Skin Tight

by Carl Hiaasen

  “You noticed.”

  “The machine we use is a Stryker dermabrader—”

  “I don’t care if it’s a fucking Black and Decker, let’s just do it.”

  “Scar tissue is tricky,” Rudy persisted. “Some skin reacts better to sanding than others.” He couldn’t help remembering what had happened to the last doctor who had screwed up Chemo’s face. Getting murdered was even worse than getting sued for malpractice.

  “One little step at a time,” Rudy cautioned. “Trust me.”

  “Fine, then start on the chin, whatever,” Chemo said with a wave of a pale hand. “You’re the doctor.”

  Those magic words.

  How Rudy Graveline loved to hear them.

  COMPARED to other law firms, Kipper Garth’s had the overhead problem licked. He had one central office, no partners, no associates, no “of counsels.” His major expenses were billboard advertising, cable, telephones (he had twenty lines), and, of course, secretaries (he called them legal aides, and employed fifteen). Kipper Garth’s law practice was, in essence, a high-class boiler room.

  The phones never stopped ringing. This was because Kipper Garth had shrewdly put up his billboards at the most dangerous traffic intersections in South Florida, so that the second thing every noncomatose accident victim saw (after the Jaws of Life) was Kipper Garth’s phone number in nine-foot red letters: 555-TORT.

  Winnowing the incoming cases took most of the time, so Kipper Garth delegated this task to his secretaries, who were undoubtedly more qualified anyway. Kipper Garth saved his own energy for selecting the referrals; some P.I. lawyers specialized in spinal cord injuries, others in orthopedics, still others in death-and-dismemberment. Though Kipper Garth was not one to judge a colleague’s skill in the courtroom (not having been in a courtroom in at least a decade), he knew a fifty-fifty fee split when he saw it, and made his referrals accordingly.

  The phone bank at Kipper Garth’s firm looked and sounded like the catalog-order department at Montgomery Ward. By contrast, the interior of Kipper Garth’s private office was rich and staid, lit like an old library and just as quiet. This is where Mick Stranahan found his brother-in-law, practicing his putting.

  “You don’t knock anymore?” said Kipper Garth, eyeing a ten-footer into a Michelob stein.

  “I came to make a little deal,” Stranahan said.

  “This I gotta hear.” Kipper Garth wore gray European-cut slacks, a silk paisley necktie and a bone-colored shirt, the French cuffs rolled up to his elbows. His salt-and-pepper hair had been dyed silver to make him look more trustworthy on the billboards.

  “Let’s forget this disbarment thing,” Stranahan said.

  Kipper Garth chuckled. “It’s a little late, Mick. You already testified, remember?”

  “How about if I agree not to testify next time?”

  Kipper Garth backed away from the next putt and looked up. “Next time?”

  “There’s other cases kicking around the grievance committee, am I right?”

  “But how do you—”

  “Lawyers talk, Jocko.” Stranahan emptied the golf balls out of the beer stein and rolled them back across the carpet toward his brother-in-law. “I’ve still got a few friends in town,” he said. “I’m still plugged in.”

  Kipper Garth leaned his putter in the corner behind his desk. “I’m suing you remember? Defamation, it’s called.”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Mick, I know why you’re here. Chloe’s been killed and you’re afraid you’ll take the fall. You need a lawyer, so here you are, looking for a goddamn freebie.”

  “I said don’t make me laugh.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Who’s getting your malpractice stuff these days?”

  Kipper Garth started flicking through his Rolodex; it was the biggest Rolodex that Stranahan had ever seen, the size of a pot roast. Kipper Garth said, “I’ve got a couple main guys, why?”

  “These guys you’ve got, can they get state records?”

  “What kind of records?”

  Christ, the man was lame. “Discipline records,” Stranahan explained, “from the medical board.”

  “Gee, I don’t know.”

  “There’s a shocker.”

  “What’s going on, Mick?”

  “This: You help me out, I’ll lay off of you. Permanently.”

  Kipper Garth snorted. “I’m supposed to be grateful? Pardon me if I don’t give a shit.”

  Naturally, thought Stranahan, it would come to this. The pertinent papers were wadded in his back pocket. He got them out, smoothed them with the heel of one hand and laid them out carefully, like solitaire cards, on Kipper Garth’s desk.

  The lawyer muttered, “What the hell?”

  “Pay attention,” Stranahan said. “This one here is the bill of sale for your spiffy new Maserati. That’s a Xerox of the check—fifty-seven thousand, eight something, what a joke. Anyway, the account that check was written on is your client’s trust account, Jocko. We’re talking deep shit. Forget disbarment, we’re talking felony.”

  Kipper Garth’s upper lip developed an odd tic.

  “I’m paying it back,” he said hoarsely.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Mick Stranahan said. “Now, some of this other crap—that’s a hotel bill from the Grand Bay in Coconut Grove. Same weekend you told Katie you were in Boston with the ABA. Anyway, it’s none of my business but you don’t look like a man that could drink three bottles of Dom all by your lonesome. See, it’s right there on the bill.” Stranahan pointed, but Kipper Garth’s eyes were focused someplace else, someplace far away. By now his lip was twitching like a porch lizard’s.

  “You,” he said to Stranahan. “You jerk.”

  “Now what’s this dinner for two, Jocko? My sister was at Grandma’s with the kids that night, if memory serves. Dinner for two at Max’s Place, what exactly was that? Probably just a client, no?”

  Kipper Garth collected himself and said, “All right, Mick.”

  “You understand the situation.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was easier than you think,” Stranahan said. “See, once you’re plugged in, it’s hard to get unplugged. I mean, once you know this stuff is out there, it’s real easy to find.” A half dozen phone calls was all it took.

  Kipper Garth began folding the papers, creasing each one with a great deal of force.

  Stranahan said, “What scares you more, Jocko, the Florida Bar, the county jail, or an expensive divorce?”

  Wearily, Kipper Garth said, “Did you mean what you said before, about the disbarment and all that?”

  “You’re asking because you know I don’t have to deal, isn’t that right? Maybe that’s true—maybe you’d do me this favor for nothing. But fair is fair, and you ought to get something in return. So, yeah, I’ll lay off. Just like I promised.”

  Kipper Garth said, “Then I’ll talk to my guys about getting the damn state files. Give me a name, please.”

  “Graveline,” said Stranahan. “Dr. Rudy Graveline.”

  Kipper Garth winced. “Jeez, I’ve heard that name. I think he’s in my yacht club.”

  Mick Stranahan clapped his hands. “Yo ho ho,” he said.

  LATER, on the way to see her plastic surgeon, Tina asked Mick: “Why didn’t you make love to me last night?”

  “I thought you enjoyed yourself.”

  “It was sweet, but why’d you stop?”

  Stranahan said: “Because I’ve got this terrible habit of falling in love.”

  Tina rolled her eyes. “After one night?”

  “True story,” Stranahan said. “All five of the women I married, I proposed to them the first night we went to bed.”

  “Before or after?” Tina asked.

  “After,” he said. “It’s like a disease. The scary part is, they tend to say yes.”

  “Not me.”

  “I couldn’t take that chance.”

  “You’re n
uts,” Tina said. “Does this mean we’re never gonna do it?”

  Stranahan sighed, feeling old and out of it. His ex-wife just gets murdered, some asshole doctor’s trying to kill him, a TV crew is lurking around his house—all this, and Tina wants to know about getting laid, wants a time and date. Why didn’t she believe him about the others?

  He stopped at a self-service Shell station and filled three plastic Farm Stores jugs with regular unleaded. When he went up to pay, nobody said a word. He put the gallon jugs in the trunk of the Imperial and covered them with a bunch of boat rags.

  Back in the car, Tina gave him a look. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You’ve got a boyfriend,” Stranahan said, wishing he could’ve come up with something better, more original.

  “Richie? Richie’s history,” said Tina. “No problema.”

  It always amazed Stranahan how they could make boyfriends disappear, snap, just like that.

  “So,” Tina said, “how about tonight?”

  “How about I call you,” he said, “when things cool off?”

  “Yeah,” Tina muttered. “Sure.”

  Stranahan was glad when they got to the doctor’s office. It was a two-story peach stucco building in Coral Gables, a refurbished old house. The plastic surgeon’s name was Dicer. Craig E. Dicer; a nice young fellow, too nice to say anything nasty about Rudy Graveline at first. Stranahan badged him and tried again. Dr. Dicer took a good hard look at the gold State Attorney’s investigator shield before he said: “Is this off the record?”

  “Sure,” said Stranahan, wondering: Where do these guys learn to talk like this?

  “Graveline’s a butcher,” Dr. Dicer said. “A hacker. Everybody in town’s mopped up after him, one time or another. Fortunately, he doesn’t do much surgery himself anymore. He got wise, hired a bunch of young sharpies, all board certified. It’s like a damn factory up there.”

  “Whispering Palms?”

  “You’ve seen it?” Dr. Dicer asked.

  Stranahan said no, but it was his next stop. “If everybody in Miami knows that Graveline’s a butcher, how does he get any patients?”

  Dr. Dicer laughed caustically. “Hell, man, the patients don’t know. You think some housewife wants her tits poofed goes downtown to the courthouse and looks up the lawsuits? No way. Rudy Graveline’s got a big rep because he’s socially connected. He did the mayor’s niece’s chin, this I know for a fact. And old Congress-man Carberry? Graveline did his girlfriend’s eyelids. Or somebody at Whispering Palms did; Rudy always takes the credit.”

  Tina, who hadn’t been saying much since the car, finally cut in. “Talk to models and actresses,” she said. “Whispering Palms is in. Like tofu.”

  “Jesus,” said Stranahan.

  Dr. Dicer said, “Can I ask why you’re interested?”

  “Really, you don’t want to know,” Stranahan said.

  “I guess not.”

  “I want to know,” Tina said.

  Stranahan pretended not to hear her. He said to Dr. Dicer: “One more question, then we’ll let you get back to work. This is hypothetical.”

  Dr. Dicer nodded, folded his hands, got very studious looking.

  Stranahan said: “Is it possible to kill somebody during a nose job?”

  By way of an answer, Dr. Dicer took out a pink neoprene replica of a bisected human head, a bronze Crane mallet, and a small Cottle chisel. Then he demonstrated precisely how you could kill somebody during a nose job.

  WHEN Chemo got to the Gay Bidet, a punk band called the Chicken Chokers had just finished wringing their sweaty jock straps into a cocktail glass and guzzling it down on stage.

  “You’re late,” said Chemo’s boss, a man named Freddie. “We already had three fights.”

  “Car trouble,” said Chemo. “Radiator hose.” Not an apology, an explanation.

  Freddie pointed at the small bandage and said, “What happened to your chin?”

  “A zit,” Chemo said.

  “A zit, that’s a good one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” Freddie said. “Don’t mean nothing.” He had to watch the wisecracks around Chemo. The man made him nervous as a gerbil. Freaking seven-foot cadaver, other clubs would kill for a bouncer like that.

  Freddie said, “Here, you got a message.”

  Chemo said thank you, went outside to a pay phone on Collins and called Dr. Rudy Graveline’s beeper. At the tone, Chemo pushed in the number of the pay phone, hung up, and waited. All the way out here, he could hear the next band cranking up. The Crotch Rockets, it sounded like. Their big hit was Lube-Job Lover. Chemo found it somewhat derivative.

  The telephone rang. Chemo waited for the third time before picking up.

  “We have got a problem,” said Rudy Graveline, raspy, borderline terrified.

  Chemo said, “Aren’t you going to ask about my chin?”

  “No!”

  “Well, it stings like hell.”

  Dr. Graveline said, “I told you it would.”

  Chemo said, “How long’ve I gotta wear the Band-Aid?”

  “Till it starts to heal, for Chrissakes. Look, I’ve got a major situation here and if you don’t fix it, the only person’s going to care about your complexion is the goddamn undertaker. One square inch of perfect chin, maybe you’re thinking how gorgeous you look. Well, think open casket. How’s that for gorgeous?”

  Chemo absently touched his new bandage. “Why’re you so upset?”

  “Mick Stranahan’s alive.”

  Chemo thought: The bitch in the sailor suit, she got the wrong house.

  “By the way,” Rudy Graveline said angrily, “I’d like to thank you for not telling me how you drowned the man’s wife in the middle of Biscayne Bay. From what was on TV, I’m just assuming it was you. Had your subtle touch.” When Chemo didn’t respond for several moments, the doctor said: “Well?”

  Chemo asked, “Is that a siren at your end?”

  “Yes,” Rudy said archly, “yes, that would be a siren. Now, aren’t you going to ask how I know that Stranahan’s still alive?”

  “All right,” Chemo said, “how do you know?”

  “Because,” the doctor said, “the bastard just blew up my Jag.”

  CHAPTER 11

  CHRISTINA Marks knocked twice, and when no one answered, she walked in. The man in the hospital bed had a plastic oxygen mask over his mouth. Lying there he looked as small as a child. The covers were pulled up to the folds of his neck. His face was mottled and drawn. When Christina approached the bed, the man’s blue eyes opened slowly and he waved. When he lifted the oxygen mask away from his mouth, she saw that he was smiling.

  “Detective Gavigan?”

  “The one and only.”

  “I’m Christina Marks.” She told him why she had come, what she wanted. When she mentioned Vicky Barletta, Timmy Gavigan made a zipper motion across his lips.

  “What’s the matter?” Christina asked.

  “That’s an open case, lady. I can’t talk about it.” Timmy Gavigan’s voice was hollow, like it was coming up a pipe from his dead lungs. “We got regulations about talking to the media,” he said.

  “Do you know Mick Stranahan?” Christina said.

  “Sure I know Mick,” Timmy Gavigan said. “Mick came to see me a while back.”

  “About this case?”

  “Mick’s in my scrapbook,” Timmy Gavigan said, looking away.

  Christina said, “He’s in some trouble.”

  “He didn’t get married again, the dumb bastard?”

  “Not that kind of trouble,” Christina said. “This time it was the Barletta case.”

  “Mick’s a big boy,” said Timmy Gavigan. “My guess is, he can handle it.” He was smiling again. “Honey, you sure are pretty.”

  “Thank you,” said Christina.

  “Can you believe, six months ago I’d be trying to charm you right into the sack. Now I can’t even get up to take a whizz. Here
a gorgeous woman comes to my room and I can’t raise my goddamn head, much less anything else.”

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know what you’re thinking—a dying man, he’s likely to say anything. But I mean it, you’re something special. I got high standards, always did. I mean, hell, I might be dead, but I ain’t blind.”

  Christina laughed softly. Timmy Gavigan reached for the oxygen mask, took a couple of deep breaths, put it down again. “Give me your hand,” he said to Christina Marks. “Please, it’s all right. What I got, you can’t catch.”

  Timmy Gavigan’s skin was cold and papery. Christina gave a little squeeze and tried to pull away, but he held on. She noticed his eyes had a sparkle.

  “You’ve been to the file?”

  She nodded.

  “I took a statement from that doctor, Rudy Something.”

  Christina said, “Yes, I read it.”

  “Help me out,” said Timmy Gavigan, squinting in concentration. “What the hell did he say again?”

  “He said it was a routine procedure, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Yeah, I remember now,” Timmy Gavigan said. “He was a precious thing, too, all business. Said he’d done five thousand nose jobs and this was no different from the others. And I said maybe not, but this time your patient vanished from the face of the earth. And he said she was fine last time he saw her. Walked out of the office all by herself. And I said yeah, walked straight into the fucking twilight zone. Pardon my French.”

  Christina Marks said, “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Too bad I can’t breathe with it.” Timmy Gavigan took another hit of oxygen. “Fact is, we had no reason to think the doctor was involved. Besides, the nurse backed him up. What the hell was his name again?”

  “Graveline.”

  Timmy Gavigan nodded. “Struck me as a little snot. If only you could arrest people for that.” He coughed, or maybe it was a chuckle. “Did I mention I was dying?”

  Christina said yes, she knew.

  “Did you say you were on TV?”

  “No, I’m just a producer.”

  “Well, you’re pretty enough to be on TV.”