Skinny Dip

Twenty-eight

Nellie Shulman cornered him in the elevator. Her housecoat smelled of mothballs and tuna fish.

"Why didn't you tell me you're moving out? What's with all the sneaking around?"

Karl Rolvaag said, "I'm taking a job up north."

"And renting your place out to Gypsies, no doubt. Deviates and loners like yourself."

"I'll be selling the condo, Nellie."

She clacked her yellow dentures. "To another snake freak, right? Some psycho with spitting cobras, maybe."

"Whoever can afford to buy it. That's the law."

The elevator door opened and the detective bolted, Nellie scuttling after him.

"Aren't you the smug one?" she said. "Just because they found Rumsfeld, you think you can dance out of here with a clean conscience."

Rumsfeld was the miniature poodle that had gone AWOL, the third pet missing from Sawgrass Grove. The detective was secretly happy to learn that the incontinent little hair ball had not been devoured by one of his wayfaring pythons.

"They found him behind the Albertsons'," Mrs. Shulman reported somberly, "sleeping in a liquor box. Some bum was feeding him soda crackers."

"What about Pinchot and whatsit, that Siamese?" Rolvaag asked. Poised at his front door, he groped through his pockets for the keys. Mrs. Shulman seemed committed to a full-blown confrontation.

She said, "Don't play innocent with me. Her name was Pandora and you know damn well what happened-you sacrificed her to those vicious reptiles of yours! Same with poor old Pinchot. And my precious Petunia is probably next on the menu!"

"Those are serious accusations you're making, Nellie, with no proof whatsoever."

Mrs. Shulman grew defensive. "It's not just me, everybody around here's talking about it. 'Why else would a grown man keep anacondas?' they say. 'What's the matter with him?' "

Rolvaag said, "They're pythons, not anacondas. And they don't eat house cats or Pomeranians." He hoped his lack of conviction wasn't apparent to the acting vice president of the Sawgrass Grove Condominium Association.

"Know what I think, Nellie? I think you're disappointed that you won't get to evict me. I think you're bummed because I'm moving out on my own terms." At last he found his key and speared it into the lock.

Mrs. Shulman's arthritic talons clenched his arm. "Ha! I'm the only reason you're leaving town!"

The detective smiled suggestively. "You're going to miss me, aren't you?"

"Agghh!" Mrs. Shulman stumbled out of her slippers as she backed off.

Rolvaag quickly entered his apartment and shut the door. He logged on to the computer and clicked open the weather page for the Twin Cities. It was sixty-two degrees and brightly sunny in St. Paul; the glory of a midwestern spring. He wondered if his ex-wife had planted a garden, a hobby she'd abandoned in the suffocating heat of South Florida.

The detective took a can of pop from the refrigerator, sat down in the kitchen and emptied his briefcase. On top of the pile was the rental agreement for the green Chevrolet Suburban. Initially the manager of the car-rental agency had refused to fax it to the Sheriff's Office, but he'd changed his mind after Rolvaag offered to drive there personally and jump up on the counter and wave his gold badge for all the customers to see.

According to the contract, the Suburban had been rented on Joey Perrone's credit card three days after she went overboard from the Sun Duchess. Rolvaag placed the rental agreement side by side with a Xeroxed sheet of canceled checks provided by Mrs. Perrone's bank. The signature on the car contract and the signature on the old checks appeared strikingly similar. Next, the detective compared the handwriting on the car contract with that on the will delivered by Mrs. Per-rone's brother. Rolvaag studied the characteristics of the penmanship for a few minutes, then returned the documents to his briefcase. Telling Chaz Perrone would be a waste of time; the man was a goner, and there was nothing inside the law that Rolvaag could do to change that, even if he'd wanted to.

He phoned the Coast Guard station and tracked down Petty Officer Yancy. "You know that bale of Jamaican weed? The one we took the fingernails from?"

"Yes, sir. It's in the evidence warehouse," Yancy said, "as you requested."

"Tell them to go ahead and burn it. I won't be needing it after all."

"I'll fax you the paperwork, sir." Yancy paused. "Did they ever find that missing woman off the cruise ship?"

"Nope."

"That's too bad."

"Not necessarily," the detective said.

As soon as he hung up, he started packing for Minnesota.

Tool spent the night beside Maureen's bed at the convalescent home. She slept poorly, making small murmurs that could have been caused by bad dreams, or pain. Red Hammernut had called up angrily, ordering Tool to return to Chaz Perrone's house and keep an eye on the conniving little rodent. Tool had pretended the battery on the cell phone was dying and he couldn't make out what Red was saying.

No way was he leaving Maureen until she felt better.

He found the TV station that showed country-music videos, and that's how he passed the time. Some of the songs were depressing, if he listened too closely to the words, and other songs he couldn't relate to one bit. There seemed to be no end of stories about men who wouldn't stay put in one place, and the loving women they left behind. That's one good thing about farming, Tool thought-you've got a home and you know right where it is.

By daybreak his tailbone was so sore from the poacher's bullet that he had to get up and do some walking. "When he returned to the room, Maureen was awake. She looked up and gave a limp smile. The sun-

light slanting through the blinds made bright stripes across the bed, but Maureen's blue eyes, once star-like, seemed as dull and gray as lead. Tool noticed that she kept pressing the call button, so he asked what was wrong. She pointed at the IV bag, which was empty.

"I need a refill," she whispered.

"Where does it hurt?"

"They haven't given me a bath in three days. It's so annoying."

"Here." He took the call switch and mashed on it repeatedly with his thumb. They waited and waited, but nobody came.

Maureen said, "In the mornings they're short-staffed. Sometimes it takes a while."

"We'll see about that."

"Where are you going?"

Tool snatched the first person he found who was dressed like a nurse and hustled her into Maureen's room. The woman was startled and confused.

"Earl, that's Natacha," Maureen explained. "She works in the kitchen."

Tool did not release Natacha's arm. "Go fetch somebody to bring this lady some pain medicine. I mean right now."

"Natacha, I must apologize for my nephew. He worries too much about me," Maureen said.

Natacha nodded tenuously. Tool let go of her and she scooted for the door, Maureen calling after her, "That lentil soup was heavenly last night. I demand your recipe!"

Tool said, "Ain't they any damn doctors in this place?"

Maureen pulled the top sheet snug to her chest. "The woman can't do corned beef to save her life, but she is the grand diva of lentil."

"Lemme go fetch somebody else."

"Oh no you don't." Maureen wagged a finger. "If you make trouble, they'll ask you to leave. Just sit tight and relax. I'm fine for now."

Tool could tell that she wasn't fine. Gently he rolled her on one side and untied the string of her gown.

"Earl, don't," she said.

"Hush up."

He hiked the top of his lab whites, then reached behind his back and peeled off his last remaining patch. Carefully he centered it between Maureen's shoulder blades and pressed down firmly, so that it would stick.

When he turned her over, she said, "That wasn't necessary, but thank you."

"It ain't too fresh, but it's better than nuthin'."

"Earl, I want you to listen." She held out her hand, which felt cool to his touch.

"Some people give up when they come to a place like this," she said. "I see it in their faces-they just run out of fight. And the weaker you get, believe me, it's tempting… The painkillers they've got nowadays, goodness, the days and weeks slide by my window like a big warm river. But don't worry, I'm not ready to call it quits just yet."

"You can't!" Tool blurted. He felt mad, although he wasn't sure why. "When's the last time you seen your daughters?"

"It's hard for them to get away. The children are in school."

"That's a bullshit excuse."

Maureen laughed softly. "I'd slap you, Earl, if I had the strength."

He was at a loss. "You want, I'll try and give you a bath."

"You'll do no such thing!" She pinched his wrist. "Good Lord, I shouldn't have said a word."

Tool's mother had passed away barely a month after the doctors had told her she was sick. It was in the middle of a tomato harvest, and he didn't get back to Jacksonville in time to say good-bye. He heard himself telling the whole story to Maureen, who said, "Don't feel bad. I'm sure she knew how much you loved her."

"Your daughters oughta be here. It ain't that far away." He pressed the call button so hard that it broke apart in his fist. "Shit," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Earl, you need to calm down. I've got no intention of dying today."

At last a nurse came in with a fresh IV bag, two small vials of narcotics and a diaper for grown-ups. Tool stepped away from the bed to give Maureen some privacy. The nurse was a muscular pitch-black woman who spoke quietly to Maureen in an accent that Tool recognized as Jamaican. He thought about all the pickers from Jamaica that he'd yelled at and slapped around and ripped off, and he felt sort of shitty and low. The nurse who was helping Maureen might have been one of their sisters or cousins, or even a daughter. Her smile was as bright as a sunrise, and when she touched a hand to Maureen's forehead, Tool knew right then and there that he was done with crew bossing forever. He'd never be able to look one of them sweaty black boys in the eye and not think about this moment, about how jumbled and sour he felt toward himself. Somewhere in life he'd taken a wrong-headed turn, and most likely it was too late to back up. For sure he'd gotten in awful deep with Red Hammernut, who now wanted him to do something that would send him even further down the highway to hell. A week ago Tool would've said yes to any fool job, no matter how bad, as long as it paid in cash. But then he'd met Maureen.

"She gonna be okay?" he asked the Jamaican nurse.

"Oh, she'll feel better after breakfast."

Maureen said, "Earl, this is Evie. She's one of the good ones."

The nurse laughed. "I'll come back in an hour for your bath."

As soon as they were alone again, Maureen said: "She's a sharp girl. You should let her take a look at that problem with your you-know-what."

"No thanks." Tool wasn't spreading his ass crack to any female stranger, black, white, or purple polka-dotted.

"For heaven's sake, Earl, she's a professional health-care provider."

"How about some TV?"

"Hmmm-hmmm," said Maureen.

Tool noticed that her breathing had slowed and her eyelids were droopy. The drugs that Nurse Evie had brought, combined with the secondhand fentanyl patch, were taking effect. Maybe now Maureen could grab a decent sleep.

He said, "I better go."

"Thank you for the company, Earl."

"Anytime."

"I didn't even think to ask about your bodyguarding," she said drowsily. "How's it going with that big-shot doctor?"

"Same old crap."

When Tool stood to leave, Maureen turned her face to the wall and curled herself into a shape that reminded him of a question mark.

"Don't you dare give up," he said anxiously.

"Not me."

"I'm dead serious now."

"Earl?"

He could barely hear her speak, so he leaned over the bed rail and balanced his huge head close to hers.

"Yes, ma'am. What is it?"

"Earl, I need a favor."

"Anything."

"It's a whopper," Maureen said.

"Just name it."

"Can you get me out of here?"

Tool smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

Chaz Perrone awoke nude in his yellow Humvee on the shoulder of Interstate 95, somewhere in Palm Beach County.

Friday morning.

Rush hour.

His bladder was the size of Lake Okeechobee and his skull was splitting open like a rotten melon. He opened the passenger door and tried to take a leak, but it felt as if he were pissing broken glass. Crawling behind the steering wheel, he was relieved to spy the keys in the ignition.

He headed home with careful regard for the speed limits, not wishing to be stopped by the cops and forced to explain his appearance. He was grateful for the absurd height of the Hummer, which concealed his chafed and sallow nakedness from other motorists, save for a few coarse truck drivers.

What the hell happened last night? Chaz wondered, squinting into the cruel morning sun.

The last thing he remembered with clarity was Rose, in those incredible short jeans, leading him to her bedroom. That's when he must have flipped out, because somehow Rose had morphed into Joey and right away she'd started unloading an unholy ration of shit.

Joey, in the same skirt and blouse that she'd been wearing on the night he threw her overboard!

By the time Chaz reached the exit for West Boca Dunes Phase II, he had it all figured out. What had triggered his freak-out was watching the video of Joey's murder over and over; that, combined with too much booze. And hadn't Rose been wearing the same perfume as Joey?

Chaz didn't recall running from the bedroom, but apparently that's what he'd done. Dashed out the front door, dove into the Hummer and took off. Rose must have thought he was totally whacked.

He glanced down at his pecker, which he scarcely recognized in its dolorous, chastened droop. He wondered if he'd ever again be able to initiate a sex act without being taunted by the ambrosial ghost of his dead wife.

He wheeled into his driveway and parked next to Tool's Grand Marquis, checking both ways down the street before loping into the house. The door to the big goon's room was shut, so Chaz furtively padded to the kitchen, where he gulped four aspirins with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Then he stepped into the shower and propped himself against the tiles, massaging his hangover until the hot water ran out.

When he emerged from the bathroom, the phone was ringing.

"Where you been, son?" It was Red Hammernut. "I left, like, a dozen goddamn messages on your answer machine."

"I spent the night at a friend's," Chaz said.

"Without Mr. O'Toole?"

"It was an emergency, Red."

"You wanna talk about emergencies? Tell you what, I got a major-league motherfucker of an emergency arrived just yesterday by Federal Express. It's a videocassette."

"Oh shit."

"Up to your eyeballs, son. You know about this damn thing?"

"Yessir. I got one, too."

"Is that so?" Red Hammernut sounded like he was working up to a spit. "I thought I seen plenty in my day, Chaz, but never nuthin' like this. I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't shook up."

Red's slurred delivery suggested that he'd gotten an early start on his cocktails.

"Let's not do this on the phone," he said to Chaz.

"You want me to drive over to the office?"

"Hell no. I'm parked right'n front of your goddamn house."

Chaz went to the window and saw the gray Cadillac idling in the swale. He stepped into a wrinkled pair of trousers and hurried outside. The passenger door of the big car swung open and Chaz climbed into the chill. Red Hammernut was dressed like he'd just stepped off a niar-lin boat, a sunburned gnome in Eddie Bauer khakis. He had a plug of tobacco in one cheek and smear of zinc oxide on his radish-shaped nose. From his thick ruddy neck hung a pair of polarized sunglasses. A bottle of Jack Daniel's stood open on the seat-back tray; no glass.

Chaz said, "I didn't know the guy had a video camera. When I saw the tape, I was blown away."

"Son, it's bad, bad news."

"The worst," Chaz agreed.

"I gotta say, it was a tur'ble thing to watch. I always liked Joey, I really did," Red said. "I won't ask why you done it, because it ain't none of my business."

Chaz was mildly irritated. "But we talked about it, remember? How worried I was? I thought she'd figured out our whole deal."

He was disappointed that Red hadn't commented on the efficiency of the crime itself; the steel balls it took to go through with it.

"We've got to pay the blackmail, Red. Now there's no choice."

"I 'gree."

"The whole five hundred, right?"

"Yup," Red Hammernut said. "The full load."

Chaz Perrone's relief almost instantly gave way to suspicion. He'd been expecting resistance or, at the least, some loony alternate plan. He knew how much Red cherished his money; dropping half a million bucks was enough to send him on a six-month bender.

"The drop is set for tonight," Chaz said, "on a house somewhere in the middle of Biscayne Bay. The guy wrote down a GPS heading."

"Yeah, Tool told me."

"You talked to Tool?"

"That's right. I already gave him the cash to hold." Red Hammer-nut took a pull from the bottle of bourbon. "Why you look so surprised, son? The man works for me."

"Yeah. So do I," Chaz reminded him.

"And you're in charge of buyin' the suitcase." Red said this with no trace of sarcasm. "I got you guys a boat for the night, a twenty-three-footer, at Bayside Marina. That's downtown Miami, acrosst from the basketball arena. Tool's good with outboards, you let him drive."

"Whatever," said Chaz.

He was thinking about the scene toward the end of GoodFellas, when everything's falling apart for the gangsters and the Ray Liotta character meets the Robert De Niro character at a diner. The two of them are sitting there, calmly talking about all the problems and all the heat-just like Red and I are talking, Chaz thought-when the De Niro character nonchalantly asks the Ray Liotta character to go down to Florida and do a job.

And right then, at that instant, the Ray Liotta character knows he's being set up for a hit.

"Son, I don't want no funny business out there on the water," Red Hammernut was saying. "I told Tool the same thing-pay the sumbitch and get the hell outta Dodge, you hear?"

Just like in the movie, Chaz thought. Once I was the partner and now I'm the problem.

He understood that Red Hammernut was looking at the big picture. The blackmailer posed a threat to Red only as long as Chaz was alive. The Hummer was the most traceable connection between them, and Red could always blame that on Chaz. He could say the biologist had hit him up for a new set of wheels. As a matter of fact, Red could say that the whole Everglades scam, faking the pollution charts, had been Chaz's idea; a shakedown from the beginning.

Once Chaz was gone, who could dispute it?

"I want you guys to get it over with, that's the main thing," Red Hammernut was saying. "Be done with it for good."

Amen, thought Chaz. The time has come.