Finally the actress got in, the taxi drove off, and it was just the stranger and Rudy Graveline alone in the parking lot. When the man introduced himself, Rudy tried very hard not to act terrified. Mick Stranahan said that he wasn’t yet certain why Dr. Graveline was trying to have him killed, but that it was a very bad idea, overall. Dr. Graveline replied that he didn’t know what on earth the man was talking about. Then Mick Stranahan walked across the parking lot, got in his Chrysler, turned on the ignition, placed a coconut on the accelerator, got out of the car, reached through the driver’s window and slipped it into Drive. Then he jumped out of the way and watched the Imperial plow directly into the rear of Dr. Rudy Graveline’s black Jaguar sedan. The impact, plus the three jugs of gasoline that Mick Stranahan had strategically positioned in the Jaguar’s trunk, caused the automobile to explode in a most spectacular way.
When Rudy Graveline recounted this story to Detective Sergeant Al Garcia, he left out two details-the name of the man who did it, and the reason.
“He never said why?” said Al Garcia, all eyebrows.
“Not a word,” lied Dr. Graveline. “He just destroyed my car and walked away. The man was obviously deranged.”
Garcia grunted and folded his arms. Smoke was still rising from the Jag, which was covered with foam from the firetrucks. Rudy acted forlorn about the car, but Garcia knew the truth. The only reason the asshole even bothered with the police was for the insurance company.
The detective said, “You don’t know the guy who did this?”
“Never saw him before.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Rudy said, “Sergeant, I don’t know what you mean.”
Garcia was tempted to come out and ask the surgeon if it were true that he was trying to bump off Mick Stranahan, like Stranahan had said. That was a fun question, the kind Garcia loved to ask, but the timing wasn’t right. For now, he wanted Rudy Graveline to think of a him as a big, dumb cop, not a threat.
“A purely random attack,” Garcia mused.
“It would appear so,” Rudy said.
“And you say the man was short and wiry?”
“Yes,” Rudy said.
“How short?”
“Maybe five one,” Rudy said. “And he was black.”
“How black?”
“Very black,” the doctor said. “Black as my tires.”
Al Garcia dropped to a crouch and shone his flashlight on the front hub of the molten Jag. “Michelins,” he noted. “The man was as black as Michelins.”
“Yes, and he spoke no English.”
“Really. What language was it?”
“Creole,” Rudy Graveline said. “I’m pretty sure.”
Garcia rubbed his chin. “So what we’ve got in the way of an arsonist,” he said, “is a malnourished Haitian midget.”
Rudy frowned. “No,” he said seriously, “he was taller than that.”
Garcia said the man apparently had picked the trunk lock in order to put the containers of gasoline inside the doctor’s car. “That shows some thinking,” the detective said.
“Could still be crazy,” Rudy said. “Crazy people can surprise you.”
One tow truck driver put the hooks on what was left of Rudy’s black Jaguar. Another contemplated the remains of the Chrysler Imperial, which Garcia kept referring to as “that ugly piece of elephant shit.” His hatred for Chryslers went back to his patrol days.
Le nnie Goldberg, a detective from Intelligence, came up and said, “So, what do you think, Al? Think it was Cubans?”
“No, Lennie, I think it was the Shining Path. Or maybe the freaking Red Brigade.” It took Lennie Goldberg a couple of beats to catch on. Irritably Garcia said, “Would you stop this shit about the Cubans? This was a routine car bomb, okay? No politics, no Castro, no CIA. No fucking Cubans, got it?”
“Jeez, Al, I was just asking.” Lennie thought Garcia was getting very touchy on the subject.
“Use your head, Lennie.” Garcia pointed at the wreck. “This look like an act of international terrorism? Or does it look like some dirtball in a junker went nuts?”
Lennie said, “Could be either, Al. With bombings, sometimes you got to look closely for the symbolism. Maybe there’s a message in this. Aren’t Jaguars manufactured in Britain? Maybe this is the IRA.”
Garcia groaned. A message, for Christ’s sake. And symbolism! This is what happens when you put a moron in the intelligence unit: he gets even dumber.
A uniformed cop handed Rudy Graveline a copy of the police report. The doctor folded it carefully with three creases, like a letter, and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Al Garcia turned his back on Lennie Goldberg and said to Rudy, “Don’t worry, we’ll find the guy.”
“Y ou will?”
“No sweat,” said Garcia, noticing how uncomfortable Rudy seemed. “We’ll run the V.I.N. number on the Chrysler and come up with our Haitian dwarf, or whatever.”
“Probably a stolen vehicle,” Rudy remarked.
“Probably not,” said Al Garcia. Vehicle? Now the guy was doing Jack Webb. Garcia said: “No, sir, this definitely was a premeditated act, the act of a violent and unstable perpetrator. We’ll do our best to solve it, Doctor, you’ve got my word.”
“Really, it’s not that big a deal.”
“Oh, it is to us,” Garcia said. “It is indeed a big deal.”
“Well, I know you’re awfully busy.”
“Oh, not too busy for something like this,” Garcia said in the heartiest of tones. “The firebombing of a prominent physician-are you kidding? Starting now, Dr. Graveline, your case is priority one.”
Garcia was having a ball, acting so damn gung ho; the doctor looked wan and dyspeptic.
The detective said, “You’ll be hearing back from me real soon.”
“I will?” said Rudy Graveline.
Reynaldo Flemm had been in a dark funk since his clandestine visit to Whispering Palms. Dr. Graveline had lanced his ego; this, without knowing Reynaldo’s true identity or the magnitude of his fame. Three days had passed, and Flemm had scarcely been able to peek out the door of his Key Biscayne hotel room. He had virtually stopped eating most solid food, resorting to a diet of protein cereal and lemon Gatorade. Every time Christina Marks knocked, Reynaldo would call out that he was in the bathroom, sick to his stomach, which was almost true. He couldn’t tear himself away from the mirror. The surgeon’s dire assessment of Reynaldo’s nose-”two sizes too large for your face”-was savage by itself, but the casual criticism of his weight was paralyzing.
Flemm was examining himself naked in the mirror when Christina came to the door again.
“I’m sick,” he called out.
“Ray, this is stupid,” Christina scolded from the hallway. She didn’t know about his trip to the clinic. “We’ve got to talk about Maggie,” she said.
There was the sound of drawers being opened and closed, and maybe a closet. For a moment Christina thought he might be getting ready to emerge.
“Ray?”
“What about Maggie?” he said. Now it sounded like he was inches from the door. “Didn’t you straighten out that shit about 20/20?”
Christina said, “That’s what we have to talk about. Fifteen thousand is ludicrous. Let me in, Ray.”
“I’m not well.”
“Open the damn door or I’m calling New York.”
“No, Chris, I’m not at my best.”
“Ray, I’ve seen you at your best, and it’s not all that great. Let me in, or I start kicking.” And she did. Reynaldo Flemm couldn’t believe it, the damn door was jumping off its hinges.
“Hey, stop!” he cried, and opened it just a crack.
Christina saw that he wore a towel around his waist, and nothing else. A bright green pair of elastic cyclist shorts lay on the floor.
“Hawaii?” Christina said. “You told that bimbette we’d send herto Hawaii.”
Reynaldo said, “What choice did I have? You want to lose this story?”