows best."

Joey covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

"But I'm already ready," Chaz said impatiently.

"And you'll still be ready when we're done flexing," Medea told him, "and I'll be ready, too. Now be a good little soldier and lie down while I warm up the oil."

"Honey, please. These sheets are a hundred percent silk."

"Oh hush."

As Chaz stretched out, the springs of the bed emitted sparrow-like peeps. Nervously Joey wondered how much Medea weighed; her calves hadn't looked chubby, but that was no guarantee. And what about that large stranger in the house? Joey hadn't been able to hear what he and Chaz were discussing earlier in the kitchen, but she couldn't rule out the possibility that her husband was acting upon his long-cherished fantasy of arranging a threesome.

What a pitiful irony, Joey thought, if the bed collapsed and I was crushed to death by an orgy.

"Wow," she heard Medea say.

"Yeah," Chaz agreed proudly.

"Is that normal?"

"Tell me you're not complaining."

"No, it's just…" Medea began, sounding hesitant. "I don't remember it being quite so-"

"Happy."

"Yeah, boy."

Chaz must be in hog heaven, Joey thought. He could chat about his penis all night long.

Joey cringed as Medea climbed on the bed, but there was no seismic aftermath. The conversation abated for a minute or two, then suddenly Chaz yipped in pain. "Geez, you're killing me!"

"Why so tense?" Medea, in the sedated tone of a yoga instructor. "Tell me what's the trouble, sweetheart."

"It feels like you're trying to unscrew my feet. Can't we just skip this part?"

"Not our limbering-up exercises. No, baby."

Joey regretted that her supine alignment afforded no view of the mirror on the bedroom wall.

"There's only one part of me that needs exercising," Chaz was saying, "or else it's gonna explode."

"Okay, okay. Chill out."

Communications between Chaz and Medea became less verbal, and soon the commotion above Joey attained a familiar martial rhythm. Whatever jealousy or revulsion she might have felt soon was displaced by concern for her own safety. As Chaz's exertions grew more forceful, Joey braced her palms and knees against the cross slats of the bed frame. From experience she expected this part of the proceeding to last between ten and twenty minutes, depending on how much wine her husband had consumed. Joey shut her eyes and tried not to visualize what was taking place an arm's length away. Her plan required clearheaded calculation. She intended to wait until Chaz was on the verge of climax before making her surprise entrance, the cue being a low lupine growl that always preceded his seminal moment.

A melody, gaseous and discordant, rose from the bed and wafted through the room-Medea was humming, with Chaz's grimly delivered grunts providing the percussion. Was it some sort of weird tantric mantra, Joey wondered, or merely an off-key rendering of an intrinsically awful song?

Suddenly she heard her husband gasp. "Christ, why can't I feel anything?"

Medea interrupted her humming. "Huh?"

"I said I can't feel a damn thing!" Chaz, panting furiously.

"Don't you dare stop now. Come on, sweetheart."

The bed springs creaked dolorously as he pulled away. Joey couldn't imagine what might be wrong-once her husband got going, nothing short of a thermonuclear event would prevent him from finishing.

"I'm numb," he said.

"Aw, it's just fine. Come on," Medea implored.

"Fine for you maybe."

"Here, sweetheart, let me help-"

"No! Don't!"

"For heaven's sakes." Serene Medea was beginning to sound annoyed.

Joey heard a muted thump and found herself staring at Chaz's bare legs; he'd taken the radical step of vacating the bed.

"What perfume is that?" he demanded of Medea.

"I'm not wearing any. It's the oil, or maybe the huckleberry candles."

"It's not a goddamn candle. I smell perfume," Chaz declared. "The exact same stuff my wife used to wear."

A glacial silence, then: "Your wife?"

"Late wife," Chaz amended hastily.

"How come you never mentioned you were married?"

Joey found herself rooting for Medea. Tell her the truth, you coward.

"It's a very painful memory," he said.

"When did she pass away, Chaz?"

A different sort of silence followed, as uncomfortable as the first. Joey longed to see his expression.

He said, "I'd rather not get into it. Too depressing."

"Obviously not that depressing," Medea remarked caustically. "I see you're still ready for action."

"Yeah, well, he's got a mind of his own."

Medea sounded unamused. "Like I said, I don't wear perfume. Whatever you're smelling is in your imagination."

It's Chanel, Joey almost whispered.

Before leaving the island, she had innocently dabbed a fleck behind each ear. It was significant that Chaz had sniffed out her scent amid the putridly sweet fumes from Medea's traveling head shop.

"Look, I gotta go," Medea said abruptly.

"No, let's try again."

"I'm not liking the vibes here, Chaz."

"Wait a sec. Now hold on. Please?"

The despair in Chaz's tone was genuine. Hearing him get shut out was almost as good as a wedding-ring ambush, which Joey decided to postpone out of sympathy for Medea.

Who was now out of bed, briskly gathering up her candles and oils.

"You can't go. You can't," Chaz was saying. "Just look at me!"

"Very impressive. You should get it bronzed."

"You want to take a bath? We could try it in the bath." He blocked her into a corner, his toes nearly touching hers.

"Chaz, I said no."

"Hey, come on. Don't be like this."

Joey heard a guttural exclamation that elongated into a slow plea-sureless moan.

"Stop!" Chaz blurted finally.

"You sure don't listen very good," Medea said.

"You're-really-hurting-me!"

"In reflexology school they gave us special exercises to make our hands strong. Can you tell?"

"Oh my God," said Chaz.

"I bet I could snap it like a bread stick."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my wife. I'm sorry for everything."

"Now, don't get all mushy on me," Medea said.

"You gotta stop. Those fingernails…"

"They've gotten long, haven't they?"

"I'm begging you. I'm begging,'" Chaz said.

Joey was enjoying herself. She liked the girl's style.

"I'll let go now," Medea was saying, "but if you so much as wiggle that thing in my direction before I get out the door, I'll damage you so badly that you'll never have a sexual experience again. Not even with yourself. Understand?"

"Yes. Ouch! Yes!"

They dressed wordlessly. Joey could envision the dazed, whipped-puppy look in her husband's eyes; she had seen it herself, that time she'd decked him for calling her a crude name.

"Well, good-bye," Medea said, poised at the doorway. Joey noticed that she was wearing hemp flip-flops.

"Sorry about tonight. Honestly," Chaz said. "Can I call you again?"

"Are you fucking serious?"

It was then the floor quaked beneath Joey, as if a refrigerator had been dropped from the roof. A wail of inhuman duration swelled up from elsewhere in the house.

"Oh Christ," Chaz said weakly. "What now?"

Medea was already running by the time Chaz found whatever he was fumbling for in the drawer of the nightstand. Joey Perrone waited to hear him jog down the hall before she scooted from beneath the bed and peeked around the corner. The steak knife felt flimsy and ridiculous in her hand, but she didn't dare put it down.

The shades were drawn on all but one of the bedroom windows.

Mick Stranahan looked inside the house and was discouraged by what he saw: a prodigiously heavyset man, stark naked and swilling from a jumbo bottle of Mountain Dew. Initially, Stranahan thought the man was wearing a tatty sweater, but on closer scrutiny it appeared to be an astounding cultivation of upper body hair. The man sat alone, watching country-music videos on television; no sign of Charles Perrone, the frizzy-haired woman or Joey. Stranahan ducked below the window and pondered his bleak options. A confrontation with the mountainous stranger seemed unavoidable if Stranahan intended to search the house.

Joey had left the spare key inserted in the back door, so Stranahan simply turned the knob and walked in. Cautiously he moved through the empty kitchen, heading toward the darkened hallway. He paused to listen by the guest room, then stepped inside.

The ape man squinted up at him in bafflement, runnels of lime-green soda streaming down his jowls.

Stranahan turned off the television. "I need to look around the house," he whispered. "Are you going to give me any trouble?"

"What a dumbass question. You bet I am."

Muffled pounding and a creepy, disharmonious mewl came from the direction of Chaz's bedroom.

"Are you a friend of Mr. Perrone?" Stranahan asked the hairy stranger.

"I'm his bodyguard. And I been waitin' days for this."

The man got up and trailed Stranahan out of the room.

"Where do you think you're goin'?" he demanded. "What the hell're you lookin' for?"

Stranahan turned and said, "Friend of mine. A lady friend."

The man scratched thoughtfully at his crotch.

"Go ahead and knock me on my ass," Stranahan told him. "I'll probably holler like a baby, but at least it'll spook everybody out where I can see who's who."

The man said, "You nuts, or what?"

"It's not much of a plan," Stranahan conceded, "but it was the best I could do on short notice."

The goon seized him by the collar and began moving toward the back door. Stranahan used the man's own momentum to steer him into a corner, then drove an elbow into his Adam's apple. The man didn't pitch over right away, so Stranahan followed with a right hook to the base of the neck, throwing all his weight into the punch. The man toppled, swiping blindly as he fell. The house shuddered to its beams.

Stranahan ducked outside, circled to the front and crouched behind the Hummer in the driveway. Inside, the bodyguard erupted with a hellish howl as he regained respiratory function. The frizzy-haired woman was the first to bolt, her flip-flops spanking on the walkway as she galloped for her car. Stranahan waited two full minutes after she was gone. When no one else emerged, he retraced his path to the kitchen window. There he saw Chaz Perrone, standing naked in a posture of helplessness over the prone, flopping figure of the ape man. In profile a pistol was visible in Chaz's right hand; beneath that, a jutting manifestation of sexual readiness.

Stranahan heard the nearby slam of a heavy door and, moments later, an automotive ignition. His pulse was pounding as he hurdled a hedge of ixoras and ran toward the road. The Suburban was moving away slowly, lights off. Stranahan waved his arms as he ran after it, thinking: Surely she'll be checking the rearview, after what just happened. Any sane person would worry about being chased.

Finally, at the far end of the block, the brake lights flashed and the passenger door swung open. Mick Stranahan jumped inside and motioned for Joey to hit the accelerator.

Ten miles later, when he finished lecturing her about taking crazy chances, she said, "Nice haircut, sport."

"Hey, at least I don't smell like a Dumpster at Woodstock."

Joey smiled mischievously. "That's not what Chaz thought."