Skinny Dip

Nineteen

Stranahan was already on the water when the Grand Marquis rolled up at the marina. The caveman got out slowly while Chaz Perrone practically ejected himself from the passenger side, slapping frenetically at his face and neck. They walked back and forth along the slips, eventually choosing an unoccupied houseboat and prying the door. The caveman ducked inside while Chaz hopped back on the dock, stumbling over a coiled rope. After a while he began to pace in and out of the shadows, still flailing at the bugs. At midnight Stranahan called out his name and Chaz dropped into a ludicrous semi-crouch that he must have picked up from a Jackie Chan movie.

Stranahan waved. "Over here, numbnuts!"

Chaz approached tentatively, continuing to affect the coiled pose of a kung fu master. He seemed alarmed to see his blackmailer sitting in a small canoe.

"Hop in," Stranahan said as he nosed up to the boat ramp.

"No way."

"This was your idea, Chazzie."

"The meeting, not the place," Chaz said, "and not the damn canoe."

Stranahan laid the paddle across his lap and gave Chaz some time to size him up. Then he said, "If you want to hear the deal, park your ass in the bow."

Chaz glanced uneasily toward the slip where the houseboat was moored.

Stranahan said, "That's another thing. I told you to leave your pal with Dr. Leakey."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're such a dolt. I should triple my price."

Chaz stepped gingerly into the canoe. "Where do I sit?"

"You don't sit," Stranahan said. "You kneel."

With long, even strokes he began paddling down the Buttonwood Canal toward Whitewater Bay.

"Can I borrow the bug spray?" Chaz anxiously pointed to a Cutter's squirt bottle in the bottom of the canoe. Stranahan tossed it to him.

"Where we going?" Chaz, spritzing himself.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, as long as you don't tip us over."

"Don't worry, I'm not moving a muscle." Chaz put down the bottle and got a death grip on the sides of the canoe.

"Moccasin Pass. That's where we're headed," Stranahan said. To his knowledge, there was no such place. However, the ominous name produced the desired effect.

"Holy shit," he heard Chaz Perrone murmur.

"Supposedly it's got the biggest water moccasins in the 'glades," Stranahan went on, drawing a defeated groan. In person, Joey's husband was pretty much what Stranahan had expected-soft and whiny under pressure.

"You've also got your crocodiles and sharks, mister," Stranahan said, switching momentarily to his Jerry Lewis voice, "which is why I strongly recommend against flipping the canoe."

Chaz fell silent. When they reached Whitewater, Stranahan stopped paddling and instructed Chaz to turn around, which he did with the utmost care. When Stranahan aimed a flashlight in his face, he flinched and looked away.

Stranahan said, "You're sulking, aren't you? You think I'm having fun at your expense."

To taunt such a pismire was almost unsporting, but it diverted Stranahan from a nagging but barbarous impulse to beat the man into hamburger hash. Perhaps the day for such uncivilized festivities would come, but for now he'd settle for the sight of Charles Perrone's ears turning black with mosquitoes. It had been Joey's fine idea to replace the insect repellent with tap water.

"How'd you get into my house?" Chaz asked.

"Trade secret."

"Are you the one who cut up that picture of my wife and put it under my pillow?"

"No, that would be the picture fairy."

"Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me?" Chaz whacking at both sides of his head.

"Money, for starters."

"There's more?" Chaz hacked out a sour laugh.

"Plus I'd like you to answer a few simple questions. That's it."

"What questions? You're shaking me down over something I didn't even do."

"Fine. Then don't pay me a penny," Stranahan said. "We'll let a jury decide-my word against yours. By the way, have you ever been to scenic Raiford, Florida, home of the Union Correctional prison?"

Chaz swore and slapped himself again on the head.

"Nice shot." Stranahan turned off the flashlight. "I guess the only way to prove I'm not bullshitting is to tell you exactly what happened on the Sun Duchess. Listen carefully."

"I am," Chaz said with a grunt.

"It was a week ago tonight," Stranahan began. "You and your wife came on deck shortly before eleven and walked toward the stern. Nobody was outside because it was raining. Oh, I almost forgot: You were wearing a dark blue blazer and charcoal slacks. Mrs. Perrone had on a cream-colored skirt, white sandals and, I believe, a gold watch on her wrist."

Joey had also told Stranahan the color of her blouse, but he'd forgotten. He flicked on the flashlight and saw that Chaz looked drained and unsteady.

"You want me to keep going?"

"Suit yourself," Chaz croaked.

"So the two of you were standing alongside the rail, Mrs. Perrone just staring out to sea, when you pulled a really clever move," Stranahan said. "You took something from your pocket and dropped it. A coin, a key, something that made a sharp noise. Then you pretended like you were bending down to pick it up-remember?"

From the bow of the canoe, nothing.

"But instead you grabbed your wife by the legs and flipped her overboard. It happened so fast, she didn't have time to fight back. You still with me?"

When Stranahan zapped Joey's husband again with the flashlight, his eyes were wide and glassy. Stranahan had seen similar expressions in the studio of an amateur taxidermist.

"You look like you're coming down with something," he said. "Did you ever get vaccinated against that icky Nile virus?"

Chaz coughed violently. "There's a vaccine?"

If it had been almost anyone else, Stranahan might have felt sorry for the wretched fool.

"Why'd you do it, Chaz?"

"I didn't."

"You're calling me a liar? Ouch."

Chaz said, "Just tell me how much you want."

"Half a million bucks."

"Man, you're fucking crazy."

"Cash," the blackmailer said. "Hundreds are fine."

A light breeze had sprung up from the southeast, nudging the small canoe farther into the vast black bay. The mild rocking motion that Stranahan found so calming seemed to have the opposite effect on Joey Perrone's husband.

He said, "Where'm I supposed to come up with five hundred grand?"

"Hey, Chaz, I've got an idea." Stranahan thinking: It's like shooting fish in a barrel. "You could ask your pal Hammernut!"

No flashlight was required to gauge Dr. Charles Perrone's reaction. The raucous whoop of his vomiting incited a lusty reply from a male heron wading the shoreline a quarter of a mile away.

Mick and Chaz had been gone only twenty minutes when Joey made up her mind to leave the motel room. She put on a baggy cotton jersey and tucked her hair under her Marlins cap and walked down to the docks. In the parking lot she spotted a big black sedan that looked like the one parked in front of Chaz's house the night before. Leaning against the car was a tall, wide man wearing dark overalls over a fuzzy shirt. When Joey got closer, she saw that the shirt was actually a coat of dense body hair.

The man spotted her and said, "Come here, boy." Joey positioned herself beneath one of the light stanchions, in the hope he would see that she wasn't a threat.

The man said, "You deaf, or what? I said to come here."

"You're the bodyguard, aren't you?" Joey asked.

He swatted her with the back of his hand and she went down. With a twist of her jersey he yanked her up off the pavement and dropped her on the trunk of the sedan.

"You ain't no damn boy," he said. "You's a girl."

Joey fumbled to pull down her jersey, which had bunched up around her bra. She faintly tasted blood.

"Hey, don't get freaked. I'm here with the blackmailer."

"No shit?" the man said curiously.

"He's my boyfriend."

The man seemed to want to think about that. Joey let him.

Then he grabbed the back of her neck and said, "I could kill ya right now. Feed ya to the goddamn gators and by dawn there wouldn't be nuthin' left, not even bones."

He was squeezing so hard that Joey feared she would pass out. The man was strong enough to pinch off her head with his fingers.

"And killing me," she said, "would accomplish… what exactly?"

After a moment's contemplation, he let go. "Yeah. It's your boyfriend is the problem."

Joey rubbed her neck. "I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, but if anything happens to him, the cops will be getting a package containing all kinds of interesting tidbits about your client."

"Client?"

"The guy you're guarding. Charles Perrone," Joey said. "Can I ask your name?"

"They call me Tool."

"I'm Anastasia." Ever since she was a little girl, she'd wanted to call herself that. It sounded so much more feminine and elegant than Joey.

The man named Tool said, "Your boyfriend, what's he want from the doc?"

Joey said she didn't know. "I'm just the lookout. He handles the business end."

The man turned halfway and looked toward the boat ramp. "Where's that canal go to?"

"Beats me. Whatcha got stuck on your back?"

"Nuthin'."

Joey stepped forward and placed a hand on each arm. She had never in her life seen so much hair on a human being. "You turn around," she said. "Come on, Mr. Tool."

Pulling him into the pale circle of light, she noticed that irregular swaths had been crudely shaved across his shoulder blades. Several tan patches had been attached in no particular configuration.

"They's medicine stick-ems," Tool explained.

"For what?"

"Ellin' pain."

"Uh-oh. You're sick?" Joey asked.

"I got me a bullet in a real bad spot."

A truck pulled into the parking lot; a cab pickup with blue police lights mounted on the cab.

"That's a park ranger," Joey whispered.

They watched the truck make a slow pass through the marina area. When it was gone, Tool said, "Where's that damn canoe? This is takin' way too long."

"Well, the two boys have lots to talk about."

Tool patted the front pockets of his overalls. "Damn," he said. "My cell phone. Be right back."

He stomped down the docks and disappeared inside a dark houseboat. When he returned, he was swearing at the portable phone in his hand.

"I can't get no signal down here," he complained.

"Who're you calling?" Joey asked.

"None a your bidness."

"Who's paying you, anyway? Not Chaz Perrone, I know."

Tool snatched the front of her jersey and yanked her face close to his. "Stop with the goddamn questions, y'hear?"

His breath smelled oniony and a sickly damp heat rose from his skin. "I don't feel right," he said.

"Maybe it's the medicine. How about I grab you a Coke?"

"How 'bout if you shut up?"

"Okeydoke," Joey said.

Tool sat on the fender of the car, which sagged under his heft. For ten minutes he poked angrily at the keypad of his cell phone while Joey leaned against a piling and watched a school of electric-blue baitfish race in and out of the shadows. She thought of the little canoe somewhere out in the darkness and wondered if Mick was sticking to the script, or if he'd blown a fuse and done something unforgettable to her husband.

"Fuck it. I give up," Tool said at last, shoving the phone into his pocket.

"May I speak now?" Joey asked archly.

"Sing and dance if you want."

"You ever been married?"

"Yeah. Common-law," said Tool. "Six years. No, seven."

"What happened?"

"She went home to Valdosta for a funeral and never come back. I heard later she run off with the boy from the undertaker's."

Joey said, "Did you know that Mr. Perrone pushed his wife off an ocean liner?"

"I figgered it must be somethin' like that."

"Could you imagine ever doing that to somebody?"

"All depends," Tool said. "I hurt my share a people, but never no women unless they lit after me first. Maybe she started it, his old lady. Maybe the guy was self-defendin' hisself."

"Does he ever talk about her?"

"Not hardly. When I ast him, he said she was pretty and smart and all. But he didn't say what happened, only that she's dead. The rest ain't none a my bidness."

"He didn't tell you why he did it?"

"You don't lissen worth a damn, know that?" Tool hoisted himself off the fender, as if he were going to grab her again.

She took a step backward. Pretty and smart and all. That's what Chaz was saying about her now that she was gone. "I wonder if he loved her," she said quietly.

It made Tool laugh. "You say 'love'?"

"The whole thing bothers me, I can't help it." Joey sensed that Tool was telling the truth about how little he knew.

"What I seen," he said, "the man loves hisself more'n anything on this earth. He sure ain't one to cry and mope around and such."

Wait until Chaz hears what Mick Stranahan has to say, Joey thought, then you'll see some moping.

She said, "You think he did it, too. I can tell you do."

"Makes no difference in my pay either way."

"Your line of work, you can probably look once in somebody's eyes and know right off if they're lying. Mr. Perrone didn't fool you for a second, I bet."

Tool seemed immune to female flattery, a rare trait among men, in Joey's experience. She tried a different approach.

"How long have you been a bodyguard?"

"This here's my first crack at it."

"No wonder you're jumpy," Joey said. "Don't worry, Chaz will get back safe and sound, as long as he doesn't do anything stupid."

"He's capable," said Tool. "What I'm trying to figger out is how your boyfriend fits into the program, how he come to-whatchacallit?- mastermine the blackmail."

"He was in the right place at the right time. That's all."

"Is he the same one broke into my man's house last night? 'Cause he got some payback due if it is. Middle-aged guy? Real tan? Looked sorta like him in the canoe, but I couldn't see so good from that houseboat. Damn windows all grimed up with salt."

"He's the one," Joey said. Tool would find out anyway as soon as Mick returned with Chaz.

"He's old enough to be your pa, ain't he?"

"Not hardly," she said defensively.

"Well, he's a strong sumbitch, I'll give him that. He hurt me good." Tool probed thoughtfully at his Adam's apple.

"He gets around all right for a geezer," Joey agreed. "Say, what was your wife's name?"

"Jean. Jeannie Suzanne is what we calk her."

"You miss her?" Joey asked.

"Not no more. Time heals is what they say."

"Do you think Mr. Perrone misses his wife?"

Tool said, "You tell me. He took all her pitchers down-every pitcher in the house, gone."

"But he told you she was pretty."

"That's what he said, but she coulda been a hog snapper for all I know." Tool shrugged. "I don't get paid to figger this shit out."

Joey said, "I've got to be going now. Thanks for the chat."

Tool seemed disappointed. "You can't hang around for when they come back?"

She shook her head. "Better not. I've got my orders."

"Me, too," Tool said with wearv frustration.

It was by far the worst night of Charles Perrone's life.

"You done?" the blackmailer asked.

Chaz wiped off his lips and spit hard over the side, trying to purge the pukey taste from his mouth. He had no clue how the man had found out about Red Hammernut. It was the second piece of disastrous news that Chaz received in the canoe, the first being that the blackmailer had in fact witnessed Joey's murder.

"You're surprised that I've done my homework," the man said. "So was Ricca."

He knows about Ricca, too? Chaz thought miserably. What a nightmare.

He boxed at his head, trying to vanquish the unbearable chorus of mosquitoes. The damn things seemed to have drilled through his eardrums into the meat of his brain. Other disturbing sounds rose from the darkness of the bay; loud violent splashes, piercing cries of birds.

This is hell, Chaz told himself. That's where I am.

"Your buddy Hammernut owns some serious farmland south of the big lake," the man said. "I'm guessing you fake the water tests to make it look clean. Saves him a fortune, too. How much is he paying you? Besides the new Hummer, I mean."

Chaz turned away, anticipating another blast from the flashlight. "You don't know what you're talking about," he insisted hoarsely.

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm talking about. So do you."

Chaz couldn't make out the blackmailer's expression, but the white crescent of a smile was visible.

"And here's another bulletin for you, Chazzie boy: Karl Rolvaag isn't in on this deal. I've never met the guy in my life, and you'd better pray that I don't."

Chaz fought back a fresh impulse to gag. He lowered his head and waited for the sensation to pass.

"What about the fake will?" he mumbled to his kneecaps.

"What will?" the man said.

"Oh Jesus."

"If you barf in this canoe, you're swimming home."

Chaz said, "I'll be all right. Just give me a minute."

It dawned on him that he wouldn't even know which way to swim. The sky had cleared but the glittering constellations offered no navigational guidance, Dr. Charles Perrone being as ignorant of astronomy as he was of the terrestrial sciences.

"Whose will?" the blackmailer asked again. "Your wife's?"

"Never mind."

So, it -was real, Chaz thought, the document that Rolvaag had shown him. Thirteen million dollars with my name on it, and all I've got to do is avoid Death Row.

"Let's say I scrape up the money," he said.

"Yes, let's say." The blackmailer laughed. "Bring it in a suitcase. Now for the questions."

"Oh, come on," Chaz said.

"I've only got two. First, why did you marry her?"

Swell, thought Chaz. I'm being shaken down by Montel Williams.

"Because I really liked her," he said impatiently. "She was fun and good-looking and sharp. I thought I was ready to settle down."

Without warning, the blackmailer clobbered him with the paddle, the flat side landing squarely on the crown of Chaz's head. He saw it coming even in the dimness, an arcing downward blur. On impact he let out a moan and pitched forward. The canoe rocked but did not flip.

"All you wanted," the man said, "was a hot girl on your arm, Chazzie. A girl your buddies would notice and talk about-the female equivalent of a new Rolex. You weren't getting married, you were accessorizing."

Chaz slowly pushed himself up from the bottom of the canoe and repositioned on his knees. He touched his scalp and felt a rising knot. Meanwhile the blackmailer had resumed paddling, as if nothing had happened. He looked tan and solidly built, but he was so much older that Chaz had been completely surprised by the sudden blow. It was the sort of thing a young hothead might do.

"And the fact she was rich didn't hurt, did it?" the man said.

"I never asked for a dime," Chaz protested.

"Which leads to my second question: Why'd you throw her into the ocean?"

Chaz swallowed in a way that sounded like a dying bullfrog. He had no intention of admitting the crime.

"I guess you want to spend the night out here," the blackmailer said, "alone."

"Anything happens to me, you don't get paid."

The man's laughter made Chaz shudder. "Try to understand, junior, it's not just the money. I'm pissed."

"But you didn't even know her!"

"Funny, though, I feel like I do." Calmly the man swung the paddle out of the water and batted Chaz in the face; not hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough to crimp his nose.

"Goddamn!" Chaz cried, a warm trickle running down his fingers.

The blackmailer said, "As you can tell, I'm taking this whole thing very personally. Tell me why you did it and I'll row you back to the docks."

"I just can't."

"Chazzie, you know that I know exactly what happened. All I'm asking you is why."

The guy had a point. He already knew everything, and Chaz wasn't keen on getting smacked again.

"What if you're wearing a wire?" Chaz was pinching his nostrils, trying to stanch the bleeding. Now he sounded like a cartoon duck.

Again the blackmailer's grin gleamed in the starlight. "You're priceless," he said, peeling off his T-shirt. Then he held the flashlight at arm's length and aimed it back toward his bare chest, which was quickly darkening with mosquitoes.

"See? No hidden microphones," he said to Chaz. "Feel better now?'

"I guess."

"Then answer the question, please."

"I thought Joey had busted me," Chaz heard himself say. "I thought she'd figured out the water scam."

"And for that you heaved her overboard? In the middle of the fucking Gulf Stream?"

"You don't understand," Chaz said. "If she ever blew the whistle on me and Mr. Hammernut… you can't possibly understand the implications. The thing is, I was out of options. If only she…"

"What, Chaz?"

If only she'd given me a reason not to do it, Chaz thought. Like showing me the new will.

"Never mind," he said.

The blackmailer began paddling with more purpose, and Chaz marveled at how briskly they were gliding across the water. Being averse to exercise, he'd never been a fan of canoes; a ski boat powered by a two-hundred-horse Mercury was Chaz's idea of a dream ride.

"How's the shnoz?" the blackmailer asked him.

"It hurts." Chaz's nose had swollen to the size of a bell pepper.

Soon they came to the long canal through which they'd entered the bay, and Chaz was immensely relieved. The blackmailer was taking him back to Flamingo.

Suddenly the man stopped rowing and leaned back. Chaz could see the shine of his sweat and hear the ravenous buzz of insects on his face and chest. "Want some bug spray?" Chaz asked.

The man chuckled. "No thanks." He extended the paddle to Chaz and said, "Your turn, killer."

"What?"

"Yeah, I'm whipped."

Chaz took the paddle and examined it as if it were an intricately engineered device.

"Please don't tell me you've never rowed a canoe," the blackmailer said.

"Of course I have."

Chaz tried to remember the last time-way back in grad school, on some scummy lake in North Carolina. He and another student were helping a professor trace the dissolution of muskrat feces in bottom sediment. Chaz had ended the day with oozing blisters on the palms of both hands. He couldn't swing a golf club for a month.

"Hurry up, Chazzie, we're drifting back to Whitewater."

"Sorry, but I'm not up for this. My head's killing me."

"You'll be fine."

"But I'm still bleeding, for God's sake."

"Did you ever see Deliverance?" the blackmailer said. "Remember what happened to the chubby guy?"

Chaz Perrone started paddling.