“You’re asking because you know I don’t have to deal, isn’t that right? Maybe that’s true-maybe you’d do me this favor for nothing. But fair is fair, and you ought to get something in return. So, yeah, I’ll lay off. Just like I promised.”
Kipper Garth said, “Then I’ll talk to my guys about getting the damn state files. Give me a name, please.”
“ Graveline,” said Stranahan. “Dr. Rudy Graveline.”
Kipper Garth winced. “Jeez, I’ve heard that name. I think he’s in my yacht club.”
Mick Stranahan clapped his hands. “Yo ho ho,” he said.
Later, on the way to see her plastic surgeon, Tina asked Mick: “Why didn’t you make love to me last night?”
“I thought you enjoyed yourself.”
“It was sweet, but why’d you stop?”
Stranahan said:“Because I’ve got this terrible habit of falling in love.”
Tina rolled her eyes. “After one night?”
“True story,” Stranahan said. “All five of the women I married, I proposed to them the first night we went to bed.”
“Before or after?” Tina asked.
“After,” he said. “It’s like a disease. The scary part is, they tendto say yes.”
“Notme.”
“I couldn’t take that chance.”
“You’re nuts,” Tina said. “Does this mean we’re never gonna do it?”
Stranahan sighed, feeling old and out of it. His ex-wife just gets murdered, some asshole doctor’s trying to kill him, a TV crew is lurking around his house-all this, and Tina wants to know about getting laid, wants a time and date. Why didn’t she believe him about the others?
He stopped at a self-service Shell station and filled three plastic Farm Stores jugs with regular unleaded. When he went up to pay, nobody said a word. He put the gallon jugs in the trunk of the Imperial and covered them with a bunch of boat rags.
Back in the car, Tina gave him a look. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’ve got a boyfriend,” Stranahan said, wishing he could’ve come up with something better, more original.
“Ri chie? Richie’s history,” said Tina. “No problemo”
It always amazed Stranahan how they could make boyfriends disappear, snap, just like that.
“So,” Tina said, “how about tonight?”
“How about I call you,” he said, “when things cool off?”
“Yeah,” Tina muttered. “Sure.”
Stranahan was glad when they got to the doctor’s office. It was a two-story peach stucco building in Coral Gables, a refurbished old house. The plastic surgeon’s name was Dicer. Craig E. Dicer; a nice young fellow, too nice to say anything nasty about Rudy Graveline at first. Stranahan badged him and tried again. Dr. Dicer took a good hard look at the gold State Attorney’s investigator shield before he said: “Is this off the record?”
“Sure,” said Stranahan, wondering: Where do these guys learn to talk like this?
“Graveline’s a butcher,” Dr. Dicer said. “A hacker. Everybody in town’s mopped up after him, one time or another. Fortunately, he doesn’t do much surgery himself anymore. He got wise, hired a bunch of young sharpies, all board certified. It’s like a damn factory up there.”
“Whispering Palms?”
“You’ve seen it?” Dr. Dicer asked.
Stranahan said no, but it was his next stop. “If everybody in Miami knows that Graveline’s a butcher, how does he get any patients?”
Dr. Dicer laughed caustically. “Hell, man, the patients don’t know. You think some housewife wants her tits poofed goes downtown to the courthouse and looks up the lawsuits? No way. Rudy Graveline’s got a big rep because he’s socially connected. He did the mayor’s niece’s chin, this I know for a fact. And old Congressman Carberry? Graveline did his girlfriend’s eyelids. Or somebody at Whispering Palms did; Rudy always takes the credit.”
Tina, who hadn’t been saying much since the car, finally cut in. “Talk to models and actresses,” she said. “Whispering Palms is in. Like tofu.”
“Jesus,” said Stranahan.
Dr. Dicer said, “Can I ask why you’re interested?”
“Really, you don’t want to know,” Stranahan said.
“I guess not.”
“ I want to know,” Tina said.
Stranahan pretended not to hear her. He said to Dr. Dicer: “One more question, then we’ll let you get back to work. This is hypothetical.”
Dr. Dicer nodded, folded his hands, got very studious looking.
Stranahan said: “Is it possible to kill somebody during a nose job?”
By way of an answer, Dr. Dicer took out a pink neoprene replica of a bisected human head, a bronze Crane mallet, and a small Cottle chisel. Then he demonstrated precisely how you could kill somebody during a nose job.
When Chemo got to the Gay Bidet, a punk band called the Chicken Chokers had just finished wringing their sweaty jock straps into a cocktail glass and guzzling it down on stage.
“You’re late,” said Chemo’s boss, a man named Freddie. “We already had three fights.”
“Car trouble,” said Chemo. “Radiator hose.” Not an apology, an explanation.
Freddie pointed at the small bandage and said, “What happened to your chin?”
“A zit,” Chemo said.
“A zit, that’s a good one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Freddie said. “Don’t mean nothing.” He had to watch the wisecracks around Chemo. The man made him nervous as a gerbil. Freaking seven-foot cadaver, other clubs would kill for a bouncer like that.
Freddie said, “Here, you got a message.”
Chemo said thank you, went outside to a pay phone on Collins and called Dr. Rudy Graveline’s beeper. At the tone, Chemo pushed in the number of the pay phone, hung up, and waited. All the way out here, he could hear the next band cranking up. The Crotch Rockets, it sounded like. Their big hit was Lube-Job Lover. Chemo found it somewhat derivative.
The telephone rang. Chemo waited for the third time before picking up.
“We have got a problem.” said Rudy Graveline, raspy, borderline terrified.
Chemo said, “Aren’t you going to ask about my chin?”
No!”
“Well, it stings like hell.”
Dr. Graveline said, “I told you it would.”
Chemo said, “How long’ve I gotta wear the Band-Aid?”
“Till it starts to heal, for Chrissakes. Look, I’ve got a major situation here and if you don’t fix it, the only person’s going to care about your complexion is the goddamn undertaker. One square inch of perfect chin, maybe you’re thinking how gorgeous you look. Well, think open casket. How’s that for gorgeous?”
Chemo absently touched his new bandage. “Why’re you so upset?”
“Mick Stranahan’s alive.”
Chemo thought: The bitch in the sailor suit, she got the wrong house.
“By the way,” Rudy Graveline said angrily, “I‘d like to thank you for not telling me how you drowned the man’s wife in the middle of Biscayne Bay. From what was on TV, I’m just assuming it was you. Had your subtle touch.” When Chemo didn’t respond for several moments, the doctor said: “Well?”
Chemo asked, “Is that a siren at your end?”
“Yes,” Rudy said archly, “yes, that would be a siren. Now, aren’t you going to ask how I know that Stranahan’s still alive?”
“All right,” Chemo said, “how do you know?”
“Because,” the doctor said, “the bastard just blew up my Jag.”
11
Christina Marks knocked twice, and when no one answered she walked in. The man in the hospital bed had a plastic oxygen mask over his mouth. Lying there he looked as small as a child. The covers were pulled up to the folds of his neck. His face was mottled and drawn. When Christina approached the bed, the man’s blue eyes opened slowly and he waved. When he lifted the oxygen mask away from his mouth, she saw that he was smiling.
“Detective Gavigan?”
“Theoneand only.”
“I’m Christina Marks.” She told him why she had come, what she wanted. When she mentioned Vicky Barletta, Timmy Gavigan made a zipper motion across his lips.
“What’s the matter?” Christina asked.
“That’s an open case, lady. I can’t talk about it.” Timmy Gavigan’s voice was hollow, like it was coming up a pipe from his dead lungs. “We got regulations about talking to the media,” he said.