Stranahan said, "That's another thing. I told you to leave your pal with Dr. Leakey."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're such a dolt. I should triple my price."
Chaz stepped gingerly into the canoe. "Where do I sit?"
"You don't sit," Stranahan said. "You kneel."
With long, even strokes he began paddling down the Buttonwood Canal toward Whitewater Bay.
"Can I borrow the bug spray?" Chaz anxiously pointed to a Cutter's squirt bottle in the bottom of the canoe. Stranahan tossed it to him.
"Where we going?" Chaz, spritzing himself.
"There's nothing to be afraid of, as long as you don't tip us over."
"Don't worry, I'm not moving a muscle." Chaz put down the bottle and got a death grip on the sides of the canoe.
"Moccasin Pass. That's where we're headed," Stranahan said. To his knowledge, there was no such place. However, the ominous name produced the desired effect.
"Holy shit," he heard Chaz Perrone murmur.
"Supposedly it's got the biggest water moccasins in the 'glades," Stranahan went on, drawing a defeated groan. In person, Joey's husband was pretty much what Stranahan had expected-soft and whiny under pressure.
"You've also got your crocodiles and sharks, mister," Stranahan said, switching momentarily to his Jerry Lewis voice, "which is why I strongly recommend against flipping the canoe."
Chaz fell silent. When they reached Whitewater, Stranahan stopped paddling and instructed Chaz to turn around, which he did with the utmost care. When Stranahan aimed a flashlight in his face, he flinched and looked away.
Stranahan said, "You're sulking, aren't you? You think I'm having fun at your expense."
To taunt such a pismire was almost unsporting, but it diverted Stranahan from a nagging but barbarous impulse to beat the man into hamburger hash. Perhaps the day for such uncivilized festivities would come, but for now he'd settle for the sight of Charles Perrone's ears turning black with mosquitoes. It had been Joey's fine idea to replace the insect repellent with tap water.
"How'd you get into my house?" Chaz asked.
"Trade secret."
"Are you the one who cut up that picture of my wife and put it under my pillow?"
"No, that would be the picture fairy."
"Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me?" Chaz whacking at both sides of his head.
"Money, for starters."
"There's more?" Chaz hacked out a sour laugh.
"Plus I'd like you to answer a few simple questions. That's it."
"What questions? You're shaking me down over something I didn't even do."
"Fine. Then don't pay me a penny," Stranahan said. "We'll let a jury decide-my word against yours. By the way, have you ever been to scenic Raiford, Florida, home of the Union Correctional prison?"
Chaz swore and slapped himself again on the head.
"Nice shot." Stranahan turned off the flashlight. "I guess the only way to prove I'm not bullshitting is to tell you exactly what happened on the Sun Duchess. Listen carefully."
"I am," Chaz said with a grunt.
"It was a week ago tonight," Stranahan began. "You and your wife came on deck shortly before eleven and walked toward the stern. Nobody was outside because it was raining. Oh, I almost forgot: You were wearing a dark blue blazer and charcoal slacks. Mrs. Perrone had on a cream-colored skirt, white sandals and, I believe, a gold watch on her wrist."
Joey had also told Stranahan the color of her blouse, but he'd forgotten. He flicked on the flashlight and saw that Chaz looked drained and unsteady.
"You want me to keep going?"
"Suit yourself," Chaz croaked.
"So the two of you were standing alongside the rail, Mrs. Perrone just staring out to sea, when you pulled a really clever move," Stranahan said. "You took something from your pocket and dropped it. A coin, a key, something that made a sharp noise. Then you pretended like you were bending down to pick it up-remember?"
From the bow of the canoe, nothing.
"But instead you grabbed your wife by the legs and flipped her overboard. It happened so fast, she didn't have time to fight back. You still with me?"
When Stranahan zapped Joey's husband again with the flashlight, his eyes were wide and glassy. Stranahan had seen similar expressions in the studio of an amateur taxidermist.
"You look like you're coming down with something," he said. "Did you ever get vaccinated against that icky Nile virus?"
Chaz coughed violently. "There's a vaccine?"
If it had been almost anyone else, Stranahan might have felt sorry for the wretched fool.
"Why'd you do it, Chaz?"
"I didn't."
"You're calling me a liar? Ouch."
Chaz said, "Just tell me how much you want."
"Half a million bucks."
"Man, you're fucking crazy."
"Cash," the blackmailer said. "Hundreds are fine."
A light breeze had sprung up from the southeast, nudging the small canoe farther into the vast black bay. The mild rocking motion that Stranahan found so calming seemed to have the opposite effect on Joey Perrone's husband.
He said, "Where'm I supposed to come up with five hundred grand?"
"Hey, Chaz, I've got an idea." Stranahan thinking: It's like shooting fish in a barrel. "You could ask your pal Hammernut!"
No flashlight was required to gauge Dr. Charles Perrone's reaction. The raucous whoop of his vomiting incited a lusty reply from a male heron wading the shoreline a quarter of a mile away.
Mick and Chaz had been gone only twenty minutes when Joey made up her mind to leave the motel room. She put on a baggy cotton jersey and tucked her hair under her Marlins cap and walked down to the docks. In the parking lot she spotted a big black sedan that looked like the one parked in front of Chaz's house the night before. Leaning against the car was a tall, wide man wearing dark overalls over a fuzzy shirt. When Joey got closer, she saw that the shirt was actually a coat of dense body hair.
The man spotted her and said, "Come here, boy." Joey positioned herself beneath one of the light stanchions, in the hope he would see that she wasn't a threat.
The man said, "You deaf, or what? I said to come here."
"You're the bodyguard, aren't you?" Joey asked.
He swatted her with the back of his hand and she went down. With a twist of her jersey he yanked her up off the pavement and dropped her on the trunk of the sedan.
"You ain't no damn boy," he said. "You's a girl."
Joey fumbled to pull down her jersey, which had bunched up around her bra. She faintly tasted blood.
"Hey, don't get freaked. I'm here with the blackmailer."
"No shit?" the man said curiously.
"He's my boyfriend."
The man seemed to want to think about that. Joey let him.
Then he grabbed the back of her neck and said, "I could kill ya right now. Feed ya to the goddamn gators and by dawn there wouldn't be nuthin' left, not even bones."
He was squeezing so hard that Joey feared she would pass out. The man was strong enough to pinch off her head with his fingers.
"And killing me," she said, "would accomplish… what exactly?"
After a moment's contemplation, he let go. "Yeah. It's your boyfriend is the problem."
Joey rubbed her neck. "I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, but if anything happens to him, the cops will be getting a package containing all kinds of interesting tidbits about your client."
"Client?"
"The guy you're guarding. Charles Perrone," Joey said. "Can I ask your name?"
"They call me Tool."
"I'm Anastasia." Ever since she was a little girl, she'd wanted to call herself that. It sounded so much more feminine and elegant than Joey.
The man named Tool said, "Your boyfriend, what's he want from the doc?"
Joey said she didn't know. "I'm just the lookout. He handles the business end."
The man turned halfway and looked toward the boat ramp. "Where's that canal go to?"
"Beats me. Whatcha got stuck on your back?"