The grisly mishap and subsequent murder of the offending doctor put an end to Chemo’s political career. He swore off public service forever.
They rented an Aquasport and docked it at Sunday’s-on-the-Bay. They chose a table under the awning, near the water.
Chemo ordered a ginger ale and Chloe Simpkins Stranahan got a vodka tonic, double.
“We’ll wait till dusk,” Chemo said.
“Fine by me.” Chloe slurped her drink like a parched coyote. She was wearing a ridiculous white sailor’s suit from Lord and Taylor’s; she even had the cap. It was not ideal boatwear.
“I used to work in this joint,” Chloe said, as if to illustrate how far she’d come.
Chemo said, “This is where you met Mick?”
“Unfortunately.”
The bar was packed for ladies’ night. In addition to the standard assembly of slick Latin studs in lizard shoes, there were a dozen blond, husky mates off the charter boats. In contrast to the disco Dannies, the mates wore T-shirts and sandals and deep Gulf Stream tans, and they drank mostly beer. The competition for feminine attention was fierce, but Chemo planned to be long gone before any fights broke out. Besides, he didn’t like sitting out in the open, where people could stare.
“Have you got your plan?” Chloe asked.
“The less you know, the better.”
“Oh, pardon me,” she said caustically. “Pardon me, Mister James Fucking Bond.”
He blinked neutrally. A young pelican was preening itself on a nearby dock piling, and Chemo found this infinitely more fascinating than watching Chloe Simpkins Stranahan in a Shirley Temple sailor cap, sucking down vodkas. It offended him that someone so beautiful could be so repellent and obnoxious; it seemed damned unfair.
On the other hand, she had yet to make the first wisecrack about his face, so maybe she had one redeeming quality.
“This isn’t going to get too heavy?” she said.
“Define heavy.”
Chloe stirred her drink pensively. “Maybe you could just put a good scare in him.”
“Bet on it,” Chemo said.
“But you won’t get too tough, right?”
“What is this, all of a sudden you’re worried about him?”
“You can hate someone’s guts and still worry about him.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
Chloe said, “Chill out, okay? I’m not backing down.”
Chemo toyed with one of the infrequent black wisps attached to his scalp. He said: “Where does your husband think you are?”
“Shopping,” Chloe replied.
“Alone?”
“Sure.”
Chemo licked his lips and scanned the room. “You see anybody you know?”
Chloe looked around and said, “No. Why do you ask?”
“Just making sure. I don’t want any surprises; neither do you.”
Chemo paid the tab, helped Chloe into the bow of the Aqua-sport and cast off the ropes. He checked his wristwatch: 5:15. Give it maybe an hour before nightfall. He handed Chloe a plastic map of Biscayne Bay with the pertinent channel markers circled in red ink. “Keep that handy,” he shouted over the engine, “case I get lost.”
She tapped the map with one of her stiletto fingernails. “You can’t miss the goddamn things, they’re sticking three stories out of the water.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were drifting through a Stiltsville channel with the boat’s engine off. Chloe Simpkins Stranahan was complaining about her hair getting salty, while Chemo untangled the anchor ropes. The anchor was a big rusty clunker with a bent tongue. He hauled it out of the Aquasport’s forward hatch and laid it on the deck.
Then he took some binoculars from a canvas duffel and began scouting the stilt houses. “Which one is it?” he asked.
“I told you, it’s got a windmill.”
“I’m looking at three houses with windmills, so which is it? I’d like to get the anchor out before we float to frigging Nassau.”
Chloe huffed and took the binoculars. After a few moments she said, “Well, they all look alike.”
“No shit.”
She admitted she had never been on her ex-husband’s house before. “But I’ve been by there in a boat.”
Chemo said, “How do you know it was his?”
“Because I saw him. He was outside, fishing.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Three, maybe four months. What’s the difference?”
Chemo said, “Did Mick know it was you in the boat?”
“Sure he did, he dropped his damn pants.” Chloe handed Chemo the binoculars and pointed. “That’s the one, over there.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Captain Ahab, I am.”
Chemo studied the stilt house through the field glasses. The windmill was turning and a skiff was tied up under the water tanks, but no one was outside.
“So now what?” Chloe said.
“I’m thinking.”
“Know what I wish you’d do? I wish you’d do to him what he did to my male friend. Krazy Glue the bastard.”
“That would settle things, huh?”
Chloe’s tone became grave. “Mick Stranahan destroyed a man without killing him. Can you think of anything worse?”
“Well,” Chemo said, reaching for the duffel, “I didn’t bring any glue. All I brought was this.” He took out the.22 pistol and screwed on the silencer.
Chloe made a gulping noise and grabbed the bow rail for support. So much for poise, Chemo thought.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Stranahan, this is my just-in-case.” He laid the pistol on top of the boat’s console. “All I really need is a little friction.” Smiling, he held up a book of matches from Sunday’s bar.
“You’re going to burn the house down? That’s great!” Chloe’s eyes shone with relief. “Burning the house, that’ll freak him out.”
“Big-time,” Chemo agreed.
“Just what that dangerous lunatic deserves.”
“Right.”
Chloe looked at him mischievously. “You promised to tell me who you really are.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“At least tell me why you’re doing this.”
“I’m being paid,” Chemo said.
“By who?”
“Nobody you know.”
“Another ex-wife, I’ll bet.”
“What didI say?”
“Oh, all right.” Chloe stood up and peered over the gunwale at the slick green water. Chemo figured she was checking out her own reflection.
“Did you bring anything to drink?”
“No,” Chemo replied. “No drinks.”
She folded her arms to show how peeved she was. “You mean, I’ve got to stay out here till dark with nothing to drink.”
“Longer than that,” Chemo said. “Midnight.”
“But Mick’ll be asleep by then.”
“That’s the idea, Mrs. Stranahan.”
“But how will he know to get out of the house?”
Chemo laughed gruffly. “Now who’s the rocket scientist?”
Chloe’s expression darkened. She pursed her lips and said, “Wait a minute. I don’t want you to kill him.”
“W ho asked you?”
A change was taking place in Chloe’s attitude, the way she regarded Chemo. It was as if she was seeing the man for the first time, and she was staring, which Chemo did not appreciate. Her and her tweezered eyebrows.
“You’re a killer,” she said, reproachfully.
Chemo blinked amphibiously and plucked at one of the skin tags on his cheek. His eyes were round and wet and distant.
“You’re a killer,” Chloe repeated, “and you tricked me.”
Chemo said, “You hate him so much, what do you care if he’sdead or not?”
Her eyes flashed. “I care because I still get a check from that son of a bitch as long as he’s alive. He’s dead, I get zip.”
Chemo was dumbstruck. “You get alimony? But you’re remarried! To a frigging CPA!”
“Let’s just say Mick Stranahan didn’t have the world’s sharpest lawyer.”
“You are one greedy twat,” Chemo said acidly.
“Hey, it’s one-fifty a month,” Chloe said. “Barely covers the lawn service.”
She did not notice the hostility growing in Chemo’s expression. “Killing Mick Stranahan is out of the question,” she declared. “Burn up the house, fine, but I don’t want him dead.”