Skin Tight (25 page)

“A gold mine,” Stranahan said encouragingly. “I'll check back in a few days.”

“Mick?”

“Relax. All you've got to do is go down to the courthouse and sue.”

Wanly, Kipper Garth said, “I don't have to win, do I?”

“Of course not,” Stranahan said, patting his arm. “It'll never get that far.”

 

 

DR.
Rudy Graveline lived in a palatial three-story house on North Biscayne Bay. The house had Doric pillars, two spiral staircases, and more imported marble than the entire downtown art museum. The house had absolutely no business being on Miami Beach, but in fairness it looked no more silly or out of place than any of the other garish mansions. The house was on the same palm-lined avenue where two of the Bee Gees lived, which meant that Rudy had been forced to pay about a hundred thousand more than the property was worth. For the first few years the women whom Rudy dated were impressed to be in the Bee Gees' neighborhood, but lately their star value had worn off and Rudy had quit mentioning it.

It was Heather Chappell, the actress, who brought it up first.

“I think Barry lives around here,” she said as they were driving back to Rudy's house after dinner at the Forge.

“Barry who?” Rudy asked, his mind off somewhere.

“Barry Gibb. The singer.
Staying alive, staying alive, ooh, ooh, ooh.
”

As much as he loved Heather, Rudy wished she wouldn't try to sing.

“You know Barry personally?” he asked.

“Oh sure. All the guys.”

“That's Barry's place there,” Rudy Graveline said, pointing. “And Robin lives right here.”

“Let's stop over,” Heather said, touching his knee. “It'll be fun.”

Rudy said no, he didn't know the guys all that well. Besides, he never really liked their music, especially that disco shit. Immediately Heather sank into a deep pout, which she heroically maintained all the way back to Rudy's house, up the stairs, all the way to his bedroom. There she peeled off her dress and panties and lay facedown on the king-sized bed. Every few minutes she would raise her cheek off the satin pillow and sigh disconsolately, until Rudy couldn't stand it anymore.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked. He was in his boxer shorts, standing in the closet where he had hung his suit. “Heather, are you angry?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. Did I say something wrong? If I did, I'm sorry.” He was blubbering like a jerk, all because he wanted to get laid in the worst way. The sight of Heather's perfect bare bottom—the one she wanted contoured—was driving him mad.

In a tiny voice she said, “I love the Bee Gees.”

“I'm sorry,” Rudy said. He sat on the corner of the bed and stroked her peachlike rump. “I liked their early stuff, I really did.”

Heather said, “I loved the disco, Rudy. It just about killed me when disco died.”

“I'm sorry I said anything.”

“You ever made love to disco music?”

Rudy thought: What is happening to my life?

“Do you have any Village People tapes?” Heather asked, giving him a quick saucy look over the shoulder. “There's a song on their first album, I swear, I could fuck all night to it.”

Rudy Graveline was nothing if not resourceful. He found the Village People tape in the discount bin of an all-night record store across from the University of Miami campus in Coral Gables. He sped home, popped the cassette into the modular sound system, cranked up the woofers, and jogged up the spiral staircase to the bedroom.

Heather said, “Not here.” She took him by the hand and led him downstairs. “The fireplace,” she whispered.

“It's seventy-eight degrees,” Rudy remarked, kicking off his underwear.

“It's not the fire,” Heather said, “it's the marble.”

One of the selling points of the big house was an oversized fireplace constructed of polished Italian marble. Fireplaces were considered a cozy novelty in South Florida, but Rudy had never used his, since he was afraid the expensive black marble would blister in the heat.

Heather crawled in and got on her back. She had the most amazing smile on her face. “Oh, Rudy, it's so cold.” She lifted her buttocks off the marble and slapped them down; the squeak made her giggle.

Rudy stood there, naked and limp, staring like an idiot. “We could get hurt,” he said. He was thinking of what the marble would do to his elbows and kneecaps.

“Don't be such a geezer,” Heather said, hoisting her hips and wiggling them in his face. She rolled ever and pointed to the twin smudges of condensation on the black stone. “Look,” she said. “Just like fingerprints.”

“Sort of,” Rudy Graveline mumbled.

She said, “I must be hot, huh?”

“I guess so,” Rudy said. His skull was ready to split; the voices of the Village People reverberated in the fireplace like mortar fire.

“Oh, God,” Heather moaned.

“What is it?” Rudy asked.

“The song. That's my song.” She squeaked to her knees and seized him ferociously around the waist. “Come on down here,” she said. “Let's dance.”

 

 

IN
order to prolong his tumescence, Dr. Rudy Graveline had trained himself to think of anything but sex while he was having sex. Most times he concentrated on his unit trusts and tax shelters, which were complicated enough to keep orgasm at bay for a good ten to fifteen minutes. Tonight, though, he concentrated on something different. Rudy Graveline was thinking of his daunting predicament—of Victoria Barletta and the upcoming television documentary about her death; of Mick Stranahan, still alive and menacing; of Maggie Gonzalez, spending his money somewhere in New York.

More often than not, Rudy found he could ruminate with startling clarity during the throes of sexual intercourse. He had arrived at many crucial life decisions in such moments—the clutter of the day and the pressure from his patients seemed to vanish in a crystal vacuum, a mystic physical void that permitted Rudy to concentrate on his problems in a new light and from a new angle.

And so it was that—even with Heather Chappell clawing his shoulders and screaming disco drivel into his ear, even with the flue vent clanging in the chimney above his head, and even with his knees grinding mercilessly on the cold Italian marble—Rudy was able to focus on the most important crisis of his life. Both pain and pleasure dissipated; it was as if he were alone, alert and sensitized, in a cool dark chamber. Rudy thought about everything that had happened so far, and then about what he must do now. It wasn't a bad plan. There was, however, one loose end.

Rudy snapped out of his cognitive trance when Heather cried, “Enough already!”

“What?”

“I said you can stop now, okay? This isn't a damn rodeo.” She was all out of breath. Her chest was slick with sweat.

Rudy quit moving.

“What were you thinking of?” Heather asked.

“Nothing.”

“Did you come?”

“Sure,” Rudy lied.

“You were thinking of some other girl, weren't you?”

“No, I wasn't.” Another lie.

He had been thinking of Maggie Gonzalez, and how he should have killed her two months ago.

THE
next day at noon, George Graveline arrived at the Whispering Palms surgery clinic and demanded to see his brother, said it was an emergency. When Rudy heard the story, he agreed.

The two men were talking in hushed, worried tones when Chemo showed up an hour later.

“So what's the big rush?” he said.

“Sit down,” Rudy Graveline told him.

Chemo was dressed in a tan safari outfit, the kind Jim Fowler wore on the
Wild Kingdom
television show.

Rudy said, “George, this is a friend of mine. He's working for me on this matter.”

Chemo raised his eyebrows. “Happened to your thumb?” he said to George.

“Car door.” Rudy's brother did not wish to share that painful detail of his encounter with Mick Stranahan.

George Graveline had a few questions of his own for the tall stranger, but he held them. Valiantly he tried not to stare at Chemo's complexion, which George assessed as some tragic human strain of Dutch elm disease. What finally drew the tree trimmer's attention away from Chemo's face was the colorful Macy's shopping bag in which Chemo concealed his newly extended left arm.

“Had an accident,” Chemo explained. “I'm only wearing this until I get a customized cover.” He pulled the shopping bag off the Weed Whacker. George Graveline recognized it immediately—the lightweight household model.

“Hey, that thing work?”

“You bet,” Chemo said. He probed under his arm until he found the toggle switch that jolted the Weed Whacker to life. It sounded like a blender without the top on.

George grinned and clapped his hands.

“That's enough,” Rudy said sharply.

“No, watch,” said Chemo. He ambled to the corner of the office where Rudy kept a beautiful potted rubber plant.

“Oh no,” the doctor said, but it was too late. Gleefully Chemo chopped the rubber plant into slaw.

“Yeah!” said George Graveline.

Rudy leaned over and whispered, “Don't encourage him. He's a dangerous fellow.”

Basking in the attention, Chemo left the Weed Whacker unsheathed. He sat down next to the two men and said, “Let's hear the big news.”

“Mick Stranahan visited George yesterday,” Rudy said. “Apparently the bastard's not giving up.”

“What'd he say?”

“All kinds of crazy shit,” George said.

Rudy had warned his brother not to tell Chemo about Victoria Barletta or the wood chipper or Stranahan's specific accusation about what had happened to the body.

Rudy twirled his eyeglasses and said: “I don't understand why Stranahan is so damn hard to kill.”

“Least we know he's out of the hospital,” Chemo said brightly. “I'll get right on it.”

“Not just yet,” Rudy said. He turned to his brother. “George, could I speak to him alone, please?”

George Graveline nodded amiably at Chemo on his way out the door. “Listen, you ever need work,” he said, “I could use you and that, uh . . .”

“Prosthesis,” Chemo said. “Thanks, but I don't think so.”

When they were alone, Rudy opened the top drawer of his desk and handed Chemo a large brown envelope. Inside the envelope were an eight-by-ten photograph, two thousand dollars in traveler's checks, and an airline ticket. The person in the picture was a handsome, sharp-featured woman with brown eyes and brown hair; her name was printed in block letters on the back of the photograph. The plane ticket was round-trip, Miami to La Guardia and back.

Chemo said, “Is this what I think it is?”

“Another job,” Dr. Rudy Graveline said.

“It'll cost you.”

“I'm prepared for that.”

“Same as the Stranahan deal,” Chemo said.

“Twenty treatments? You don't
need
twenty more treatments. Your face'll be done in two months.”

“I'm not talking about dermabrasion,” Chemo said. “I'm talking about my ears.”

Rudy thought: Dear God, will it never end? “Your ears,” he said to Chemo, “are the last things that need surgical attention.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. All I'm saying is, once we finish the dermabrasions you'll look as good as new. I honestly don't believe you'll want to touch a thing, that's how good your face is going to look.”

Chemo said, “My ears stick out too far and you know it. You want me to do this hit, you'll fix the damn things.”

“Fine,” Rudy Graveline sighed, “fine.” There was nothing wrong with the man's ears, only what was between them.

Chemo tucked the envelope into his armpit and bagged up the Weed Whacker. “Oh yeah, one more thing. I'm out of that stuff for my face.”

“What stuff?”

“You know,” Chemo said, “the Wite-Out.”

Rudy Graveline found a small bottle in his desk and tossed it to Chemo, who slipped it into the breast pocket of his Jim Fowler safari jacket. “Call you from New York,” he said.

“Yes,” said Rudy wearily. “By all means.”

CHRISTINA
Marks slipped out of the first-class cabin while Reynaldo Flemm was autographing a cocktail napkin for a flight attendant. The flight attendant had mistaken the newly bewigged Reynaldo for David Lee Roth, the rock singer. The Puerto Rican mustache looked odd with all that blond hair, but the flight attendant assumed it was meant as a humorous disguise.