Skin Tight (32 page)

“White man tried to burn me out,” he told Christina Marks. “Mick took care of things.”

Stranahan hoisted the duffel bags over his shoulders and trudged toward the house. He said, “Some asshole developer wanted Cartwright's land but Cartwright didn't want to sell. Things got sticky.”

The conch fisherman cut in: “I tell the story better. The man offered me one hunnert towsind dollars to move off the island and when I says no thanks, brother, he had some peoples pour gasoline all on my house. Luckily it rain like hell. Mick got this man arrested and dey put him in the big jail up Miami. That's the God's truth.”

“Good for Mick,” Christina said. Naturally she had assumed that Stranahan had killed the man.

“Asshole got six years and did fifteen months. He's out already.” Stranahan laughed acidly.

“That I didn't know,” Cartwright said thoughtfully.

“Don't worry, he won't ever come back to this place.”

“You don't tink so?”

“No, Cartwright, I promise he won't. I had a long talk with the man. I believe he moved to California.”

“Very fine,” Cartwright said with obvious relief.

House was a charitable description for where the old fisherman lived: bare cinder-block walls on a concrete foundation; no doors in the doorways, no glass in the windows; a roof woven from dried palm fronds.

“Dry as a bone,” Cartwright said to Christina. “I know it don't look like much, but you be dry inside here.”

Gamely she said, “I'll be fine.”

Stranahan winked at Cartwright. “City girl,” he said.

Christina jabbed Stranahan in the ribs. “And you're Daniel Boone, I suppose. Well, fuck you both. I can handle myself.”

Cartwright's eyes grew wide.

“Sorry,” Christina said.

“Don't be,” Cartwright said with a booming laugh. “I love it. I love the sound of a womanly voice out here.”

For lunch he fixed fresh lobster in a conch salad. Afterward he gathered some clothes in a plastic garbage bag, told Mick good-bye, and headed slowly down to the dock.

Christina said, “Where's he going?”

“To the mainland,” Stranahan replied. “He's got a grandson in Florida City he hasn't seen in a while.”

From where they sat, they could see Cartwright's wooden skiff motoring westward across the bay; the old man had one hand on the stem of the throttle, the other shielding his eyes from the low winter sun.

Christina turned to Stranahan. “You arranged it this way.”

“He's a nice guy. He doesn't deserve any trouble.”

“You really think they'll find us all the way out here?”

“Yep,” Stranahan said. He was counting on it.

THE
clerical staff of Kipper Garth's law office was abuzz: Clients—real live clients—were coming in for a meeting. Most of the secretaries had never seen any of Kipper Garth's clients because he generally did not allow them to visit. Normally all contact took place over the telephone, since Kipper Garth's practice was built exclusively on referrals to other lawyers. The rumor this day (and an incredible one, at that) was that Kipper Garth was going to handle a malpractice case all by himself; one of the senior paralegals had been vaguely instructed to prepare a complaint for civil court. The women who worked Kipper Garth's phone bank figured that it must be a spectacularly egregious case if their boss would tackle it solo, for his fear of going to court was well known. Kipper Garth's staff couldn't wait to get a look at the new clients.

They arrived at eleven sharp, a man and a woman. The clerks, secretaries, and paralegals were startled: It was an unremarkable couple in their mid-thirties. The man was medium-build and ordinary looking, the woman had long ash-blond hair and a nice figure. Neither displayed any obvious scars, mutilations, or crippling deformities. Kipper Garth's staff was baffled—the hushed wagering shifted back and forth between psychiatric aberration and sexual dysfunction.

Both guesses were wrong. The problem of John and Marie Nordstrom was far more peculiar.

Kipper Garth greeted them crisply at the door and led them to two high-backed easy chairs positioned in front of his desk. The lawyer was extremely nervous and hoped it didn't show. He hoped he would ask the right questions.

“Mr. Nordstrom,” he began, “I'd like to review some of the material in the state files.”

Nordstrom looked around the elegant office and said: “Are we the only ones?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are we the only ones to sue? Over the phone you said a whole bunch of his patients were suing.”

Kipper Garth tugged restlessly at the sleeves of his coat. “Well, we've been talking to several others with strong cases. I'm sure they'll come around. Meanwhile you and your wife expressed an interest—”

“But not alone,” John Nordstrom said. “We don't want to be the only ones.” His wife reached across and touched his arm. “Let's listen to him,” she said. “It can't hurt.”

Kipper Garth waited for the moment of tension to pass. It didn't. He motioned toward the walnut credenza behind his desk. “See all those files, Mr. Nordstrom? Patients of Dr. Rudy Graveline. Most of them have suffered more than you and your wife. Much more.”

Nordstrom said, “So what's your point?”

“The point is, Mr. Nordstrom, a monster is loose. Graveline is still in business. On a good day his clinic takes in a hundred grand in surgical fees. One hundred grand! And every patient walks in there thinking that Dr. Graveline is one brilliant surgeon, and some of them find out the hard way that he's not. He's a putz.”

Mrs. Nordstrom said: “You don't have to tell us.”

Kipper Garth leaned forward and, ministerially, folded his hands. “For me, this case isn't about money.” He sounded so damn earnest that he almost believed himself. “It isn't about money, it's about morality. And conscience. And concern for one's fellow man. I don't know about you folks, but my stomach churns when I think how a beast like Rudolph Graveline is allowed to continue to destroy the lives of innocent, trusting people.” Kipper Garth swiveled his chair slowly and gestured again at the stacks of files. “Look at all these victims—men and women just like yourselves. And to think that the state of Florida has done nothing to stop this beast. It makes me nauseous.”

“Me, too,” said Mrs. Nordstrom.

“My mission,” continued Kipper Garth, “is to find someone with the courage to go after this man. Shut him down. Bring to light his incompetence so that no one else will have to suffer. The place to do that is the courtroom.”

John Nordstrom sniffed. “Don't tell me the sonofabitch's never been sued before.”

Kipper Garth smiled. “Oh yes. Yes, indeed, Dr. Graveline has been sued before. But he's always escaped the glare of publicity and the scrutiny of his peers. How? By settling the cases out of court. He buys his way out, never goes to trial. This time he won't get off so lightly, Mr. Nordstrom. This time, with your permission, I want to take him to the wall. I want to go all the way. I'm talking about a trial.”

It was a damn mellifluous speech for a man accustomed to bellowing at a speaker box. If not moved, the Nordstroms were at least impressed. A self-satisfied Kipper Garth wondered if he could ever be so smooth in front of a jury.

Marie Nordstrom said: “In person you look much younger than on your billboards.”

The lawyer acknowledged the remark with a slight bow.

Mrs. Nordstrom nudged her husband. “Go ahead, tell him what happened.”

“It's all in the file,” John Nordstrom said.

“I'd like to hear it again,” Kipper Garth said, “in your own words.” He pressed a button on the telephone console, and a stenographer with a portable machine entered the office. She was followed by a somber-looking paralegal wielding a long yellow pad. Mutely they took positions on either side of Kipper Garth. Nordstrom scanned the trio warily.

His wife said: “It's a little embarrassing for us, that's all.”

“I understand,” Kipper Garth said. “We'll take our time.”

Nordstrom shot a narrow look at his wife. “You start,” he said.

Calmly she straightened in the chair and cleared her throat. “Two years ago, I went to Dr. Graveline for a routine breast augmentation. He came highly recommended.”

“Your manicurist,” John Nordstrom interjected, “a real expert.”

Kipper Garth raised a tanned hand. “Please.”

Marie Nordstrom continued: “I insisted that Dr. Graveline himself do the surgery. Looking back on it, I would've been better off with one of the other fellows at the clinic—anyway, the surgery was performed on a Thursday. Within a week it was obvious that something was very wrong.”

Kipper Garth said, “How did you know?”

“Well, the new breasts were quite . . . hard.”

“Try concrete,” John Nordstrom said.

His wife went on: “They were extremely round and tight. Too tight. I mean, they didn't even bounce.”

A true professional, Kipper Garth never let his eyes wander below Mrs. Nordstrom's neckline.

She said: “When I saw Dr. Graveline again, he assured me that this was normal for cases like mine. He had a name for it and everything.”

“Capsular contracture,” said the paralegal, without looking up from her notes.

“That's it,” Mrs. Nordstrom said. “Dr. Graveline told me everything would be fine in a month or two. He said they'd be soft as little pillows.”

“And?”

“And we waited, just like he told us. In the meantime, of course, John kept wanting to try them out.”

“Hey,” Nordstrom said, “I paid for the damn things.”

“I understand,” said Kipper Garth. “So you made love to your wife?”

Nordstrom's cheeks reddened. “You know the rest.”

With his chin Kipper Garth pointed toward the stenographer and the paralegal, both absorbed in transcribing the incident. Nordstrom sighed and said, “Yeah, I made love to my wife. Or tried to.”

“That's when the accident happened between John and my breasts,” continued Mrs. Nordstrom. “I'm not sure if it was the left one or the right one that got him.”

Nordstrom muttered, “I'm not sure, either. It was a big hard boob, that's all I know.”

Kipper Garth said, “And it actually put your eye out?”

John Nordstrom nodded darkly.

His wife said: “Technically they called it a detached retina. We didn't know it was so serious right away. John's eye got swollen and then there was some bleeding. When his vision didn't come back after a few days, we went to a specialist . . . but it was already too late.”

Gently Kipper Garth said, “I noticed that you told the ophthalmic surgeon a slightly different story. You told him you were poked by a Christmas tree branch.”

Nordstrom glared, with his good eye, at the lawyer. “What the hell would
you
have told him—that you were blinded by a tit?”

“It must have been difficult,” Kipper Garth said, his voice rich with sympathy. “And this was your right eye, according to the file.”

“Yeah,” said Nordstrom, pointing.

“They gave him a glass one,” his wife added. “You can hardly tell.”

“
I
can sure as hell tell,” Nordstrom said.

Kipper Garth asked: “Did it affect your work?”

“Are you kidding? I lost my job.”

“Really?” The lawyer suppressed a grin of delight, but mentally tacked a couple more zeros to the pain-and-suffering demand.

Mrs. Nordstrom said: “John was an air-traffic controller. You can well imagine the problems.”

“Yeah, and the jokes,” Nordstrom said bitterly.

Kipper Garth leaned back and locked his hands across his vest. “Folks, how does ten million sound?”

Nordstrom snorted. “Come off it.”

“We get the right jury, we can probably do twelve.”

“Twelve million dollars—no shit?”

“No shit,” said Kipper Garth. “Mrs. Nordstrom, I need to ask you something. Did this, uh, condition with your breasts ever improve?”

She glanced down at her chest. “Not much.”

“Not much is right,” said her husband. “Take my word, they're like goddamn bocci balls.”

The guy would be poison as a witness, Kipper Garth decided; the jury would hate his guts. No wonder other lawyers had balked at taking the case. Kipper Garth thanked the Nordstroms for their time and showed them to the door. He promised to get back to them in a few days with some important papers to review.

After the couple had gone, Kipper Garth ordered the stenographer to transcribe the interview and make a half dozen copies. Then he told the paralegal to type up a malpractice complaint against Dr. Rudy Graveline and the Whispering Palms Spa and Surgery Center.

“Can you handle that?” Kipper Garth asked.

“I think so,” the paralegal said, coolly.

“And afterward go down to the courthouse and do . . . whatever it is needs to be done.”

“We'll go together,” the paralegal said. “You might as well learn your way around.”

Kipper Garth agreed pensively. If only his ski bunny knew what their dalliance had cost him. That his blackmailer was his own frigging brother-in-law compounded the humiliation. “One more question,” Kipper Garth said to his paralegal. “After we file the lawsuit, then what?”

“We wait,” she replied.

The lawyer giggled with relief. “That's all?”