Skin Tight (49 page)

Kimbler said, “It may sound ghoulish, but I provide a much needed service. These items, discarded organs and such, they would otherwise go to waste. Be thrown away. Flushed. Incinerated. Overseas medical schools are in great need of clinical teaching aids—the students are extremely grateful. You should see some of the letters.”

“No thanks,” Chemo said. “What's a schlong go for these days?”

“Pardon me?”

Maggie cut in: “Mr. Kimbler, we appreciate you seeing us on short notice. We have an unusual problem.”

Kimbler peered theatrically over the tops of his glasses. A slight smile came to his lips. “I assumed as much.”

Maggie went on, “What we have is an entire . . .
item.
”

“I see.”

“It's a pauper-type situation. Very sad—no family, no funds for a decent burial. We're not even sure who he is.”

Christina could scarcely contain herself. She had gotten a quick glimpse of a body as they angled it into the trunk of the Bonneville. A young man, that much she could tell.

Kimbler said to Maggie: “What can you tell me of the circumstances? The manner of death, for instance.”

She said, “An indigent case, like I told you. Emergency surgery for appendicitis.” She pointed at Rudy. “Ask him, he's the doctor.”

Rudy Graveline was stupefied. He scrambled to catch up with Maggie's yarn. “I was doing . . . he had a chronic heart condition. Bad arrhythmia. He should've said something before the operation, but he didn't.”

Kimbler pursed his lips. “You're a surgeon?”

“Yes.” Rudy wasn't dressed like a surgeon. He was wearing Topsiders, tan cotton pants, and a Bean crewneck pullover. He was dressed for a boat ride. “Here, wait.” He took out his wallet and showed Kimbler an I.D. card from the Dade County Medical Society. Kimbler seemed satisfied.

“I realize this is out of the ordinary,” Maggie said.

“Yes, well, let's have a look.”

Chemo pinched Christina by the elbow and said, “We'll wait here.” He handed Maggie the keys to the Bonneville. She and Rudy led the man named Kimbler to the car, which was parked in a city lot two blocks away.

When Maggie opened the trunk, Rudy turned away. Kimbler adjusted his glasses and craned over the corpse as if he were studying the brush strokes on a fine painting. “Hmmmmmm,” he said. “Hmmmmmm.”

Rudy edged closer to block the view of the trunk, in case any pedestrians got curious. His concern was groundless, for no one gave the trio a second look; half the people in Miami did their business out of car trunks.

Kimbler seemed impressed by what he saw. “I don't get many whole cadavers,” he remarked. “Certainly not of this quality.”

“We tried to locate a next of kin,” Rudy said, “but for some reason the patient had given us a phony name.”

Kimbler chuckled. “Probably had a very good reason. Probably a criminal of some type.”

“Every place we called was a dead end,” Rudy said, lamely embellishing the lie.

Maggie stepped in to help. “We were going to turn him over to the county, but it seemed like such a waste.”

“Oh, yes,” said Kimbler. “The shortage of good cadavers . . . by good, I mean white and well-nourished. Most of the schools I deal with—for instance, one place in the Dominican, they had only two cadavers for a class of sixty medical students. Tell me how those kids are ever going to learn gross anatomy.”

Rudy started to say something but thought better of it. The whole deal was illegal as hell, no doubt about it. But what choice did he have? For the first time in his anal-retentive, hypercompulsive professional life he had lost control of events. He had surrendered himself to the squalid street instincts of Chemo and Maggie Gonzalez.

Kimbler was saying, “Two measly cadavers, both dysenteries. Weighed about ninety pounds each. For sixty students! And this is not so unusual in some of these poor countries. There's a med school on Guadeloupe, the best they could do was monkey skeletons. To help out I shipped down two hearts and maybe a half dozen lungs, but it's not the same as having whole human bodies.”

Shrewd haggler that she was, Maggie had heard enough. Slowly she closed, but did not lock, the rusty trunk of the Bonneville; Reynaldo Flemm had begun to thaw.

“So,” she said, “you're obviously interested.”

“Yes,” said Kimbler. “How does eight hundred sound?”

“Make it nine,” said Maggie.

Kimbler frowned irritably. “Eight-fifty is pushing it.”

“Eight seventy-five. Cash.”

Kimbler still wore a frown, but he was nodding. “All right. Eight seventy-five it is.”

Rudy Graveline was confused. “You're paying
us
?”

“Of course,” Kimbler replied. He studied Rudy doubtfully. “Just so there's no question later, you
are
a medical doctor? I mean, your state license is current. Not that you need to sign anything, but it's good to know.”

“Yes,” Rudy sighed. “Yes, I'm a doctor. My license is up to date.” As if it mattered. If all went as planned, he'd be gone from the country by this time tomorrow. He and Heather, together on a mountaintop in Costa Rica.

The man named Kimbler tapped cheerfully on the trunk of the Bonneville. “All right, then. Why don't you pull around back of the office. Let's get this item on ice straightaway.”

MICK
Stranahan brought Heather Chappell a mug of hot chocolate. She pulled the blanket snugly around her shoulders and said, “Thanks. I'm so damn cold.”

He asked how she was feeling.

“Beat up,” she replied. “Especially after that boat ride.”

“Sorry,” Stranahan said. “I know it's rough as hell—there's a front moving through so we got a big westerly tonight.”

Heather sipped tentatively at the chocolate. The kidnapper, whoever he was, watched her impassively from a wicker barstool. He wore blue jeans, deck shoes, a pale yellow cotton shirt, and a poplin Windbreaker. To Heather the man looked strong, but not particularly mean.

In the middle of the living room was a card table, covered by an oilskin cloth. On the table was a red Sears Craftsman toolbox. The kidnapper had been carrying it when he broke into Dr. Graveline's house.

Heather nodded toward the toolbox and said, “What's in there?”

“Just some stuff I borrowed from Rudy.”

The furniture looked like it came from the Salvation Army, but still there was a spartan coziness about the place, especially with the soft sounds of moving water. Heather said, “I like your house.”

“The neighborhood's not what it used to be.”

“What kind of fish is that on the wall?”

“It's a blue marlin. The bill broke off, I've got to get it fixed.”

Heather said, “Did you catch it yourself?”

“No.” Stranahan smiled. “I'm no Hemingway.”

“I read for
Islands in the Stream.
With George C. Scott—did you see it?”

Stranahan said no, he hadn't.

“I didn't get the part, anyway,” said Heather. “I forget now who played the wife. George C. Scott was Hemingway, and there was lots of fishing.”

The beakless marlin stared down from the wall. Stranahan said, “It used to be paradise out here.”

Heather nodded; she could picture it. “What're you going to do with me?”

“Not much,” said Stranahan.

“I remember you,” she said. “From the surgery clinic. That night in the parking lot, you put me in the cab. The night Rudolph's car caught fire.”

“My name is Mick.”

Being a famous actress, Heather didn't customarily introduce herself. This time she felt like she had to.

Stranahan said, “The reason I asked how you're feeling is this.” He held up three pill bottles and gave them a rattle. “These were on the nightstand by your bed. Young Dr. Rudy was keeping you loaded.”

“Painkillers, probably. See, I just had surgery.”

“Not painkillers,” Stranahan said. “Seconal 100s. Industrial-strength, enough to put down an elephant.”

“What . . . why would he do that?”

Stranahan got off the barstool and walked over to Heather Chappell. In his right hand was a small pair of scissors. He knelt down in front of her and told her not to move.

“Oh, God,” she said.

“Be still.”

Carefully he clipped the bandages off her face. Heather expected the salty cool air to sting the incisions, but she felt nothing but an itchy sensation.

Stranahan said, “I want to show you something.” He went to the bathroom and came back with a hand mirror. Heather studied herself for several moments.

In a puzzled voice she said, “There are no marks.”

“Nope. No scars, no bruises, no swelling.”

“Rudolph said . . . See, he mentioned something about microsurgery. Lasers, I think he said. He said the scars would be so small—”

“Bullshit.” Stranahan handed her the scissors. She gripped them in her right hand like a pistol.

“I'm going in the other room for a little while,” he said. “Call me when you're done and I'll explain as much as I can.”

Ten minutes later Heather was pounding on the bedroom door. She had cut off the remaining bandages and phony surgical dressings. She was standing there naked, striped with gummy adhesive, and crying softly. Stranahan bundled her in the blanket and sat her on the bed.

“He was s'posed to do my boobs,” she said. “And my hips. My nose, eyelids . . . everything.”

“Well, he lied,” said Stranahan.

“Please, I wanna go back to L.A.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“What's going on?” Heather cried. “Can I use your phone, I've got to call my manager. Please?”

“Sorry,” said Stranahan. “No telephone. No ship-to-shore. No fax. The weather's turned to shit, so we're stuck for the night.”

“But I'm s'posed to do a
Password
with Betty White. God, what day is it?”

Stranahan said: “Can I ask you something? You're a beautiful girl—you get points for that, okay—but how could you be so fucking dumb?”

Heather stopped crying instantly, gulped down her sobs. No man had ever talked to her this way. Well, wait; Patrick Duffy had, once. She was playing a debutante on
Dallas
and she forgot one lousy line. One out of seventeen! But later at least Patrick Duffy had said he was sorry for blowing his stack.

Mick Stranahan said, “To trust yourself to a hack like Graveline, Jesus, it's pathetic. And for what? Half an inch off your hips. A polyurethane dimple in your chin. Plastic bags inside your breasts. Think about it: A hundred years from now, your coffin cracks open and there's nothing inside but two little bags of silicone. No flesh, no bones, everything's turned to ashes except for your boobs. They're bionic. Eternal!”

In a small voice Heather said, “But everybody does it.”

Stranahan tore off the blanket, and for the first time Heather was truly afraid. He told her to stand up.

“Look at yourself.”

Diffidently she lowered her eyes.

“There's not a thing wrong with you,” Stranahan said. “Tell me what's wrong with you.”

The wind shook the shutters, and shafts of cold air sliced the room. Heather shivered, sat down, and put her hands over her nipples. Stranahan folded his arms as if he were awaiting something: an explanation.

“You're a man, I don't expect you to understand.” She wondered if he would try to touch her in some way.

“Vanity I understand,” Stranahan said. “Men are experts on the subject.” He picked the blanket off the floor. Indifferently he draped it across her lap. “I think there's some warm clothes in one of the drawers.”

He found a gray sweatsuit with a hood and a pair of men's woolen socks. Hurriedly Heather got dressed. “Just tell me,” she said, still trembling, “why did Rudolph lie about this? I can't get over it—why didn't he do the operation?”

“I guess he was scared. In case you didn't notice, he's crazy about you. He probably couldn't bear the thought of something going wrong in surgery. It's been known to happen.”

“But I paid him,” Heather said. “I wrote the bastard a personal check.”

“Stop it, you're breaking my heart.”

Heather glared at him.

“Look,” said Stranahan, “I've seen his Visa bill. Swanky restaurants, designer clothes, a diamond here and there—you made out pretty well. Did he mention he was going to fly you away on a tropical vacation?”

“I remember him saying something about Costa Rica, of all places.”