“I’ll bet,” Salazarsaid.
“Joe, be nice,” said his partner. “Tell me, Miss Marks, why’d you want to interview some dweeb P.I.? I mean, he’s nobody. Hasn’t been with the State Attorney for years.”
From his phony coma Stranahan wondered how far Christina Marks would go. Not too far, he hoped.
“The interview involved a story we were working on, and that’s allIcan say.”
Murdock said, “Gee, I hope it didn’t concern a murder.”
“I really can’t-”
“Because murder is our main concern. Me and Joe.”
Christina Marks said, “I’ve cooperated as much as I can.”
“And you’ve been an absolute peach about it,” said Murdock. “Fact, I almost forgot why we came in the first place.”
“Yeah,” said Detective Joe Salazar, “the questions we got, you can’t really answer. Thanks just the same.”
Murdock slid the chair back to the corner. “See, we need to talk to Rip Van Rambo here. So I think you’d better go.” He smiled for the first time. “And I apologize for that wisecrack about the Kotex. Not very professional, I admit.”
“It was tampons,” Joe Salazar said.
“Whatever.”
Christina Marks said, “I’m not leaving this room. This man is recovering from a serious gunshot wound and you shouldn’t disturb him.”
“We spoke to his doctor-”
“You’re lying.”
“Okay, we put in a call. The guy never called back.”
Salazar walked up to the hospital bed and said, “He don’t look so bad. Anyway, three weeks is plenty of time. Wake him up, Johnny.”
“Have it your way,” Christina said. She got a legal pad from her shoulder bag, uncapped a felt-tip pen, and sat down, poised to write.
“Now what the hell are you doing?” Salazar said.
“Forget about her,” Murdock said. He leaned close to Stranahan’s face and sang, “Mi-ick? Mick, buddy? Rise and shine.”
Stranahan growled sleepily, blowing a mouthful of stale, hot breath directly into Murdock’s face.
“Holy Christ,” the detective said, turning away.
Salazar said, “Johnny, I swear he’s awake.” He cupped his hand at Stranahan’s ear and shouted: “Hey, fuckwad, you awake?”
“Knock it off,” Christina said.
“I know how you can tell,” Salazar went on. “Grab his dick. If he’s asleep he won’t do nothing. If he’s awake he’ll jump ten feet out of this frigging bed.”
Murdock said, “Aw, you’re crazy.”
“You think he’d let one of us grab his schlong if he was wide awake? I’m telling you, Johnny, it’s a sure way to find out.”
“Okay, you do it.”
“ Nuh-uh, we flip a coin.”
“Screw you, Joe. I ain’t touching the man’s privates. The county doesn’t pay me enough.”
Stranahan was lying there, thinking: Thattaboy, Johnny, stick tothe book.
From the corner Christina said, “Lay a finger on him, I’ll see that Mr. Stranahan sues the living hell out of both of you. When he wakes up.”
“Not that old line,” Salazar said with a laugh.
She said, “Beat the shit out of some jerk on the street, that’s one thing. Grab a man’s sexual organs while he’s lying unconscious in a hospital bed-try to get the union worked up about that. You guys just kiss your pensions good-bye.”
Murdock shot Christina Marks a bitter look. “When he wakes up, you be sure to tell him something, Tell him we know he drowned his ex-wife, so don’t be surprised if we show up in Stiltsville with a waterproof warrant. Tell him he’d be smart to sell that old house, too, case a storm blows it down while he’s off at Raiford.”
With secretarial indifference, Christina jotted every word on the legal pad. Murdock snorted and stalked out the door. Joe Salazar followed two steps behind, pocketing his own notebook, fumbling for a fresh Camel.
“Lady,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “you got to learn some respect for authority.”
That weekend, a notorious punkband called the Fudge Packers was playing the Gay Bidet. Freddie didn’t like them at all. There were fights every night; the skinheads, the Latin Kings, the 34th Street Players. This is what Freddie couldn’t understand: Why the spooks and spies even showed up for a band like this. Usually they had better taste. The Fudge Packers were simply dreadful-four frigging bass guitars, now what the hell land of music was that? No wonder everybody was fighting: take their minds off the noise.
Since Chemo had disappeared, Freddie had hired a new head bouncer named Eugene, guy used to play in the World Football League. Eugene was all right, big as a garbage dumpster, but he couldn’t seem to get people’s attention me way Chemo did. Also, he was slow. Sometimes it took him five minutes to get down off the stage and pound heads in the crowd. By comparison Chemo had moved like a cat.
Freddie also was worried about Eugene’s pro-labor leanings. One week at the Gay Bidet and already he was complaining about how loud the music was, could they please turn it down? You’re kidding, Freddie had said, turn it down? But Eugene said damn right, his eardrums were fucking killing him. He said if his ears kept hurting he might go deaf and have to file a workman’s comp, and Freddie said what’s that? Then Eugene started going on about all his football injuries and, later, some shit that had happened to him working construction down in Homestead. He told Freddie about how the unions always took care of him, about how one time he was laid up for six weeks with a serious groin pull and never missed a paycheck. Not one.
Freddie could scarcely believe such a story. To him it sounded like something out of Communist Russia. He was delighted the night Chemo came back to work.
“Eugene, you’re fired,” Freddie said. “Go pull your groin someplace else.”
“What?” said Eugene, cocking his head and leaning closer.
“Don’t pull that deaf shit with me,” Freddie warned. “Now get lost.”
On his way out of Freddie’s office, Eugene sized up his towering replacement. “Man, what happened to you?”
“Gardening accident,” Chemo replied. Eugene grimaced sympathetically and said good-bye.
Freddie turned to Chemo. “Thank God you’re back. I’m afraid to ask.”
“Go ahead. Ask.”
“I don’t think so,” Freddie said. “Just tell me, you okay?”
Chemo nodded. “Fine. The new band sounds like vomit.”
“Yeah, I know,” Freddie said. “Geez, you should see the crowd. Be careful in there.”
“I’m ready for them,” Chemo said, hoisting his left arm to show Freddie the new device. He and Dr. Rudy Graveline had found it on sale at a True Value hardware store.
“Wow,” said Freddie, staring.
“I got it rigged special for a six-volt battery,” Chemo explained. He patted the bulge under his arm. “Strap it on with an Ace bandage. Only weighs about nine pounds.”
“Neat,” said Freddie, thinking: Sweet Jesus, this can’t be what I think it is.
A short length of anodyzed aluminum piping protruded from the padding over Chemo’s amputation. Bolted to the end of the pipe was a red saucer-sized disc made of hard plastic. Coiled tightly on a stem beneath the disc was a short length of eighty-pound monofilament fishing line.
Freddie said, “Okay, now I’m gonna ask.”
“It’s a Weed Whacker,” Chemo said. “See?”
15
George Graveline was sun-tanned and gnarled and sinewy, with breadloaf arms and wide black Elvis sideburns. The perfect tree trimmer.
George was not at all jealous of his younger brother, the plastic surgeon. Rudy deserved all the fine things in life, George reasoned, because Rudy had gone to college for what seemed like eternity. In George’s view, no amount of worldly riches was worth sitting in a stuffy classroom for years at a stretch. Besides, he loved his job as a tree trimmer. He loved the smell of sawdust and fresh sap, and he loved gassing yellow jacket nests; he loved the whole damn outdoors. Even Florida winters could get miserably hot, but a person could adjust. George Graveline had a motto by which he faithfully lived: Always park in the shade.