“I came by to pick up my shotgun,” he said.
His sister’s eyes went from green to gray, like when they were kids and she was onto him.
“I got a seagull problem out at the house,” Stranahan said.
Kate said, “Oh? What happened to those plastic owls?”
“Didn’t work,” Stranahan said. “Gulls just crapped all over ‘em.”
They went into Kipper Garth’s study, the square footage of which exceeded that of Stranahan’s entire house. His shotgun, a Remington pump, was locked up with some fancy filigreed bird guns in a maplewood rack. Kate got the key from a drawer in her husband’s desk. Stranahan took the Remington down and looked it over.
Kate noticed his expression and said, “Kip used it once or twice up North. For pheasant.”
“He could’ve cleaned off the mud, at least.”
“Sorry, Mick.”
“The man is hopeless.”
Kate touched his arm and said, “He’ll be home in an hour. Would you stay?”
“I can’t.”
“As a favor, please. I’d like you to straighten out this lawsuit nonsense once and for all.”
“Nothing to straighten out, Katie. The little monkey wants to sue me, fine. I understand.”
The dispute stemmed from a pending disbarment proceeding against Kipper Garth, who stood accused of defrauding an insurance company. One of Kipper Garth’s clients had claimed eighty percent disability after tripping over a rake on the seventeenth hole of a golf course. Three days after the suit had been filed, the man was dumb enough to enter the 26-kilometer Orange Bowl Marathon, dumb enough to finish third, and dumb enough to give interviews to several TV sportscasters.
It was such an egregious scam that even the Florida Bar couldn’t ignore it, and with no encouragement Mick Stranahan had stepped forward to testify against his own brother-in-law. Some of what Stranahan had said was fact, and some was opinion; Kipper Garth liked none of it and had threatened to sue for defamation.
“It’s getting ridiculous,” Kate said. “It really is.”
“Don’t worry, he won’t file,” Stranahan said. “He couldn’t find the goddamn courthouse with a map.”
“Will you ever let up? This is my husband you’re talking about.”
Stranahan shrugged. “He’s treating you well?”
“Like a princess. Now will you let up?”
“Sure, Katie.”
At the door, she gave him a worried look and said, “Be careful with the gun, Mick.”
“No problem,” he said. “Tell Jocko I was here.”
“Not hello? Or maybe Happy New Year?”
“No, just tell him I was here. That’s all.”
Stranahan got back to the marina and wrapped the shotgun in an oilcloth and slipped it lengthwise under the seats of the skiff. He headed south in a biting wind, taking spray over the port side and bouncing hard in the troughs. It took twenty-five minutes to reach the stilt house; Stranahan idled in on a low tide. As soon as he tied off, he heard voices up above and bare feet on the planks.
He unwrapped the shotgun and crept up the stairs.
Three naked women were stretched out sunning on the deck. One of them, a slender brunette, looked up and screamed. The others reflexively scrambled for their towels.
Stranahan said, “What are you doing on my house?”
“Are you about to shoot us?” the brunette asked.
“I doubt it.”
“We didn’t know this place was yours,” said another woman, a bleached blonde with substantial breasts.
Stranahan muttered and opened the door, which was padlocked from the outside. This happened occasionally-sunbathers or drunken kids climbing up on the place when he wasn’t home. He put the gun away, got a cold beer, and came back out. The women had wrapped themselves up and were gathering their lotions and Sony Walk-Mans.
“W here’s your boat?” Stranahan asked.
“Way out there,” the brunette said, pointing.
Stranahan squinted into the glare. It looked like a big red Formula, towing two skiers. “Boyfriends?” he said.
The bleached blonde nodded. “They said this place was deserted. Honest, we didn’t know. They’ll be back at four.”
“It’s all right, you can stay,” he said. “It’s a nice day forthe water.” Then he went back inside to clean the shotgun. Before long, the third woman, a true blonde, came in and asked for a glass of water.
“Take a beer,” Stranahan said. “I’m saving the water.”
She was back to her naked state. Stranahan tried to concentrate on the Remington.
“I’m a model,” she announced, and starting talking. Name’s Tina, nineteen years old, born in Detroit but moved down here when she was still a baby, likes to model but hates some of the creeps who take the pictures.
“My career is really taking off,” she declared. She sat down on a bar stool, crossed her legs, folded her arms under her breasts.
“So what do you do?” she asked.
“I’m retired.”
“You look awful young to be retired. You must be rich.”
“A billionaire,” Stranahan said, peering through the shiny blue barrel of the shotgun. “Maybe even a trillionaire. I’m not sure.”
Tina smiled. “Right,” she said. “You ever watch Miami Vice? I’ve been on there twice. Both times I played prostitutes, but at least I had some good lines.”
“I don’t have a television,” Stranahan said. “Sorry I missed it.”
“Know what else? I dated Don Johnson.”
“I bet that looks good on the resume.”
“He’s a really nice guy,” Tina remarked, “not like they say.”
Stranahan glanced up and said, “I think your tan’s fading.”
Tina the model looked down at herself, seemed to get tangled up in a thought. “Can I ask you a favor?”
A headache was taking seed in Mick Stranahan’s brain. He actually felt it sprouting, like ragweed, out of the base of his skull.
Tina stood up and said: “I want you to look at my boobs.”
“ I have. They’re lovely.”
“Please, look again. Closer.”
Stranahan screwed the Remington shut and laid it across his lap. He sat up straight and looked directly at Tina’s breasts. They seemed exquisite in all respects.
She said, “Are they lined up okay?”
“A ppear tobe.”
“Reason I ask, I had one of those operations. You know, a boob job. For the kind of modeling I do, it was necessary. I mean, I was about a thirty-two A, if you can imagine.”
Stranahan just shook his head. He felt unable to contribute to the conversation.
“Anyway, I paid three grand for this boob job and it’s really helped, workwise. Except the other day I did a Penthouse tryout and the photog makes some remark about my tits. Says I got a gravity problem on the left side.”
Stranahan studied the two breasts and said, “Would that be your left or my left?”
“Mine.”
“Well, he’s nuts,” Stranahan said. “They’re both perfect.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“I’ll prove it,” he said, thinking: I can’t believe I’m doing this. He went to the pantry and rummaged noisily until he found what he was searching for, a carpenter’s level.
Tiny eyed it and said, “I’ve seen one of those.”
“Hold still,” Stranahan said.
“What are you going to do?”
“ Just watch the bubble.”
The level was a galvanized steel ruler with a clear cylinder of amber liquid fixed in the middle. Inside the cylinder was a bubble of air, which moved in the liquid according to the angle being measured. If the surface was dead level, the bubble sat at the midway point of the cylinder.
Stranahan placed the tool across Tina’s chest, so that each end rested lightly on a nipple.
“Now look down slowly, Tina.”
“ ‘Kay.”
“ Where’s the bubble?” he said.
“Smack dab in the center.”
“Right,” Stranahan said. “See-they’re lined up perfectly.”
He lifted the ruler off her chest and set in on the bar. Tina beamed and gave herself a little squeeze, which caused her to bounce in a truly wonderful way. Stranahan decided to clean the shotgun one more time.
“Well, back to the sunshine,” Tina laughed, sprinting bare-assed out the door.
“Back to the sunshine,” Mick Stranahan said, thinking that there was no sight in the world like a young lady completely at ease with herself, even if it cost three grand to get that way.