Skin Tight (45 page)

“According to the wife,” García said, “the assailant returned home unexpectedly and found your brother-in-law, the almost deceased—”

“Thank you, Al.”

“—found the almost deceased fondling his wife. Whereupon, the assailant attempted to strike the almost deceased at least three times with
pelotas.
That's a jai-alai ball, Mick. The third shot struck your brother-in-law at the base of the skull, rendering him unconscious.”

“The dumb shit. How's Kate?”

“Puzzled,” García said. “But then, aren't we all?”

“I want to see her.” Stranahan sidestepped the detective and made for the front door. His sister was standing by the bay window of the Florida room and staring out at Kipper Garth's sailboat, the
Pain-and-Suffering,
which was rocking placidly at the dock behind the house. Stranahan gave Kate a hug and kissed her on the forehead.

She sniffled and said, “Did they tell you?”

“Yes, Kate.”

“That he was groping a client—did they tell you?”

Stranahan said, “That's the woman's story.”

Kate gave a bitter chuckle. “And you don't believe it? Come on, Mick,
I
believe it. Kipper was a pig, let's face it. You were right, I was wrong.”

Stranahan didn't know what to say. “He had some good qualities.” Jesus, how stupid. “
Has
some good qualities, I mean.”

“The doctors say it's fifty-fifty, but I'm ready for the worst. Kipper's not a fighter.”

“He might surprise you,” Stranahan said without conviction.

“Mick, just so you know—I was aware of what he was up to. Some of the excuses, God, you should have heard them. Late nights, weekends, trips to God knows where. I pretended to believe him because . . . because I liked this life, Mick. The house . . . this great yard. I mean, it sounds selfish, but it felt
good
here. Safe. This is a wonderful neighborhood.”

“Katie, I'm sorry.”

“Neighborhoods like this are hard to find, Mick. You know, we've only been burglarized twice in four years. That's not bad for Miami.”

“Not at all,” Stranahan said.

“See, I had to weigh these things every time I thought about leaving.” Kate put a hand on his arm and said, “You knew about all his fooling around.”

“Not everything.”

“Thanks for not mentioning it.” She was sincere.

Stranahan felt like a complete shit, which he was. “This is my fault,” he said. “I told Kipper to take this case. I
made
him take it.”

“How?” she asked. “And why?”

“Whatever you're thinking, it's even worse. I can't tell you all the details, Kate, because there's going to be trouble and I want you clear of it. But you ought to know that I'm the one who got Kipper involved.”

“But you're not the one who played grab-the-tittie with your client.
He
did.” She turned back to the big window and folded her arms. “It's so . . . tacky.”

“Yes,” Stranahan agreed. “Tacky's the word.”

 

 

WHEN
he came out of the house, García was waiting.

“Wasn't that courteous of me, not barging in and making a big Cuban scene in front of your sister?”

“Al, you're a fucking prince among men.”

“Know why I'm wearing this trenchcoat? It's brand-new, by the way. I hadda go to another funeral: Bobby Pepsical, the county commissioner. Dropped dead in confession.”

“Good place for it. He was a stone crook.”

“Course he was, Mick. But I got a feeling he didn't get his penance.”

“Why not?”

“Because there wasn't a priest in there. Bobby's confessing to an empty closet—that's pretty weird, huh? Anyway, they make a bunch of us go to the fucking funeral, because of who he was. That's why I've got the new coat. It was raining.”

Stranahan said, “How was it? Did they screw him into the ground? That's about how crooked he was.”

“I know but, Christ, have some respect for the dead.” García rubbed his temples like he was massaging a cramp. “See, this is what's got me so agitated, Mick. Ever since I got into this thing with you and the doctor, so many people are dying. Dying weird, too. There's your ex, and Murdock and Salazar—another funeral! Then the business with that goddamn homicidal tree man. So after all that, here I am standing in the rain, watching them plant some scuzzbucket politician who croaks on his knees in an empty confessional, and my frigging beeper goes off. Lieutenant says some big-shot lawyer got beaned by a jai-alai ball and could be a homicide any second. A jai-alai ball! On top of which the big-shot lawyer turns out to be
your
brother-in-law. It's like a nightmare of weirdness!”

“It's been a bad month,” Stranahan conceded.

“Yeah, it sure has. So what about these Nordstroms?”

“I didn't know them, I told you.”

García lit up another cigarette and Stranahan made a face. “Know why I'm smoking these things? Because I'm agitated. I get agitated whenever I get jerked around, and I hate to waste a good cigar on agitation.”

Stranahan said, “Can you please not blow it in my face? That's all I ask.”

The detective took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it behind his back. “There, you happy? Now help me out, Mick. The assailant's wife, she says Kipper Garth phones her out of the blue and asks if she wants to sue—guess who—Rudy Graveline! Since he's the quack who gave her the encapsulated whatchamacallits.”

“If that's what she says, fine.”

“But lawyers aren't supposed to solicit.”

“Al, this is Miami.”

García took a quick drag and hid the Camel again. “My theory is you somehow got your sleazy, almost-deceased brother-in-law to sue Graveline, just to bust his balls. Shake things up. Maybe flush the giant Mr. Blondell Tatum out of his fugitive gutter. I don't expect you to open up your heart, Mick, but just tell me this: Did it work? Because if it did, you're a fucking genius and I apologize for all the shitty things I've been saying about you in my sleep.”

“Did what work?”

García grinned venomously. “I thought we were buddies.”

“Al, I'm not going to shut you out,” Stranahan said. “For God's sake, you saved my life.”

“Aw, shucks, you remembered.”

Stranahan said: “Which one do you want, Al? The freaky hit man or the doctor?”

“Both.”

“No, I'm sorry.”

“Hey, I could arrest your ass right now. Obstruction, tampering, I'd think of something.”

“And I'd be out in an hour.”

García's jaw tightened for a moment and he turned away, stewing. When he turned back, he seemed more amused than angry.

“The problem is, Mick, you're too smart. You know the system too damn well. You know there's only so much I can get away with.”

“Believe me, we're on the same side.”

“I know,
chico,
that's what scares me.”

“So, which of these bastards do you want for yourself—the surgeon or the geek?”

“Don't rush me, Mick.”

EARLY
on the morning of February nineteenth, Reynaldo Flemm, the famous Shock Television journalist, arrived at the Whispering Palms Spa and Surgery Center for the most sensational interview of his sensational career. A sleepy receptionist collected the $15,000 cash and counted it twice; if she was surprised by the size of the surgeon's fee, she didn't show it. The receptionist handed Reynaldo Flemm two photocopied consent forms, one for a rhinoplasty and one for a suction-assisted lipectomy. Reynaldo skimmed the paperwork and extravagantly signed as “Johnny LeTigre.”

Then he sat down to wait for his moment. On a buff-colored wall hung a laminated carving of one of Rudy Graveline's pet sayings: TO IMPROVE ONE'S SELF, IMPROVE ONE'S FACE. That wasn't Reynaldo's favorite Rudyism. His favorite was framed in quilted Norman Rockwell-style letters above the water fountain: VANITY IS BEAUTIFUL. That's the one Reynaldo had told Willie about. Be sure to get a quick shot on your way in, he had told him. What for? Willie had asked. For the irony, Reynaldo Flemm had exclaimed. For the irony! Reynaldo was proud of himself for thinking up that camera shot; usually Christina Marks was in charge of finding irony.

Soon an indifferent young nurse summoned Reynaldo to a chilly examining room and instructed him to empty his bladder, a tedious endeavor that took fifteen minutes and produced scarcely an ounce. Reynaldo Flemm was a very nervous man. In his professional life he had been beaten by Teamsters, goosed by white supremacists, clubbed by Mafia torpedoes, pistol-whipped by Bandito bikers, and kicked in the groin by the Pro-Life Posse. But he had never undergone surgery. Not even a wart removal.

Flemm stiffly removed his clothes and pulled off his hightop Air Jordans. He changed into a baby-blue paper gown that hung to his knees. The nurse gave him a silly paper cap to cover his silly dyed hair, and paper shoe covers for his bare feet.

A nurse anesthetist came out of nowhere, brusquely flipped up the tail of Reynaldo's gown and stuck a needle in his hip. The hypodermic contained a drug called Robinul, which dries up the mouth by inhibiting oral secretions. Next the nurse seized Reynaldo's left arm, swabbed it, and stuck it cleanly with an I.V. needle that dripped into his veins a lactated solution of five percent dextrose and, later, assorted powerful sedatives.

The anesthetist then led Reynaldo Flemm and his I.V. apparatus into Suite F, one of four ultramodern surgical theaters at Whispering Palms. She asked him to lie on his back and, as he stretched out on the icy steel, Reynaldo frantically tried to remember the ten searing questions he had prepared for the ambush of Dr. Rudy Graveline.

One, did you kill Victoria Barletta on March 12, 1986?

Two, why would one of your former nurses say that you did?

Three, isn't it true that you've repeatedly gotten into trouble for careless and incompetent surgery?

Four, how do you explain . . .

Explain?

Explain this strap on my fucking legs!

“Please quiet down, Mr. LeTigre.”

And my arms! What've you done to my arms? I can't move my goddamn arms!

“Try to relax. Think pleasant thoughts.”

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!

“You ought to be feeling a little drowsy.”

This is wrong. This is not right. I read up on this. I got a fucking pamphlet. You're supposed to tape my eyes, not my arms. What are you smiling at, you dumb twat? Lemme talk to the doctor! Where's the doctor? Jesus Christ, that's cold. What are you
doing
down there!

“Good morning, Mr. LeTigre.”

Doctor, thank God you're here! Listen good now: These Nazi nurse bitches are making a terrible mistake. I don't wanna general, I wanna local. Just pull the I.V., okay? I'll be fine, just pull the tubes before I pass out.

“John, we're having a little trouble understanding you.”

No shit, Sherlock, my tongue's so dry you could light a match on it. Please yank the needles, I can't think with these damn needles. And make 'em quit fooling around with me down there. Christ, it's cold! What're they doing!

“I assumed they told you—there's been a change of plans. I've decided to do the lipectomy first, then the rhinoplasty. It'll be easier that way.”

No no no, you gotta do the nose first. Do the fucking nose.

“You should try to relax, John. Here, hold still, we're going to give you another injection.”

No no no no no no no.

“That didn't hurt a bit, did it?”

I wanna ask I gotta ask right now . . .

“Go ahead, push the Sublimaze.”

Did you kill . . . ?

“What did he say?”

Is it true you killed . . . ?

“This guy looks sort of familiar.”

Did you . . . kill Victoria . . . Principal?

“Victoria Principal! Boy, is he whacked out.”

Well did you?

“Where's the mask? Start the Forane. Give him the mask.”

 

 

WILLIE
hadn't slept much, fretting about Reynaldo's big plan. He had tried to call Christina Marks in New York, and the office said she was in Miami. But where? Reynaldo's plan was the craziest thing Willie had ever heard, starting with the signal. Willie needed a signal to know when to come crashing into the operating room with the camera. The best that Reynaldo could come up with was a scream. Willie would be in the waiting room, Reynaldo would scream.

“What exactly will you scream?” Willie had asked.

“I'll scream: WILLIE!”

Willie thought Reynaldo was joking. He wasn't.

“What about the other patients in the waiting room? I mean, here I am with a TV camera and a sound pack—what do I tell these people?”

“Tell 'em you're from PBS,” Reynaldo had said. “Nobody hassles PBS.”

The shot that Reynaldo Flemm most fervently wanted was this: Himself prone, prepped, cloaked in blue, preferably in the early stages of rhinoplasty and preferably bloody. That was the good thing about a nose job, you could ask for a local. Most plastic surgeons want their rhinoplasty patients to be all the way zonked, but you could get it done with a local and a mild I.V. if you could stand a little pain. Reynaldo Flemm had no doubt he could stand it.

Willie would burst like a fullback into the operating room, tape rolling, toss the baton mike to Reynaldo on the table, Reynaldo would poke it in Rudy Graveline's face and pop the questions. Bam bam bam. The nurses and scrub techs would drop whatever they were doing and run, leaving the hapless surgeon to dissolve, alone, before the camera's eye.