Skin Tight (10 page)

“Oh, I don't want to play,” Chemo said.

A look of relief spread among the players, and one of them jogged after the basketball.

“I'm looking for a man named Louis Stranahan.”

“He ain't here.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone.”

Chemo said, “Does he have a brother named Mick?”

“He's got six brothers,” one of the basketball players volunteered. “But no Mick.”

“There's a Dick,” said another teenager.

“And a Lawrence.”

Chemo took the list out of his pocket and frowned. Sure enough, Lawrence Stranahan was the second name from the phone book. The address was close by, too.

As Chemo stood there, cranelike, squinting at the piece of paper, the black kids loosened up a little. They started shooting a few hoops, horsing around. The white guy wasn't so scary after all; shit, there were eight of them and one of him.

“Where could I find Louis?” Chemo tried again.

“Raiford,” said two of the kids, simultaneously.

“Raiford,” Chemo repeated. “That's a prison, isn't it?”

With this, all the teenagers doubled up, slapping fives, howling hysterically at this gangly freak with the fuzzballs on his head.

“Fuck, yeah, it's a prison,” one of them said finally.

Chemo scratched the top two Stranahans off his list. As he opened the door of the Bonneville, the black kid who was dribbling the basketball hollered, “Hey, big man, you a movie star?”

“No,” Chemo said.

“I swear you are.”

“I swear I'm not.”

“Then how come I saw you in
Halloween III
?”

The kid bent over in a deep wheeze; he thought this was so damn funny. Chemo reached under the car seat and got a .22-caliber pistol, which was fitted with a cheap mail-order suppressor. Without saying a word, he took aim across the roof of the Bonneville and shot the basketball clean out of the kid's hands. The explosion sounded like the world's biggest fart, but the kids from the project didn't think it was funny. They ran like hell.

As Chemo drove away, he decided he had taught the youngsters a valuable lesson: Never make fun of a man's complexion.

 

 

IT
was half-past noon when Chemo found the third address, a two-story Mediterranean-style house in Coral Gables. An ill-tempered Rottweiler was chained to the trunk of an olive tree in the front yard, but Chemo ambled past the big dog without incident; the animal merely cocked its head and watched, perhaps not sure if this odd extenuated creature was the same species he'd been trained to attack.

Chloe Simpkins Stranahan was on the phone to her husband's secretary when the doorbell rang.

“Tell him, if he's not home by eight, I sell the Dalí. Tell him that right now.” Chloe slammed down the phone and stalked to the door. She looked up at Chemo and said, “How'd you get past the pooch?”

Chemo shrugged. He was wearing black Ray-Bans, which he hoped would lessen the effect of his facial condition. If necessary, he was prepared to explain what had happened; it wouldn't be the first time.

Yet Chloe Simpkins Stranahan didn't mention it. She said, “You selling something?”

“I'm looking for a man named Mick Stranahan.”

“He's a dangerous lunatic,” Chloe said. “Come right in.”

Chemo removed the sunglasses and folded them into the top pocket of his shirt. He sat down in the living room, and put a hand on each of his bony kneecaps. At the wet bar Chloe fixed him a cold ginger ale. She acted like she didn't even notice what was wrong with his appearance.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Collection agent,” Chemo said. Watching Chloe move around the house, he saw that she was a very beautiful woman: auburn hair, long legs, and a good figure. Listening to her, he could tell she was also hard as nails.

“Mick is my ex,” Chloe said. “I have nothing good to say about him. Nothing.”

“He owe you money, too?”

She chuckled harshly. “No, I took him for every goddamn dime. Cleaned his clock.” She drummed her ruby fingernails on the side of the ginger ale glass. “I'm now married to a CPA,” she said. “Has his own firm.”

“Nice to hear it,” Chemo said.

“Dull as a dog turd, but at least he's no lunatic.”

Chemo shifted in the chair. “Lunatic, you keep saying that word. What do you mean? Is Mr. Stranahan violent? Did he hit you?”

“Mick? Never. Not me,” Chloe said. “But he did attack a friend of mine. A male-type friend.”

Chemo figured he ought to learn as much as possible about the man he was supposed to kill. He said to Chloe, “What exactly did Mick do to this male-type friend?”

“It's hard for me to talk about it.” Chloe got up and dumped a jigger of vodka into her ginger ale. “He was always on the road, Mick was. Never home. No doubt he was screwing around.”

“You know for a fact?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“So you got a . . . boyfriend.”

“You're a smart one,” Chloe said mordantly. “A goddamn rocket scientist, you are. Yes, I got a
boyfriend.
And he loved me, this guy. He treated me like a queen.”

Chemo said, “So one night Mr. Stranahan gets home early from a trip and catches the two of you—”

“In action,” Chloe said. “Don't get me wrong, I didn't plan it that way. God knows I didn't want him to walk in on us—you gotta know Mick, it's just not a safe situation.”

“Short fuse?”

“No fuse.”

“So then what?”

Chloe sighed. “I can't believe I'm telling this to some stranger, a bill collector! Unbelievable.” She polished off her drink and got another. This time when she came back from the bar, she sat down on the divan next to Chemo; close enough that he could smell her perfume.

“I'm a talker,” she said with a soft smile. The smile certainly didn't go with the voice.

“And I'm a listener,” Chemo said.

“And I like you.”

“You do?” This broad is creepy, he thought, a real head case.

“I like you,” Chloe went on, “and I'd like to help you with your problem.”

“Then just tell me,” Chemo said, “where I can find your ex-husband.”

“How much are you willing to pay?”

“Ah, so that's it.”

“Everything's got a price,” Chloe said, “especially good information.”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Stranahan, I don't have any money. Money is the reason I'm looking for Mick.”

Chloe crossed her legs, and Chemo noticed a very fine run in one of her nylon stockings; it seemed to go on forever, all the way up her thigh. Who knew where it ended? Internally he cautioned himself against such distractions. Any moment now, she was going to say something about his Rice Krispies face—Chemo knew it.

“You're not a bill collector,” Chloe said sharply, “so cut the shit.”

“All right,” Chemo said. Feverishly he set his limited imagination to work, trying to come up with another story.

“I don't care what you are.”

“You don't?”

“Nope. Long as you're not a friend of Mick's.”

Chemo said, “I'm not a friend.”

“Then I'll help,” Chloe said, “maybe.”

“What about the money?” Chemo said. “The most I can do is a hundred dollars, maybe one fifty.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Christ, he couldn't believe this woman. A hundred bucks.

She said, “But before I agree to help, you ought to know everything. It would be irresponsible for me not to warn you what you're up against.”

“I can handle myself,” Chemo said with a cold smile. Even that—his fractured, cadaverous leer—didn't seem to bother Chloe Simpkins Stranahan.

She said, “So you really don't want to know?”

“Go ahead, then, shoot. What did Stranahan do to your precious boyfriend?”

“He put Krazy Glue on his balls.”

“What?”

“A whole tube,” Chloe said. “He glued the man to the hood of his car. By the balls. Stark naked, glued to the hood of an Eldorado convertible.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Chemo said.

“Ever seen the hood ornament on a Cadillac?”

Chemo nodded.

“Think about it,” Chloe said grimly.

“And glue burns like hell,” Chemo remarked.

“Indeed it does.”

“So Mick came home, caught you two in the sack—”

“Right here on the divan.”

“Wherever,” Chemo said. “Anyway, he hauls Mr. Stud-hunk outside and glues him buck naked to the hood of his Caddy.”

“By the testicles.”

“Then what?”

“That's it,” Chloe said. “Mick packed his suitcase and left. The paramedics came. What more is there?”

“Your male friend—is this the same guy you're married to?”

“No, it isn't,” Chloe said. “My male-type friend never recovered from his encounter with Mick Stranahan. I mean
never recovered.
You understand what I'm saying?”

“I think so.”

“The doctors insisted there was nothing wrong, medically speaking. I mean, the glue peeled off with acetone, and in a few days the skin healed just like new. But, still, the man was never the same.”

Chemo said, “It's a major trauma, Mrs. Stranahan. It probably takes some time—”

He flinched as Chloe threw her cocktail glass against the wall. “Time?” she said. “I gave him plenty of time, mister. And I tried every trick I knew, but he was a dead man after that night with Mick. It was like trying to screw linguini.”

Chemo couldn't imagine the hellish bedroom scene. He felt himself shrivel, just thinking about it.

“I loved that man,” Chloe went on. “At least, I was getting there. And Mick ruined everything. He couldn't just beat the shit out of him, like other jealous husbands. No, he had to torture the guy.”

In a way, Chemo admired Stranahan's style. Murder is the way Chemo himself would have handled the situation: A bullet in the base of the skull. For both of them.

Chloe Simpkins Stranahan was up and pacing now, arms folded across her chest, heels clicking on the Spanish tile. “So you see,” she said, “this is why I hate my ex-husband so much.”

There had to be more, but who cared. Chemo said, “You want to get even?”

“Boy, are you a swifty. Yes, I want to get even.”

“Then why should I pay you anything? You should pay
me.
”

Chloe had to smile. “Good point.” She bent over and picked a chunk of broken glass out of the deep-pile carpet. She looked up at Chemo and asked, “Who are you, anyway?”

“Doesn't matter, Mrs. Stranahan. The question is, how bad do you want revenge on your ex-husband?”

“I guess that is the question,” Chloe said thoughtfully. “How about another ginger ale?”

OF
the four plastic surgeons who had worked with Dr. Rudy Graveline at the Durkos Center, only one had remained in Miami after the clinic closed. His name was George Ginger, and Stranahan found him on a tennis court at Turnberry Isle in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Mixed doubles, naturally.

Stranahan watched the pudgy little man wheeze back and forth behind the baseline, and marveled at the atrociousness of his hair-piece. It was one of those synthetic jobs, the kind you're supposed to be able to wear in the shower. In Dr. George Ginger's case, the thing on his head looked a lot like fresh roadkill.

Each point in the tennis game became its own little comedy, and Stranahan wondered if this stop was a waste of time, an unconscious stall on his part. By now he knew exactly where to l ocate Rudy Graveline; the problem was, he didn't know what to ask him that would produce the truth. It was a long way from Vicky Barletta to Tony the Eel, and Stranahan still hadn't found the thread, if there was one. One way or another, Dr. Graveline was central to the mystery, and Stranahan didn't want to spook him. For now, he wanted him safe and contented at Whispering Palms.

Stranahan strolled into the dead lane of the tennis court and said, “Dr. Ginger?”

“Yo!” said the doctor, huffing.

Stranahan knew about guys who said yo.

“We need to talk.”

“Do we now?” said Dr. Ginger, missing an easy backhand. His doubles partner, a lanky, overtanned woman, shot Stranahan a dirty look.

“Just take a minute,” Stranahan said.

Dr. Ginger picked up two of the tennis balls. “Sorry, but I'm on serve.”

“No, you're not,” Stranahan said. “And besides, that was the set.” He'd been following the match from a gazebo two courts over.

As Dr. Ginger intently bounced one of the balls between his feet, the other players picked up their monogrammed club towels and calfskin racket covers and ambled off the court.

Solemnly George Ginger said, “The tall fellow was my lawyer.”

“Every doctor should have a lawyer,” said Mick Stranahan. “Especially surgeons.”

Ginger jammed the tennis balls into the pockets of his damp white shorts. “What's this all about?”

“Rudy Graveline.”

“I've heard of him.”

This was going to be fun, Stranahan thought. He loved it when they played it cool.

“You worked for him at the Durkos Center,” Stranahan said to George Ginger. “Why don't you be a nice fellow and tell me about it?”

George Ginger motioned Stranahan to follow. He picked a quiet patio table with an umbrella, not far from the pro shop.