Skinny Dip

Twenty-one

Joey was baking in the sun, stretched out on the seawall, when she saw the glint of an airplane high overhead. It made her think of her parents and she had to smile, picturing that doped-up circus bear in the copilot's seat of the doomed Gulfstream. Hank and Lana Wheeler had lived and died with a flair that Joey envied. In that spirit she removed the top of her bikini and tossed it on the dock. It landed on the nose of Mick's Doberman, who awoke with a curious snort.

From out on the water came a rowdy hooray, followed by the sound of clapping. Joey spun around and blushed-two men were motoring slowly past the island in a dark green flats skiff, no more than fifty yards from the shore. The men were in their late twenties or early thirties and wore loose-fitting pastel fishing shirts of the style found in high-end outdoor catalogs. Strom shot to attention, shook free of the bikini top and began to bark. When Joey covered her breasts with her arms, the fishermen booed. She lay down and closed her eyes, hoping they would go away. She had come to cherish the solitude of the island, and to appreciate Mick's antipathy for uninvited visitors.

Strom was clattering up and down the dock in a slobbering rage that would have deterred most sensible persons, but the glimpse of a half-naked woman had obliterated what scant common sense was possessed by the young men in the green skiff. Joey could tell by the engine noise that they were edging closer.

Idiots, she thought.

Even in the middle of Biscayne Bay there was no avoiding this distinctly male brand of bad behavior. A sea breeze delivered their randy chuckles and lewd low-toned commentary, one of the men offering a favorable critique of her legs while the other speculated hopefully on the presence of a tattoo. In vain Joey prayed that their frat-house blather would be drowned out by Strom's manic barking. Yet when she looked up again, the boat was no more than sixty or seventy feet from the seawall.

"Hey, babe," one of the men said. "Let's see those tits again."

Joey could easily imagine Chaz in that skiff, making the same smurking, cloddish approach to a total stranger. Calmly she got up and walked to the shed where Mick stowed his fishing tackle. He'd been teaching her how to cast a spinning rod, and it seemed like a good opportunity to practice her accuracy. Distracted by a second sighting of her breasts, the two fishermen failed to take note as Joey tied the large plastic minnow to the line-a hefty deep-sea plug bristling with multiple sets of treble hooks.

Strom circled deliriously as Joey advanced, weapon in hand, to the end of the dock. The young man in the bow of the skiff was emitting a gargling sound, presumably in appreciation of Joey's physique, as she drew back the spinning rod. His gaze never left her chest, so he didn't see the fishing lure arcing brightly through the noonday sky. Joey wasn't sure if she snagged his shirt or the flesh of his neck, but in any case she jerked hard enough to spill the howling imbecile into the water.

She had reeled him halfway to shore when Strom, surrendering to ancient instincts, sprung off the dock and lustily attached himself to the thrashing angler's thigh. His companion bellowed in alarm but gave no thought to heroics; instead, he jammed the skiff's throttle into reverse and backed smartly away from the island.

The tumult was still in evidence when Mick Stranahan arrived a few minutes later in the Whaler with Rose, Joey's worldly friend from the book group. Strom released his grip on the fisherman and paddled somewhat ineffectively toward Mick, who with Rose's assistance hauled the slippery dog into the boat. Making no move to unhook the swimmer, Stranahan bit through the fishing line and instructed the driver of the skiff to come fetch his dumbass partner. The cucumber-sized lure remained attached like a garish brooch to the floundering man's shirt. Joey also spotted a ragged hole in his cargo shorts-Strom's zestful contribution-as the man clambered over the gunwale of the skiff, which immediately departed at top speed.

The wild scene seemed surreal to Rose, who hopped off the Whaler, hugged Joey ferociously and exclaimed, "You're the hottest-looking dead person I ever saw!"

Joey noticed that Rose had bleached her shoulder-length hair to a hue of blond that would have impressed the Gabor sisters. She wore a pullover, black tights and white high-top sneakers-on her way to the gym, no doubt, when Mick had intercepted her.

He pointed toward the receding speck that was the green skiff, heading for the mainland. "Those jackasses give you a hard time?"

"They tried," Joey said, "but Strom and I taught 'em some manners."

Mick pulled her close, kissed her neck and whispered: "Better put your top on. You're getting fried."

While Rose and Joey caught up, Mick set the picnic table and fixed a lunch of conch chowder, grapefruit salad, sardine sandwiches and sangria. It was a coolish day and they took their time, Rose frequently interrupting Joey's story to rail against Chaz Perrone.

"That sonofabitch," she said for at least the fifth time. "I still can't believe he pushed you overboard!"

Joey said, "And I can't believe I didn't break my neck."

"You still haven't gone to the cops?"

"This way is better. This way I'm getting answers."

"Speaking of which," Rose said, rummaging through her handbag, "I think I found what you wanted at the library."

She produced a folded stack of Xeroxed newspaper clippings. Stranahan grinned as he read the first headline aloud: LOCAL FARM CITED AS GLADES POLLUTER.

"Surprise, surprise," Joey said.

Rose noisily attacked a carrot stick. "So, tell me. Who is this Samuel Hammernut, and what's he got to do with your husband?" "He owns him," Mick interjected, "or so it appears." Joey told Rose about the water-testing that Chaz did in the Everglades, and about the new Humvee purchased for him by Hammernut Farms. Rose gave her a consoling hug and said, "No offense, sweetie, but I always knew that man was a whore. So, what's next?" "My brother's flying into Lauderdale on Monday." Rose looked intrigued. "The one from Australia, who nobody's ever seen?"

"New Zealand," said Joey. "You and Corbett are the only ones who know I'm still alive. Besides Mick, I mean."

"Who, by the way, wouldn't even tell me how you two met."

Joey gave Mick the "Are you kidding me?" frown. "He saved my life is all," she said to Rose. "He's the one who pulled me out of the ocean."

Rose reached for the pitcher of sangria. "That is so incredibly romantic. He actually saved you? Like from drowning?"

"Sharks, too," Mick added dryly. "And giant mutant octopi."

Joey pinched his earlobe. She was glad that he'd cooled off since last night at Flamingo. He had been furious to hear that she'd left the motel room to chat with Chaz's bodyguard.

Rose said, "I assume that your brother's coming here to kick Chaz Perrone's cowardly ass."

"He'd love to, but no," said Joey. "He's arranging a memorial service for me at some church in Boca. There'll be a notice in the papers."

Rose looked at Stranahan and then back at Joey. "You guys are bad."

"Not compared to Chaz," Mick said.

Rose set down her glass and rubbed her hands together. "So, tell me. What can I do to help?"

Joey said, "You can come to the service."

"Of course."

"And hit on my husband."

Rose thought about it for a beat or two. "Do I have to sleep with him?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Joey said.

Charles Regis Perrone had a bounty of experience dealing with aggrieved women, and for Ricca he pulled out all the stops. Twelve dozen long-stemmed roses, Godiva chocolates, a magnum of Dom- all were delivered to her apartment that Saturday afternoon. Still, she wouldn't pick up the telephone. Her adamantine refusal to make contact was exasperating but also arousing; a tough, take-charge side of Ricca that Chaz had never seen. He was confident that once she agreed to meet with him, he could win her back with his dependable arsenal of stage charm, counterfeit sincerity and unforgettable sex. As he rang her doorbell for the third time, Chaz checked his pockets for the potent blue pills that would, if all else failed, endow the ultimate persuasion. "Go away," Ricca said from the other side of the door.

"Sweetheart, please."

"Fuck you, Chaz."

"Honey, this isn't fair."

When Chaz heard the click of the dead bolt, his spirits soared. The door opened and Ricca said, "What the hell happened to you?"

"Mosquitoes."

"Your ears look like rotten guavas."

"Gee, thanks. Can I come in?"

"You've got five minutes."

Chaz stepped inside. He tried to hold her but she pulled away.

"Where are all the roses?" he asked.

"Dumpster," Ricca said.

Chaz winced, thinking of the bill from the florist.

"The champagne, I poured down the toilet," she added.

"I see. And the chocolates?"

"Oh, those I'm keeping," Ricca said, "except for the nougats. You've got four minutes left."

She was standing against the door, one hand poised on the knob. She wore rumpled sweats and no makeup, and she looked exhausted.

"What's going on? Why won't you see me?" Chaz asked.

"Because you killed your wife."

"Who told you that?"

"A guy who saw the whole thing."

Chaz felt the blood draining out of his skull. He backed against a chair and sat down.

Ricca said, "He saw you push Joey overboard. Told me exactly how you did it."

"And you believe him?" Chaz's voice fluttered like Slim Whitman's.

"How you grabbed her by the ankles and flipped her backward over the side," she said. "God, I haven't slept in two nights."

"The guy's shaking me down is all. He heard about Joey on the news and-"

"This is a first for me, Chaz. Dating a wife-killer."

"Hold on. You're taking the word of some stranger, some dirtbag scammer-"

"You told that detective I was your cleaning lady." There was frost in Ricca's voice. "The cleaning lady?"

Chaz cursed to himself. He remembered Rolvaag bracing him about the phone call from the lobby of the Marriott. The cop didn't even have his notebook open at the time, so Chaz hadn't given it a thought. The sneaky bastard must have total recall.

"Rolvaag came to see you?"

Ricca nodded heavily. "Asking all kinds of questions,."

Chaz tasted bile and swallowed hard. "Well, what was I supposed to tell him, Ricca-that I was calling my girlfriend? The guy's looking to nail my ass."

"No shit. He went to all the trouble of tracing the call."

"I'm sorry. So sorry," Chaz said. "You've got no idea how bad I feel."

Ricca showed no sign of melting. "Here's my question: How come he doesn't believe you?"

"The cop? Oh, please." Chaz laughed scornfully. "He's just trying to make a reputation for himself, busting a doctor for murder."

Ricca rolled her eyes as if to say: Not that "doctor" thing again.

"Let's go grab a bite to eat."

"I'm not hungry," she said, "and your time's up."

Chaz was stunned to see her open the door and motion for him to go. "Don't do this," he said. "Don't give up on me so easy. I'm begging you, Ricca."

And, by God, he was begging.

"It's over," she told him.

"One drink. Give me a chance to change your mind."

"No, Chaz."

"One lousy drink? You won't be sorry."

"All right, but not here. You'll just end up trying to talk me into bed."

Chaz was swept by relief. "Name the spot," he said.

Ricca selected a bar at a nearby bowling alley, for its thunderous lack of intimacy. Saturday was league night and Chaz would have had more success making himself heard over a cruise-missile attack in downtown Baghdad. While Ricca went to the rest room, he fished out the bottle of blue pills and, seeking to avoid a repetition of his painful tryst with Medea, tapped only one into the palm of his hand. He swallowed it dry and checked his watch. The magic mojo potion should start working in an hour, by which time he hoped to have thawed Ricca's heart.

When she returned, Chaz ventured a tender squeeze of her elbow, which she yanked away as if he were infected with some pustular dis-

ease. He was flabbergasted by her animosity, which seemed unshakable, and also by her self-discipline. He had plowed through three martinis before she finished half a Miller Lite. Over the symphonic clatter of bowling pins he apologized repeatedly for the "cleaning lady" reference, which he calculated to be more of a sticking point than his wife's murder.

Still, Ricca didn't cave.

"Time to go," she said.

"Not yet. You've gotta let me finish."

Chaz considered himself a master bullshitter, but the cheap vodka seemed to have blunted his improvisational skills. He found himself blurting, "Didn't Rolvaag tell you about Joey's will?"

"Nope," said Ricca. "Anyhow, you said she was giving all her money to the animals. Yaks and pandas, you said."

"Well, that's what she told me. But yesterday that cop shows up at the door with a new will and asks what do I know about it. A will that Joey signed, like, a month ago!"

"Whatever, Chaz."

"Honey, she left everything to me."

"Why would she do an idiotic thing like that?"

Chaz leaned forward and dropped his voice. "Thirteen million bucks!"

"That'll buy you lots of cigarettes in prison. You should learn to smoke."

"Ha-ha," Chaz sneered, but he was crestfallen. He could hardly believe that the news of his future fortune hadn't rekindled Ricca's ardor. What had happened to that frisky, free-spirited girl who tinted her pubic hair and shaved him a shamrock?

"Don't you understand what this means?" he persisted. "Think of what we can do with thirteen million dollars-the incredible places we can go, all the cool stuff we can buy."

"Chaz, you snuffed your wife."

"How can you say that?"

"Take me home," Ricca said, "right now."

In the parking lot she remarked upon his oddly stilted gait.

"Twisted my knee," he mumbled.

"Doing what-climbing off the bar stool? Turn around and let me see something."

"Just forget about it."

"Chaz, turn around."

He was too vain to refuse. Even in the face of such impenetrable frigidity, Chaz believed that a glimpse of the thickening bulge in his pants might win Ricca over. Her reaction, however, was empty of delight or anticipation.

All she said was: "Are you serious?"

Chaz dusted off a golden oldie. "I can't help it, honey. See what you do to me?"

"Wow. Would you like me to fix it?"

Chaz incautiously moaned in the affirmative. Ricca kneed him and he moaned again, though this time not from desire.

She said, "I want to go home. Can't you get that through your head?"

He drove in silence, his mind blaring. Ricca was definitely going to be a problem. A humongous problem. While she couldn't implicate him directly in Joey's disappearance, she would be valuable to prosecutors seeking to lay out a seedy scenario for murder-the pretty mistress, to go along with Chaz's windfall inheritance. Judging by her disposition, Ricca would be pleased to do her civic duty and testify against him. With little coaxing she would share with salivating jurors a luridly embroidered account of the affair, as well as her current low opinion of Dr. Charles Perrone as a human being. Her appearance in court would be devastating.

Chaz said, "Tell me honestly. You really think I threw Joey overboard?"

"Yep."

"You'd believe a total stranger, some scumbag drifter who shows up at the salon and gives you a wild story."

Ricca said, "I know when men are telling me the truth. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I know. And, P.S., he didn't exactly look like a scumbag."

"Are you kidding, the guy's a fucking animal! He nearly beat me into a coma with a canoe paddle."

"I'm so sure."

"Check out my nose!" Chaz was amazed that she seemed to be taking the blackmailer's side. Suddenly he remembered Tool's intriguing revelation: The blackmailer had a girlfriend.

Oh Jesus, thought Chaz. Now it made sense. The asshole tracks down Ricca, tries to pump her for more dirt. She says no way, not unless you cut me in on the score. Next stop: Flamingo.

Ricca must have been the girl that Tool had seen on the docks. She was in on the scam!

"Just how much did you tell this guy?" Chaz asked warily.

"Which guy, the cop or the blackmailer?"

"The blackmailer."

"Nothing, Chaz. All I did was listen."

"Yeah, right."

Ricca glared. "Screw you."

"And what about Rolvaag? What'd you tell him?"

"I told him I wasn't really your maid. I made a point of clearing up that little misunderstanding."

"Ah," Chaz said. "So now he knows all about us."

"He would've found out anyway."

"I suppose so."

Ricca said, "Hey, you missed my street."

What other choice do I have? Chaz wondered.

"Where are you going? Turn around," Ricca demanded.

Chaz reached under the seat for the Colt.38, which he had reloaded before leaving the house. He pointed it at Ricca and said, "We're not going home."

"What-now you're gonna rape me?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

For twenty minutes he headed west on a road that followed the Hillsboro Canal toward the Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge, a sprawling preserve on the eastern apron of the Everglades. Ricca stewed silently while Chaz held the pistol in his left hand, dead level with her heart. He was surprised how composed he felt, how confident and clearheaded. Once, when Ricca began fiddling with the door lock, Chaz raised the.38 to her temple. His arm remained straight and steady. In the glow of the dashboard he could see Ricca staring at him with wide, fresh eyes.

Finally she was scared.

Chaz turned off on a dirt trail that led to a locked metal gate. Whistling to himself, he flicked on the high beams, aimed the Humvee down a steep embankment and rumbled along a shallow ditch until he had bypassed the barricade. Then he gunned it back up the slope onto a narrow rutted levee, where nothing but night-cloaked wilderness lay before them.

"Oh God," Ricca said.

Chaz remained silent. Focus was essential. When he killed Joey, he never lost focus, never strayed from the script, never left the zone.

Ricca said, "Since when did you buy a gun? I thought you hated guns-"

With the tip of the blue-plated barrel, Chaz touched a button on the CD player and the Hummer filled with a blast of George T. and the Delaware Destroyers. That nasty slide guitar obliterated Ricca's yammering, and Chaz slipped gratefully into the buzz of the music, which was better than popping speed.

He drove down the levee for another fifteen minutes before he braked and ordered Ricca out. She stood squinting into the headlights, brushing the insects away from her face and trying not to break down. Chaz felt a subtle, ugly gnawing in his gut. He would have much preferred a silent ambush, as with Joey, but Ricca had left him no such option.

"So it's true about your wife," she said, her voice tight.

"Yeah. I'm afraid so."

"Chaz, how can you do this to me?"

"Same way I did it to her." He sat on the hood of the Hummer and aimed out between the headlights. Later, Tool would help him get rid of Ricca's car and clean out the apartment. Make it look like she skipped town.

"You can't kill me, Chaz. You cannot do it," she declared. "Joey wasn't looking you in the eye the way I am. She didn't know what was coming."

This, Chaz lamented, is exactly the sort of sticky scene that I wanted to avoid.

He said, "What I can't figure out-if you cared so much about my wife, how come you were sleeping with me?"

Ricca seemed to shrink.

"Well?" said Chaz.

"Because I was a fool."

"Keep going."

"And selfish," she added hoarsely.

"Now we're getting somewhere. Tell me about you and the blackmailer," he said. "Is it strictly business, or are you screwing him, too?"

Ricca bristled. "My God. You're cracking up." She cupped a hand over her brow so she could see him better. "Your hand's shaking."

"Like hell it is."

"Take a look, Chaz."

"Just shut up."

"Plus, you still got a boner. What's that all about?"

Chaz had been hoping with all his soul that she wouldn't notice. Those fucking pills were unbelievable.

"It's bad enough you're pointing a gun at me," Ricca said, "but that, too?"

He estimated that she was no more than thirty feet away; an easy shot. "Turn around," he told her.

"I'll do no such thing."

The marsh beyond was teeming with jumbo alligators. Beyond the headlights Chaz could make out half a dozen pairs of large eyes, glowing like embers. Ricca's corpse would be gone by daybreak. What the gators didn't eat, the turtles and raccoons would.

She said, "I'm not turning around!"

"Then hold still." Chaz sighted down the short barrel, gripping the.38 with both hands the way he'd seen it done a thousand times on television.

Jesus, she's right. I'm shaking like a damn wino.

"Chaz, you don't know what you're doing."

"Hold still, I said."

"This is a major mistake. The fuckup of all fuckups____________________"

He held his breath and pulled the trigger. Ricca shrieked but did not fall.

"You rotten little cocksucker!" she cried, hopping up and down. "That's not even funny!"

Swell, Chaz thought, she thinks that I missed on purpose. Or maybe that I'm shooting blanks.

He stiffened and again took aim, wondering: How in the name of God did I not hit her? She's a hundred times bigger than that frigging rabbit.

The second shot caught Ricca in the left leg and spun her one full rotation. To Chaz's surprise, she still didn't go down.

"Look what you did!" She clutched at the punctured limb. "Are you fucking crazy?"

Incredible, thought Chaz. I should've brought a buffalo gun.

Another mosquito stung his cheek and he swatted himself so violently that he slid off the hood of the Hummer. Ricca capitalized on the distraction, gimping into the darkness with surprising swiftness. Chaz collected himself and took up the chase, lengthening his stride when he spotted the blur of gray sweat togs ahead of him. He was closing the gap, when suddenly Ricca vectored off the rutted path and, to his profound amazement, dove headlong into the swamp.

Chaz aborted the pursuit instantly, for nothing so terrified him as the prospect of entering the piss-warm water of the Everglades in total darkness-gagging on soggy duckweed, being lashed to ribbons by the serrated saw grass, and finally getting sucked one leech-covered leg at a time into the inky, inescapable muck.

Not me, thought Dr. Charles Perrone. No thanks.

As Ricca tried to swim away, he stood on the embankment, firing his pistol until she rolled over and sank with a gasp. Before long his ears stopped ringing and the water glassed off and the night hummed back to life. Chaz peered at the spot where Ricca had gone down and observed nothing but a fleet of water beetles skating back and forth in the reflected starlight. Something substantial splashed farther away, in a thicket of lily pads. Probably just a coot or a garfish, Chaz thought, but why push my luck? The place is lousy with gators, and I'm out of bullets.

He jogged back to the Hummer, spun a nifty 180 and headed back toward town. His heart was thumping like a baby sparrow's, but he felt lightened and liberated and pleased with himself for turning the hated, haunted swamp into an accomplice.