“What are my other options?” Chemo asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, besides these things.” He waved his stump contemptuously at the artificial hands.
“Well,” Rudy said, “frankly, I’moutof ideas.” Hegathered the prostheses from his desk and put them back in the box. “I told you this isn’t my field,” he said to Chemo.
“You keep trying to dump me off on some other surgeon, but it won’t work. It’s you or nobody.”
“I appreciate your confidence,” Rudy said. He leaned forward in his chair and put on his glasses. “Can I ask, what’s that on your face?”
Chemo said, “It’s Wite-Out.”
After a careful pause, Dr. Graveline said, “Can I ask-”
“I might go out to the club later. I wanted to cover up these darn patches.”
Out of pity Rudy had agreed to dermabrade several more one-inch squares along Chemo’s chin.
“You covered them with Wite-Out?”
Chemo said, “Your secretary loaned me a bottle. The color’s just right.”
Rudy cleared his throat. “It’s not so good for your skin. Please, let me prescribe a mild cosmetic ointment.”
“Forget it,” said Chemo. “This’ll do fine. Now what about a new thing for my arm?” With his right hand he gestured at the bandaged limb.
Rudy folded his hands in his lap, a relaxed gesture that damn near exuded professional confidence. “As I said before, we’ve gone over most of the conventional options.”
Chemo said, “I don’t like therapy. I want something easy to use, something practical.”
“I see,” said Rudy Graveline.
“A nd durable, too.”
“Of course.”
“Also, I don’t want people to stare.”
Rudy thought: Beautiful. A seven-foot, one-handed geek with Wite-Out painted on his face, and he’s worried about people staring.
“So what do you think?” Chemo pressed.
“I think,” said Rudy Graveline, “we’ve got to use our imaginations.”
Detective John Murdock bent his squat, porky frame over the rail of the hospital bed and said, “Wake up, fuckwad.”
Which was pretty much his standard greeting.
Mick Stranahan did not open his eyes.
“Get out of here,” said Christina Marks.
Detective Joe Salazar lit a Camel and said, “You don’t look like a nurse. Since when do nurses wear blue jeans?”
“Good point,” said John Murdock. “I think you’re the one should get out of here.”
“Yeah,” said Joe Salazar. “We got official business with this man.” Salazar was as short as his partner, only built like a stop sign. Fat, florid face stuck on a pipestem body.
“Now I know who you are,” Christina said. “You must be Murdock and Salazar, the crooked cops.”
Stranahan nearly busted out laughing, but he pressed his eyes closed, trying to look asleep.
“I see what we got here,” said Murdock. “What we got here is some kinda Lily Tomlin.”
“Sure,” said Joe Salazar, though he didn’t know who his partner was talking about. He assumed it was somebody they’d arrested together. “Sure,” he chimed in, “a regular Lily Thomas.”
Christina Marks said, “The man’s asleep, so why don’t you come back another time?”
“And why don’t you go change your tampon or something?” snapped John Murdock. “We’ve got business here.”
“We got questions,” Joe Salazar added. When he took the Camel cigarette out of his mouth, Christina noticed, the end was all soggy and mulched.
She said, “I was there when it happened, if you want to ask me about it.”
Salazar had brought a Xerox of the marine patrol incident report. He took it out of his jacket, unfolded it, ran a sticky brown finger down the page until he came to the box marked Witnesses. “So you’re Initial C. Marks?”
“Yes,” Christina said.
“We’ve been looking all over Dade County for you. Two, three weeks we’ve been looking.”
“I changed hotels,” she said. She had moved from Key Biscayne over to the Grove, to be closer to Mercy Hospital.
John Murdock, the senior of the two detectives, took a chair from the corner, twirled it around, and sat down straddling it.
“Just like in the movies,” Christina said. “You think better, sitting with your legs like that?”
Murdock glowered. “What suppose we just throw your tight little ass in the women’s annex for a night or two, would you enjoy that? Just you and all the hookers, maybe a lesbo or two.”
“Teach you some manners,” Joe Salazar said, “and that’s not all.”
Christina smiled coolly. “And here I thought you boys wanted a friendly chat. Maybe I’ll just call hospital security and tell them what’s going on up here. After that, maybe I’ll call the newspapers.”
Mick Stranahan was thinking: She’d better be careful. These guys aren’t nearly as dumb as they look.
Murdock said, “One time we booked a big lesbo looked just like Kris Kristofferson. I’m not kidding, we’re talking major facial hair. And mean as a bobcat.”
“Resisting with violence, two counts,” Salazar recalled. “On top of the murder.”
“Manslaughter,” John Murdock cut in. “Actually, woman-slaughter, if there is such a thing. Jesus, what a mess. I can’t even think about it, so close to lunch.”
“Involved a fire hose,” Salazar said.
“I said enough,” Murdock protested. “Anyhow, I think she’s still in the annex. The one who looks like Kristofferson. I think she runs the drama group.”
Salazar said, “You like the theater, Miss Marks?”
“Sure,” Christina said, “but mainly I like television. You guys ever been on TV? Maybe you’ve heard of the Reynaldo Flemm show.”
“Yeah,” Joe Salazar said, excitedly. “One time I saw him get his ass pounded by a bunch of Teamsters. In slow motion, too.”
“ That asshole,” Murdock muttered.
“We finally agree,” Christina said. “Unfortunately, he happens to be my boss. We’re in town taping a big story.”
The two detectives glanced at one another, trying to decide on a plan without saying it. Salazar stalled by lighting up another Camel.
Lying in bed listening, Mick Stranahan figured they’d back off now, just to be safe. Neither of these jokers wanted to see his own face on prime-time TV.
Murdock said, “So tell us what happened.” Salazar stood in the empty corner, resting his fat head against the wall.
Christina said, “You’ve got photographic memories, or maybe you’d prefer to take some notes?” Murdock motioned to his partner, who angrily stubbed out his cigarette and dug a worn spiral notebook from his jacket.
She began with what she had seen from the wheelhouse of Joey’s shrimp boat-the tall man toting a machine gun on the jet scooter. She told the detectives about how Stranahan had battened down the stilt house, and how the man had started shooting into the corners. She told them how Stranahan had been wounded in the shoulder, and how he had fired back with a shotgun until he passed out. She told them she had heard a splash outside, then a terrible cry; ten, maybe fifteen minutes later she’d heard somebody rev up the jet ski, but she was too scared to go to a window. Only when the engine was a faint whine in the distance did she peer through the bullet holes in the front door to see if the gunman had gone. She told the detectives how she had half-carried Stranahan down the stairs to where his skiff was docked, and how she had hand-cranked the outboard by herself. She told them how he had groggily pointed across the bay and said there was a big hospital on the mainland, and by the time they got to Mercy there was so much blood in the bottom of the skiff that she was bailing with a coffee mug.
After Christina had finished, Detective John Murdock said, “That’s quite a story. I bet Argosy magazine would go for a story like that.”
Joe Salazar leafed through his notebook and said, “I think I missed something, lady. I think I missed the part where you explained why you’re at Stranahan’s house in the first place. Maybe you could repeat it.”
Murdock said, “Yeah, I missed that, too.”
“I’d be happy to tell you why I was there,” Christina said. “Mr. Flemm wanted Mr. Stranahan to be interviewed for an upcoming broadcast, but Mr. Stranahan declined. I went to his house in the hopes of changing his mind.”