“That depends on the size of the mole.”
“Oh, it’s a big mole,” Reynaldo said. “Like an olive.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to show her the size of his fictional growth.
The nurse said, “May I see it?”
“No!”
“Surely you’re not shy,” she said. “Not in your line of work.”
“I’ll show it to the doctor,” Flemm said. “No one else.”
“Very well, I’ll arrange for an appointment.”
“With Dr. Graveline, please.”
The nurse smiled. “Really, Mr. LeTigre.”
Flemm had come up with the name Johnny LeTigre all by himself. It seemed perfect for a male go-go dancer.
“Dr. Graveline doesn’t do moles,” the nurse said in a chilly tone. “One of our other excellent surgeons can take care of it quite easily.”
“It’s Dr. Graveline or nobody,” Flemm said firmly. “This is my dancing career, my life we’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Graveline is not available.”
“For ten grand I bet he is.”
The nurse tried not to seem surprised. “I’ll be right back,” she said lightly.
When he was alone, Reynaldo Flemm checked himself in the mirror to see how the disguise was holding up. All he needed was a date and time to see the doctor, then he’d come back with Willie and a camera for the showdown-not out on the street, but inside the clinic. And if Graveline ordered them out, Reynaldo and Willie would be sure to leave through the spa exit, tape rolling. It would be dynamite stuff; even Christina would have to admit it.
The nurse returned and said, “Come with me, Mr. LeTigre.”
“Whereto?”
74 Carl Hiaasen
“Dr. Graveline has agreed to see you.”
“Now?” Flemm squeaked.
“He only has a few minutes.”
A cold prickle of panic accompanied Reynaldo Flemm as he followed the nurse down a long pale-blue hallway. About to meet the target of his investigation and here he was, defenseless-no camera, no tape, no notebooks. He could blow the whole story if he wasn’t careful. The only thing in Flemm’s favor was the fact that he also had no script. He wouldn’t know what to ask even if the opportunity presented itself.
The nurse abandoned him in a spacious office with a grand view of north Biscayne Bay, foamy with whitecaps. Reynaldo Flemm barely had time to snoop the joint over before Dr. Rudy Graveline came in and introduced himself. Reynaldo took a good close look, in case he might later have to point him out to Willie from the TV van: Lean build, medium height, sandy brown hair. Had a golfer’s tan but not much muscle. Overall, not a bad-looking guy.
Rudy Graveline didn’t waste any time. “Let’s see your little problem, Mr. LeTigre.”
“Hold on a minute.”
“It’s onlya mole.”
“To you, maybe,” Reynaldo Flemm said. “Before we go any further, I’d like to ask you some questions.” He paused, then: “Questions about your background.”
Dr. Graveline settled in behind a gleaming onyx desk and folded his hands. “Fire away,” he said amiably.
“What medical school did you go to?”
“Harvard,” Rudy replied.
Reynaldo nodded approvingly.
He asked, “How long have you been in practice?”
“Sixteen years,” Dr. Graveline said.
“Ah,” said Reynaldo Flemm. He couldn’t think of much else to ask, which was fine with Rudy. Sometimes patients wanted to know how high the doctor had placed in his med school class (dead last), or whether he was certified by a national board of plastic and reconstructive surgeons (he was not). In truth, Rudy had barely squeaked through a residency in radiology and had never been trained in plastic surgery. Still, no law prevented him from declaring it to be his speciality; that was the beauty of the medical profession-once you got a degree, you could try whatever you damn well pleased, from brain surgery to gynecology. Hospitals might do some checking, but never the patients. And failing at one or more specialties (as Rudy had), you could always leave town and try something else.
Still stalling, Reynaldo Flemm said, “What’s involved in an operation like this?”
“First we numb the area with a mild anesthetic, then we use a small knife to remove the mole. If you need a couple sutures afterward, we do that, too.”
“W hat about a scar?”
“No scar, I guarantee it,” said Dr. Graveline.
“For ten grand, you’re damn right.”
The doctor said, “I didn’t realize male strippers made that much money.”
“They don’t. It’s inheritance.”
If Flemm had been paying attention, he would have noticed a hungry flicker in Dr. Graveline’s expression.
“Mr. LeTigre, you won’t mind some friendly professional advice?”
“Of course not.”
“Your nose,” Rudy ventured. “I mean, as long as you’re going to all the trouble of surgery.”
“What the hell is wrong with my nose?”
“It’s about two sizes too large for your face. And, to be honest, your tummy could probably come down an inch or three. I can do a liposuction after we excise the mole.”
Reynaldo Flemm said, “Are you kidding? There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Rudy said. “This is my specialty. I just thought someone in a job like yours would want to look their very best.”
Flemm was getting furious. “I do look my very best!”
Dr. Graveline put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward.
Gently he said, “With all respect, Mr. LeTigre, we seldom choose to see ourselves the way others do. It’s human nature.”
“I ’ve heard enough,” Reynaldo Flemm snapped.
“If it’s the money, look, I’ll do the mole and the fat suction as a package. Toss in the rhinoplasty for nothing, okay?”
Flemm said, “I don’t need a goddamn rhinoplasty.”
“Please,” said Dr. Graveline, “go home and think about it. Take a good critical look at yourself hi the mirror.”
“Fuck you,” said Reynaldo Flemm, and stormed out of the office.
“It’s no sin to have a big honker,” Rudy Graveline called after him. “Nobody’s born perfect!”
One hour later, as Rudy was fitting a Mentor Model 7000 Gel-Filled Mammary Prosthesis into the left breast of the future Miss Ecuador, he was summoned from the operating suite to take an urgent phone call from New York.
The semi-hysterical voice on the other end belonged to Maggie Gonzalez.
“Take some deep breaths,” Rudy advised.
“No, you listen. I got a message on my machine,” Maggie said. “The phone machine at my house.”
“Who was it from?”
“ Stranahan. That investigator.”
“Really.” Dr. Graveline worked hard at staying calm; he took pride hi his composure. He asked, “What was the message, Maggie?”
“Three words: ‘It won’t work.’ “
Dr. Graveline repeated the message out loud. Maggie sounded like she was bouncing off the walls.
“Don’t come back here for a while,” Rudy said. “I’ll wire you some more money.” He couldn’t think clearly with Maggie hyperventilating into the phone, and he did need to think. It won’t work. Damn, he didn’t like the sound of that. How much did Stranahan know? Was it a bluff? Rudy Graveline wondered if he should call Chemo and tell him to speed things up.
“What are we going to do?” Maggie demanded.
“It’s being done,” the doctor said.
“Good.” Maggie didn’t ask specifically what was being done. Specifically, she didn’t want to know.
After lunch, Mick Stranahan stopped by the VA hospital, but for the second day in a row the nurses told him that Timmy Gavigan was asleep. They said it had been another poor night, that the new medicine was still giving him fevers.
Stranahan was eager to hear what his friend remembered about Dr. Rudy Graveline. Like most good cops, Timmy never forgot an interview; and like most cops, Timmy was the only one who could read his own handwriting. The Barletta file was full of Gavigan-type scribbles.
After leaving the VA, Stranahan drove back to the marina at Key Biscayne. On the skiff out to Stiltsville, he mentally catalogued everything he knew so far.
Vicky Barletta had disappeared, and was probably dead.
Her doctor had closed up shop a few weeks later and bought out his four partners for fifty thousand dollars apiece.