Skin Tight (46 page)

Wait'll he realizes who I am, Reynaldo had chortled. Be sure you go extra tight on his face.

Willie had said he needed a soundman, but Reynaldo said no, out of the question; this was to be a streamlined attack.

Willie had said all right, then we need a better signal. Just screaming isn't good enough, he had said. What if somebody else starts screaming first, some other patient?

“Who else would scream your name?” Reynaldo had asked in a caustic tone. “Listen to what I'm saying.”

The plan was bold and outrageous, Willie had to admit. No doubt it would cause a national sensation, stir up all the TV critics, not to mention late-night gag writers. There would be a large amount of cynical speculation among Ray's colleagues that what he really wanted out of this caper was a free nose job—a theory that occurred even to Willie as he listened to Reynaldo map out the big ambush. The possibility of coast-to-coast media ridicule was no deterrent; the man seemed to relish being maligned as a hack and a clown and a shameless egomaniac. He said they were jealous, that's what they were. What other broadcast journalist in America had the guts to go under the knife just to get an interview? Mike Wallace? Not in a million years, the arrogant old prune. Bill Moyers? That liberal pussy would faint if he got a hangnail!

Yeah, Willie had said, it's quite a plan.

Brilliant, Reynaldo had crowed. Try brilliant.

However inspired, the plan's success depended on several crucial factors, not the least of which was the premise that Reynaldo Flemm would be conscious for the interview.

 

 

ALTHOUGH
the surgical procedure known as liposuction, or fat sucking, was developed in France, it has achieved its greatest mass-market popularity in the United States. It is now the most common cosmetic procedure performed by plastic surgeons in this country, with more than 100,000 operations a year. The mortality rate for suction-assisted lipectomy is relatively low, about one death for every 10,000 patients. The odds of complications—which include blood clots, fat embolisms, chronic numbness, and severe bruising—increase considerably if the surgeon performing the liposuction has had little or no training in the procedure. Rudy Graveline fell decisively into this category—a doctor who had taken up liposuction for the simple reason that it was exceedingly lucrative. No state law or licensing board or medical review committee required Rudy to study liposuction first, or become proficient, or even be tested on his surgical competence before trying it. The same libertarian standards applied to rhinoplasties or hemorrhoidectomies or even brain surgery: Rudy Graveline was a licensed physician, and legally that meant he could try any damn thing he wanted.

He did not give two hoots about certification by the American Board of Plastic Surgery, or the American Academy of Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery, or the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons. What were a couple more snotty plaques on the wall? His patients could care less. They were rich and vain and impatient. In some exclusive South Florida circles, Rudy's name carried the glossy imprimatur of a Gucci or a de La Renta. The lacquered old crones at La Gorce or the Biltmore would point at each other's shiny chins and taut necks and sculpted eyelids and ask, not in a whisper but a haughty bray, “Is that a Graveline?”

Rudy was a designer surgeon. To have
him
suck your fat was an honor, a social plum, a mark (literally) of status. Only a boor, white trash or worse, would ever question the man's techniques or complain about the results.

Ironically, most of the surgeons who worked for Rudy Graveline at Whispering Palms were completely qualified to do suction lipectomies; they had actually trained for it—studied, observed, practiced. While Rudy admired their dedication, he thought they were overdoing things—after all, how difficult could such an operation really be? The fat itself was abundantly easy to find. Suck it out, close 'em up, next case! Big deal.

To be on the safe side, Rudy read two journal articles about liposuction and ordered an instructional videocassette for $26.95 from a medical-supply firm in Chicago. The journal articles turned out to be dense and fairly boring, but the video was an inspiration. Rudy came away convinced that any fool doctor with half a brain could vacuum fat with no problem.

The typical lipectomy patient was not a grotesque hypertensive blimp, but—like Johnny LeTigre—a healthy person of relatively normal stature and weight. The object of their complaint was medically mundane—bumper-car hips, droopy buttocks, gelatinous thighs, or old fashioned “love handles” at the waist. Properly performed, liposuction would remove localized pockets of excess fat to improve and smooth the body's natural contour. Improperly performed, the surgery would leave a patient lumpy and lopsided and looking for a lawyer.

On the morning of Reynaldo Flemm's undercover mission, nothing as sinister as a premonition caused Rudy Graveline to change his mind about doing the nose job first. What changed the doctor's mind, as usual, was money. Because a lipectomy usually required general anesthesia, it was more labor-intensive (and costly) than a simple rhinoplasty. Rudy figured the sooner he could get done with the heavy stuff, the sooner he could get the anesthetist and her gas machine off the clock. He could do the rhino later with intravenous sedation, which was much cheaper.

That Rudy Graveline could still worry about overhead at this point, with his career crumbling, was a tribute both to his power of concentration and his ingrained devotion to profit.

He grabbed a gloveful of Reynaldo Flemm's belly roll and gave a little squeeze. Paydirt. Fat city.

Rudy selected a Number 15 blade and made a one-quarter inch incision in Reynaldo's navel. Through this convenient aperture Rudy inserted the cannula, a long tubular instrument that resembled in structure the nose of an anteater. Rudy rammed the blunt snout of the cannula into the soft meat of Reynaldo's abdomen, then scraped the instrument back and forth to break up the tissue. With his right foot the surgeon tapped a floor pedal that activated a suction machine, which vacuumed the fat particles through small holes in the tip of the cannula, down a long clear plastic tube to a glass bottle.

Within moments, the first yellow glops appeared.

Johnny LeTigre's spare tire!

Soon he would be a new man.

 

 

IN
the waiting room, Willie got to talking with some of the other patients. There was a charter-boat captain with a skin cancer the size of a toad on his forehead. There was a dancer from the Miami ballet who was getting her buttocks suctioned for the second time in as many years. There was a silver-haired Nicaraguan man whom Willie had often seen on television—one of the
contra
leaders—who was getting his eyelids done for eighteen hundred dollars. He said the CIA was picking up the tab.

The one Willie liked best was a red-haired stripper from the Solid Gold club up in Lauderdale. She was getting new boobs, of course, but she was also having a tattoo removed from her left thigh. When the stripper heard that Willie was from PBS, she asked if she could be in his documentary and hiked up her corduroy miniskirt to show off the tattoo. The tattoo depicted a green reticulated snake eating itself. Willie said, in a complimentary way, that he had never seen anything like it. He made sure to get the stripper's phone number so that he could call her about the imaginary program.

The hour passed without a peep from Reynaldo Flemm, and Willie began to get jittery. Reynaldo had said give it to nine o'clock before you freak, and now it was nine o'clock. The halls of Whispering Palms were quiet enough that Willie was certain he would have heard a scream. He asked the ballet dancer, who had been here before, how far it was from the waiting area to the operating room.

“Which operating room?” she replied. “They've got four.”

“Shit,” said Willie. “Four?”

This was shocking news. Reynaldo Flemm had made it sound like there was only one operating room, and that he would be easy to find. More worried than ever, Willie decided to make his move. He hoisted the Beta-cam to his shoulder, checked the mike and the cables and the belt pack and the battery levels, turned on the Frezzi light (which caused the other patients to mutter and shield their eyes), and went prowling through the corridors in search of Reynaldo Flemm.

 

 

WHEN
the telephone on the wall started tweeting, Dr. Rudy Graveline glanced up from Johnny LeTigre's gut and said: “Whoever it is, I'm not here.”

The circulating nurse picked up the phone, listened for several moments, then turned to the doctor. “It's Ginny at the front desk. There's a man with a minicam running all over the place.”

Rudy's surgical mask puckered. “Tell her to call the police. . . . No! Wait—” Oh Jesus. Stay calm. Stay extremely calm.

“He just crashed in on Dr. Kloppner in Suite D.”

Rudy grunted unhappily. “What does he want? Did he say what he wants?”

“He's looking for you. Should I tell Ginny to call the cops or what?”

The nurse-anesthetist interrupted: “Let's not do anything until we finish up here. Let's close up this patient and get him off the table.”

“She's right,” Rudy said. “She's absolutely right. We're almost done here.”

“Take your time,” the anesthetist said with an edge of concern. Under optimum conditions, Rudy Graveline scared the daylights out of her. Under stress, there was no telling how dangerous he could be.

He said, “What're we looking at here?”

“One more pocket, maybe two hundred cc's.”

“Let's do it, okay?”

The wall phone started tweeting again.

“Screw it,” said Rudy. “Let it go.”

He gripped the cannula like a carving knife, scraping frenetically at the last stubborn colony of fat inside Reynaldo's midriff. The suction machine hummed contentedly as it filled the glass jar with gobs of unwanted pudge.

“One more minute and we're done,” Rudy said.

Then the doors opened and an awesome white light bathed the operating room. The beam was brighter and hotter than the surgical lights, and it shone from the top of a camera, which sat like a second head on the shoulder of a man. A man who had no business in Rudy Graveline's operating room.

The guy with the camera cried out: “Ray!”

Rudy said, “Get out of here this minute.”

“Are you Dr. Graveline?”

Rudy's hand continued to work on Reynaldo Flemm's belly. “Yes, I'm Dr. Graveline. But there's nobody named Ray here. Now get out before I phone the police.”

But the man with the camera on his shoulder shuffled closer, scorching the operating team with his fierce, hot light. The anesthetist, the scrub nurse, the circulating nurse, even Rudy flinched from the glare. The camera-headed man approached the table and zoomed in on the sleeping patient's face, which was partially concealed by a plastic oxygen mask. The voice behind the camera said, “Yeah, that's him!”

“Who?” Rudy said, rattled. “That's Ray?”

“Reynaldo Flemm!”

The scrub nurse said: “I told you he looked familiar.”

Again Rudy asked: “Who? Reynaldo who?”

“That guy from the TV.”

“This has gone far enough,” Rudy declared, fighting panic. “You better . . . just get the hell out of my operating room.”

Willie pushed forward. “Ray, wake up! It's me!”

“He can't wake up, you asshole. He's gassed to the gills. Now turn off that spotlight and get lost.”

The scope of the journalistic emergency struck Willie at once. Reynaldo was unconscious. Christina was gone. The tape was rolling. The batteries were running out.

Willie thought: It's up to me now.

The baton microphone, Ray's favorite, the one Willie was supposed to toss to him at the moment of ambush, was tucked in Willie's left armpit. Grunting, contorting, shifting the weight of the Beta-cam on his shoulder, Willie was able to retrieve the mike with his right hand. In an uncanny imitation of Reynaldo Flemm, Willie thrust it toward the face of the surgeon.

Above the surgical mask, Rudy Graveline's eyes grew wide and fearful. He stared at the microphone as if it were the barrel of a Mauser. From behind the metallic hulk of the minicam, the voice asked: “Did you kill Victoria Barletta?”

A bullet could not have struck Rudy Graveline as savagely as those words.

His spine became rigid.

The pupils of his eyes shrunk to pinpricks.

His muscles cramped, one by one, starting in his toes. His right hand, the one that held the cannula, the one buried deep in the livid folds of Reynaldo Flemm's freshly vacuumed tummy—his right hand twisted into a spastic nerveless talon.

With panic welling in her voice, the anesthetist said: “All right, that's it!”

“Almost done,” the surgeon said hoarsely.

“No, that's enough!”

But Dr. Rudy Graveline was determined to finish the operation. To quit would be an admission of . . .
something.
Composure—that's what they taught you at Harvard. Above all, a physician must be composed. In times of crisis, patients and staff relied on a surgeon to be cool, calm, and composed. Even if the man lying on the operating table turned out to be . . . Reynaldo Flemm, the notorious undercover TV reporter! That would explain the woozy babbling while he was going under—the jerkoff wasn't talking about Victoria Principal, the actress. He was talking about Victoria Barletta, she of the fateful nose job.

The pain of the muscle cramps was so fierce that it brought viscous tears to Rudy Graveline's eyes. He forced himself to continue. He lowered his right shoulder into the rhythm of the liposuction, back and forth in a lumberjack motion, harder and harder.