Strip Tease

by Carl Hiaasen

“Well, well.” Rita’s voice cut like a blade. “If it ain’t Marcus Welby.”

  Erin was fully aware that the theft of U.S. mail was a federal offense, punishable by fines, imprisonment or both. She was also aware that in the Southern District of Florida, the United States Attorney spent exactly zero man-hours in pursuit of mail thieves, as the government’s time was consumed by the prosecution of drug dealers, gunrunners, deposed foreign dictators, savings-and-loan executives, corrupt local politicians and crooked cops of all ranks.

  The workings of the federal justice system were well-known to Erin because her previous job, before becoming a nude dancer, was typing and filing intelligence reports for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Erin was efficient, precise and perceptive. In some ways she was sharper than the FBI agent to whom she reported. Although his filing system was flawless, his street instincts were shaky. Erin liked him and tried to help, but the agent was young, inexperienced and hopelessly Midwestern in his approach; South Florida ate him alive.

  When Erin was dismissed from her job, the agent (whose name was Cleary) was more distraught than she was. He tried everything within bounds of the bureau’s turgid hierarchy to reverse the decision, but it was no use. Erin had been reclassified as a security risk after her husband had been charged with the fourth felony of his life: the grand theft of eleven wheelchairs from the Sunshine Groves Retirement Village. It didn’t matter that Erin was separated from Darrell Grant at the time—he’d phoned her from jail, and that was that. Phoned her at work, the moron! Told her to hurry and ditch the Camaro and for God’s sake don’t let the cops look in the trunk. Darrell Grant, yelling these instructions, forgetting that most phone calls out of the Broward County Jail (and all phone calls into the FBI building) were automatically recorded.

  Erin herself was never suspected of complicity, for on both audio tapes her words to Darrell Grant were clear:

  “You asshole. Where’s my daughter?”

  Although she didn’t want to leave the job, Erin wasn’t bitter. She understood the problem. Nobody should be married to a career criminal, but it was especially important for employees of the FBI. Agent Cleary was crestfallen, and wrote a glowing letter of reference, To Whom It May Concern, on official FBI stationery. For him that was quite a daring gesture. As it turned out, the letter was not needed when Erin applied for work at the Eager Beaver lounge. “Show me your boobs,” Mr. Orly had said. “Fine. When can you start?” Erin didn’t have the heart to tell Agent Cleary of her new occupation.

  Ironically, the felony charge against Darrell Grant was dropped, as he’d agreed to become a secret informant for the sheriff’s department. His first task was ratting out three of his scumdog thief friends; for this, Darrell was rewarded with a pristine new past, courtesy of the DELETE button on the sheriff’s crime computer. The vaporizing of Darrell’s prior record was egregiously illegal but not without precedent; if questioned, Darrell’s handlers could always claim it was an accident. Crime computers were famous for spontaneous erasures.

  In the subsequent battle for custody of Angela, Erin found herself fighting not just Darrell Grant, model citizen, but the detectives who so foolishly believed that he was working on their behalf. Whenever a new court date was set, the detectives conveniently arranged for Darrell Grant to be out of town on an undercover assignment. Affidavits attesting to the urgency of the mission were available by the handful. On the rare occasions when Darrell actually showed his face in court, not a soul came forward who would swear to his felonious exploits. The file room had been purged as neatly as the computer’s memory. On the issue of Darrell Grant’s criminal character, the judge was left only with Erin’s word, which he coolly rejected.

  Broke and discouraged, Erin refused to give up. She planned to pursue Darrell Grant through the legal system for as long and as far as necessary. Angela was in peril not because Darrell was abusive, but because he was unfailingly careless. It was only a matter of time before something bad happened to him, and then the real nightmare would begin. Then Erin’s daughter would be delivered into the custody of the great state of Florida, which was not known for its attentiveness toward children.

  Angie would never be a foster child. Erin wouldn’t let it happen. To save the girl, she would do anything, including stealing Rita Grant’s mail off the kitchen counter.

  Erin put on a Jimmy Buffett tape, lay down on the bed and went through Rita’s letters. She wore cutoff jeans and a baggy Hawaiian shirt and wraparound shades, electric blue. Her hair was in a ponytail, tucked under a pink cotton baseball cap. Her bare feet bounced to the music, and she was feeling better about her prospects.

  Most of the stolen mail was worthless to Erin’s private investigation—the electric bill, a Penthouse subscription reminder, a homesick letter from yet another wayward sibling (Darrell’s youngest brother, feigning insanity at the state hospital in Chattahoochee), and a membership notice from the National Rifle Association, to which both Rita and Alberto had hopefully applied.

  Only one item was of interest to Erin: the telephone bill. FBI training wasn’t necessary to scan the long-distance entries and pinpoint Darrell Grant’s location. He hadn’t run far: Erin counted seven collect phone calls from a number in Deerfield Beach. It made perfect sense. Deerfield Beach was overwhelmingly populated by retirees. Where you had retirees, you had wheelchairs.

  Erin turned down the stereo and picked up the phone. Her hand trembled as she dialed—not from nerves, but from anger. It rang six times before he answered. Erin used her old-lady voice. She said she was calling from the St. Vitus Society, collecting donations for the homeless.

  Darrell Grant said: “Donations of what?”

  “Anything you can spare. Food, clothing, medical equipment.”

  “Like wheelchairs?” Darrell Grant asked.

  Erin listened for the sound of a child in the background. She heard only a television, tuned to a talk show.

  Darrell Grant said: “Hello? You mean like wheelchairs?”

  “Actually, we’ve got plenty of wheelchairs and gurneys. But any other medical equipment would be most appreciated.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Darrell Grant. “I got some used wheelchairs in pretty good shape.”

  Erin resisted the urge to scream something terrible into the phone. Still using the old-lady voice, she said, “Well, we’ve just received a shipment of brand-new ones donated by the hospital district. But thank you anyway.”

  “Yeah? What kind?”

  “I really couldn’t say. Can I put you down for some canned goods or bedding?”

  “Sure,” Darrell Grant said. “Better yet, I’ll haul the stuff over there myself. Gimme your address. And spell the name a that saint again, would you?”

  Erin smiled. What a champ.

  5

  Moldowsky didn’t know that Jerry Killian was crazy drooling mad with love. Not that it mattered; blackmail was blackmail.

  “Where’s Dilbeck?” Killian demanded.

  “I’m here as the congressman’s personal representative.” Malcolm Moldowsky took out a monogrammed notebook. From an inside pocket came a gold fountain pen. “All right, let’s have the terms.”

  “Not so quick.”

  They were seated on the top deck of the Jungle Queen, a gaudy ersatz paddlewheeler that motored up and down the Intracoastal Waterway in Fort Lauderdale. It was Killian’s idea to meet there, safely surrounded by yammering tourists and conventioneers.

  He said, “I specifically asked to meet the congressman.”

  Moldowsky sighed a patient sigh. “Mr. Dilbeck is very busy. This morning he’s touring Little Haiti. This afternoon he will dedicate a domino park in Little Havana. This evening he’ll be speaking to the Democratic Sons and Daughters of Nicaragua in Exile.”

  Killian whistled derisively. Malcolm Moldowsky said, “It’s an election year, my friend.”

  “He has nothing to fear from me.”

  “He’s a busy man is all I’m saying.”

  Ki
llian folded his arms. “So he sends a guy who smells like a Bangkok bidet.”

  “You’re referring to my cologne?”

  “No offense. I’m a Brut man myself.”

  Moldowsky doodled placidly on the notepad. “No offense taken.”

  “He’s an excitable boy, your congressman. Beat the living Jesus out of that schmo in the dance club.” Killian awaited an explanation, but Moldowsky continued to draw, saying nothing.

  “He’s got a problem around the ladies,” Killian went on. “I think he needs help, before word gets out.”

  Moldowsky said, “May we get down to business?”

  “The only reason I mention it is I’m concerned. He could hurt somebody, or get hurt. They’re tough places, those dance bars.”

  “I’ll pass that along. Can we begin now?”

  Point by point, Killian explained his demands. There were only two. Moldowsky listened impassively and took notes. When the blackmailer finished, Moldowsky looked up and said, “This is completely outrageous.”

  The Jungle Queen blew four long whistles. The captain was trying to get the attention of a bridgetender.

  Killian said, “Which part is outrageous?”

  “The money, of course. A million dollars!”

  “Forget the money. What about the other part?”

  Moldowsky eyed him. “Forget the money?”

  “Sure. I was just busting your balls.” Killian gave a hearty laugh. He signaled a waiter for two more beers.

  Moldowsky said, “Just so I’ve got this clear: You don’t want any money. Not a dime.”

  Killian removed his thick eyeglasses and held them to the sunlight, inspecting for smudges. He said, “For a guy who dresses so sharp, you’re thick as a brick. No, Mr. Personal Representative, I don’t want money. All I want him to do is fix a simple court case.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Grant versus Grant.”

  “Yes, I got it the first time,” Moldowsky said. “A custody matter. What’s your interest in the case?”

  “None of your business,” Killian replied. “And if you pursue that line of inquiry, I will go instantly to the police and report what I saw at the Eager Beaver. Headlines are certain to follow.”

  Finally the drawbridge opened to let the Jungle Queen pass, and the tourists broke into silly tourist applause. A waiter appeared with beers. Moldowsky and Killian drank in silence until the merriment subsided on deck.

  “This is a great boat ride,” Killian said brightly. “They’ve got one like this down in Miami, right?”

  “In Biscayne Bay. A tour of celebrity homes.” Moldowsky remained polite even though he’d decided that Jerry Killian was a flake. Flakes could still cause trouble.

  “Like who? Which celebrities?” Killian asked.

  “The Bee Gees.”

  “Which Bee Gees?”

  “The whole damn bunch. They’ve all got mansions on the water.”

  “Is Madonna’s house on the tour?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Moldowsky said, with a sigh. He steered the conversation back to blackmail. “What makes you think Congressman Dilbeck can influence a local divorce judge? I mean, even if he wanted to.”

  “Easy. The divorce judge is sick of being a divorce judge. He wants to move up in the world, namely a seat on the federal bench. For that he needs political connections.”

  Moldowsky frowned. “But it’s the Senate that confirms—”

  “I know that!” Killian angrily gripped the edge of the table. “I know, you pompous fuck. I know it’s the Senate that confirms. But a letter from a congressman would be helpful, would it not? It might carry weight with certain senators on the Judiciary Committee, correct?”

  “Sure,” Moldowsky said. “You’re right.” His eyes were on Killian’s ratty necktie, which was soaking in his beer mug. Killian noticed and removed it quickly. If he was embarrassed, he didn’t let it show.

  “The judge would be impressed to hear from a United States congressperson. That’s the point, that’s what we’re talking about, Mr. Personal Representative—not influence so much as the appearance thereof. Who cares if this hayseed ever makes it to the federal bench? We want him to think he can. We want him to think Dilbeck has the clout to make or break. And I’ve got a feeling you’re just the sneaky little maggot to deliver that message.”

  Sometimes Malcolm Moldowsky regretted his own coolness. After so many years as a political fixer, he’d lost the capacity to be personally insulted; virtually nothing provoked him. In his line of work, emotions were risky. They distorted the senses, led to grave miscalculations and foolhardy impulses. Naturally it would’ve been fun to punch Jerry Killian so hard that he puked up blood, but it also would’ve been counterproductive. The man was motivated by forces deeper and more urgent than greed, and that made him dangerous indeed.

  So Moldowsky said: “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “In the meantime, you can’t go back to that strip club.” Moldowsky closed his notebook and capped his pen. “If you show your face in the place, the deal’s off. Got it?”

  “Fair enough,” Killian said. “I can handle that.” But his heart ached at the thought.

  Suing a synagogue was challenging under the best of circumstances. Mordecai was having difficulty finding guidance. His law books were barren of precedents. Enthusiasm was equally hard to come by. When he told his mother of the case, she slapped him across the face with an oven mitt. It was her way of reminding him that two of his uncles were Orthodox rabbis.

  Mordecai’s plan for the Paul Guber case was further hindered by the victim’s own friends, who couldn’t recall the name or location of the synagogue at which the savage attack had occurred. The young men blamed their confusion on darkness, the late hour and alcohol, but Mordecai knew better. Collective amnesia was a sure sign of conspiracy. He considered asking Paul Guber for the true details of the incident, but that would’ve required Paul to open his mouth and speak, thus ruining a key plank of Mordecai’s legal strategy. He wanted the jury to behold a stockbroker rendered mute and helpless by violent trauma. A stockbroker who could still work the phones wasn’t nearly so pitiable a plaintiff. Mordecai’s plan called for poor Mr. Guber to remain silent.

  The lawyer decided to try visual aids. He got a map of Broward County and attached it to a tall easel. With colored pins he marked the location of every synagogue from Tamarac to Hallandale. Mordecai’s idea was to assemble Paul Guber and his buddies in front of the map; either it would jog their memories, or help them agree on a plausible story. Synagogues in the most affluent neighborhoods were denoted by shiny green pins—Mordecai’s subtle way of suggesting a suitably prosperous defendant.

  The map was brought to Paul Guber’s hospital room, and his friends gathered on each side of the bed. Mordecai stood back and waited. The men squinted at the map. They mumbled. They pointed. They rubbed their chins in feigned concentration. It was a dreadful scene. After an hour, Mordecai ordered them all to go home and think about it.

  Outside the hospital room, Paul’s fiancée said, “What does it mean?

  “It means I’m losing interest,” the lawyer replied.

  Back at the office, Mordecai’s secretary seemed relieved to see him, which was unusual. She took him to the conference room, where a new client was waiting. It took all of Mordecai’s courage to shake the man’s hand.

  “I’m Shad,” the man said. “We talked on the phone.”

  The man was broad, bumpy and hairless. He wore a tank top, parachute pants and black Western boots. He had the grip of a wrestler.

  Mordecai’s secretary vanished. The lawyer took a seat at the table and motioned for Shad to do the same.

  “You got a fridge?” Shad said.

  “Pardon?”

  Shad opened a brown grocery sack and took out the Ziploc pouch containing the undamaged foil seal; this he held up, dramatically, for Mordecai to see. Then Shad reached in the sack and removed th
e container of Delicato Fruity Low-Fat Yogurt. “Blueberry,” he announced, removing the Glad Wrap.

  “Ah yes,” said Mordecai. “You’re the one with the insect.”

  “Roach,” Shad said, firmly. He pushed the yogurt across the table. Mordecai examined it tentatively, finding nothing.

  “It’s in here?” He peered at the flawless creaminess.

  “You bet,” Shad said. “We’re talking jumbo.

  “Mordecai lifted the wax carton up to the light. “I wish I could see it.”

  Shad offered him a spoon and said, “Happy hunting.”

  The lawyer hesitated. “First we should get some pictures.” He buzzed the secretary and told her to bring the camera. Moments later, she buzzed back to report it was out of film.

  Shad said, “Hope you got a fridge.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “And I’d like a receipt.”

  Mordecai was offended. “You don’t trust me?”

  “Not yet,” said Shad.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll have a contract.”

  “Still, I’d like a receipt. That’s my future there.” He pointed at the yogurt carton. “That’s my retirement.”

  Mordecai explained the customary arrangement in such cases. When he got to the part about the contingency fee, he saw Shad stiffen.

  “Forty percent? That’s what you get?”

  “It’s standard, Mr. Shad. You can check around.”

  “Forty motherfucking percent!”

  “Most attorneys quote similar rates.”

  “Is that so?” Shad lowered his head and leaned across the table. “I had a guy took a rat case for thirty-three, plus expenses.”

  “Well,” said Mordecai, unsettled, “my forty includes all costs.” He didn’t want to hear about the other case, but he needed to know. “When you say rat …”

  “Baby Norway.” With his hands Shad indicated the size. “About yea long. It was up at the Beef N’ Reef in Wilton Manors. I open the steak sauce and there she comes, bingo, a rat! Lying there on my Rib-eye Special. Talk about traumatized.”

  The image made Mordecai pause. “And you filed suit?”