Strip Tease

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Sure is.”

  “Very snazzy.”

  “Look here. Velcro instead of snaps.” Erin demonstrated how it worked.

  “I’ll be damned.” Shad studied the plastic patch thoughtfully. “Whoever dreamed that up, he probably made a bundle.”

  “She probably made a bundle.”

  Shad shrugged. “One thing’s for sure, we’re in the wrong end a this business.”

  “Amen,” said Erin.

  When David Dilbeck heard the latest fund-raising figures, he told Erb Crandall to summon the limousine. It was time to celebrate! Crandall said absolutely not, tonight we stay home.

  “Erb,” said the congressman, “look at the day I had. Three goddamn anti-Castro rallies. Fidel is a tyrant. Fidel is a bum. Fidel is a monster—”

  “Every politician’s got to sing that tune.”

  “It’s tiresome, Erb. A man needs to unwind.”

  “Out of the question, Davey.”

  “I’ve bought a new wig—”

  “Forget it.”

  “We’ll sit way in the back, Erb. No friction dancing, on God’s word. Call the Lings and get us a table.”

  Crandall offered an alternate plan. The congressman looked intrigued.

  “Where’s Pamela?” Crandall inquired.

  “In Virginia. One of the Kennedys is having a benefit for some disease. I’m not sure which one.”

  “Which Kennedy?”

  “No, which disease,” Dilbeck said. “Some kind of anemia.”

  “But Pamela definitely won’t be home tonight?”

  “Not until Sunday.”

  “So it’s safe to have visitors.”

  The congressman beamed. “The more, the merrier.”

  At half-past nine, the dancers from the Flesh Farm arrived. They brought their own music. Erb Crandall directed the two women toward a teak coffee table in the den. Dilbeck appeared in a loose white robe and sat cross-legged on the floor. He asked Crandall to fetch a bottle of Korbel from the refrigerator. The dancers expressed concern about damaging the fine wood, so Dilbeck encouraged them to remove their high heels and go barefoot. Erb Crandall returned with the champagne. He poured three glasses, iced the bottle and left the room. He pulled a chair into the hallway, and positioned himself near the doorway of the den. The music throbbed through the walls, unbearably monotonous. After about an hour, Erb Crandall went to Pamela Dilbeck’s medicine cabinet in search of migraine relief. He lucked into a bottle of Darvons, and swallowed two with a glass of bitter orange juice from the kitchen.

  When he got back to his post, the dance music seemed louder than ever. Crandall noticed that the door of the den was ajar. Before he could peek inside, one of the dancers emerged from a bathroom across the hall. In one hand she carried a curly black wig, in the other a damp towel. She seemed in a hurry.

  “Everything OK?” Crandall asked.

  “Peachy,” the dancer said. “I hope you know CPR.”

  In the den, there was no sign of the second dancer. The congressman lay unconscious next to the teak coffee table. His robe was open, exposing pink belly lard and silk paisley boxer shorts. Erb Crandall knelt down and placed a hand on David Dilbeck’s chest, which rose and fell rapidly.

  “Heart attack,” Crandall speculated.

  “Wrong,” said the wigless dancer. She told Crandall what had happened.

  He said, “Jesus Christ. Where’d she hit him?”

  “Between the eyes.”

  “With what?”

  “Right cross.”

  “Her fist?” Erb Crandall found this amazing, He carefully examined Dilbeck’s pallid face. A nasty blue knot was rising between the congressman’s eyebrows. In the center of the bruise was a microscopic indentation, perfectly rectangular.

  “She’s wearing a ring,” Crandall observed.

  “Aquamarine,” the wigless dancer said. “Her birthstone.”

  Erb Crandall placed a pillow under Dilbeck’s head, and fashioned the damp towel around his neck. The dancer offered to call 911, but Crandall said no.

  “Where’s your partner?” he asked.

  “Out in the car. She’s scared shitless.”

  Dilbeck stirred slightly, emitting a gerbil-like squeak. Crandall put his lips near the congressman’s ear and said: “Davey, wake up!” Dilbeck grew quiet again. Crandall went to the desk and found the number of Dilbeck’s private physician. He dialed rigidly, leaving an emergency message with the service.

  The wigless dancer said, “Better get him to a hospital.”

  “Sure,” Erb Crandall said, caustically. Show up at Mt. Sinai and tomorrow it’s all over the papers:

  CONGRESSMAN INJURED BY MYSTERY BLOW TO HEAD

  AIDES MUM OVER LATE-NIGHT INCIDENT—

  DILBECK REELECTION CAMPAIGN ON HOLD.

  Crandall gazed at the coldcocked candidate with alternating fury and panic. Whether Dilbeck lived or died, Malcolm Moldowsky would be enraged—and the blame would again fall on Crandall. It wasn’t fair. Short of house arrest, it seemed impossible to control Dilbeck’s carnal appetites.

  “He looks bad,” said the dancer, now dressed in street clothes. “What if he croaks?”

  “Then the country loses another great leader. How much do we owe you?”

  “Mr. Ling said five each.”

  Erb Crandall got two thousand cash from an envelope locked in the usual place, the bottom-right drawer of Dilbeck’s desk. Crandall gave the money to the wigless dancer and said: “You weren’t here tonight, you never saw me, you never saw him. Same goes for the other girl, OK? You don’t know this man.”

  “But I don’t know this man. I really don’t.”

  “God bless you,” Erb Crandall said.

  “He shouldn’t have done what he did. No matter who he is.”

  “For that, we’re truly sorry. If you count the money, I think you’ll see how sorry we are.”

  Something moved on the floor: the congressman’s right leg, kicking out at unseen demon dogs.

  The wigless dancer put the money away, strapped the purse over her shoulder. She said, “There’s no call for what he did. Everything was going fine, a nice little party. I don’t know what got into him.”

  “Beats me,” Crandall said. Where was the doctor?

  “Maybe he should lay off the champagne.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. The champagne.”

  The dancer stepped closer for a final look at the bruise between Dilbeck’s eyebrows. “Damn,” she said. “That’s a big stone she’s wearing.”

  “Goodbye,” said Erb Crandall.

  “Can we take the limo back to Lauderdale?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Take the limo. Have a ball.”

  14

  Paul Guber wasn’t gushing enthusiasm about Mordecai’s plan. “I want no part of it,” he said.

  The lawyer clucked disapprovingly. “This is a rare opportunity.”

  “I heard you before. The answer is no.”

  Joyce, sitting with her fiancé, prodded forcefully. “It’s our future we’re talking about, Paul. We’ll be set for life.”

  From the young man’s bleak expression, it was plain he didn’t wish to be set for a life with Joyce. Mordecai sensed his gossamer skein unraveling and acted swiftly to save it.

  “Come,” he said to the troubled couple. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  An hour later, they were in a northbound Lincoln on a two-lane truck route known as Bloody 27. Mordecai maintained a steady monologue to mask his nervousness on the highway. Joyce had forgotten what a terrible driver her cousin was; poor vision, sluggish reflexes, and limited range of motion behind the wheel due to excessive girth. Paul Guber was a basket case by the time they reached Clewiston. Mordecai parked the car with a jolt and extricated himself from the front seat.

  “Where are we?” Paul asked.

  “Sugar mill,” said the lawyer. “Ever seen one?”

  The mill was a sprawling collection of irregular barns, smokestacks and warehouses. Harv
est season was weeks away, so the millworks were quiet except for the clatter of pneumatic wrenches; groups of shirtless mechanics worked on tractors, flatbeds and migrant buses. A flaking blue-and-white sign, planted by the road, said ROJO FARMS. In smaller letters:

  DIVISION OF SWEETHEART SUGAR CORP.

  “Well,” Mordecai said. “Shall we request a tour?”

  “We shall not,” Paul said. Joyce concurred, fearing that offensive agricultural aromas might taint the fabric of her imported blouse.

  The lawyer sagged heavily against the fender of the car. “Fine,” he said. “As you wish.”

  Joyce crossed her arms impatiently. “It’s sticky out here. Can you get to the point?”

  Mordecai sighed like a tortoise. “The purpose of this field trip was to illustrate the financial dimensions of your case. The Rojo family”—nodding toward the sign—“is worth approximately $400 million”

  “Hmmmm,” Joyce said.

  “Conservatively.”

  “We aren’t suing the Rojos,” Paul Guber noted.

  “True,” the lawyer said, “but we’re suing their favorite congressman, the fellow who makes all this wealth possible. Are you beginning to understand? Sugar money.”

  “Look, I got clobbered in a strip joint. That’s all.”

  “The short view,” Mordecai scolded.

  “I’m damn lucky my boss hasn’t found out. If this thing goes to court, I’m out of a job.”

  “Paul, you won’t need a job,” the lawyer said. “You’ll need a Brink’s truck. Tell him, Joyce.”

  The sting of the bachelor-party photos had apparently abated, for Joyce wholeheartedly supported her cousin’s scheme. “Mordecai swears it’ll never get to trial. Remember, darling, this is an election year.”

  “Which means,” the lawyer cut in, “the settlement will be timely, substantial and extremely secret. The congressman, too, has much to lose.”

  Paul Guber replied with a skeptical grunt.

  “We’re talking two, three million dollars,” Mordecai said. “That’s a handsome nest egg for two young newlyweds.” He chose not to mention Shad’s role in the enterprise, or his percentage.

  Paul kicked idly at pebbles while a big jet passed overhead, drowning the conversation. When it was quiet again, he turned to Joyce and Mordecai. “The answer is still no,” he said.

  “Sleep on it,” the lawyer advised. He winked instructively at Joyce. “You two should discuss it alone.”

  Paul said he didn’t need to sleep on it, didn’t need to discuss it: he flatly refused to sue anybody. “What happened just happened. There’s no permanent damage—heck, my insurance covered the hospital bills.” He broke into a series of jumping jacks, causing Joyce to gasp in concern.

  “See?” said Paul, breathless. “I’ll be back at the brokerage house next week.”

  In exasperation, Mordecai slapped a fleshy hand on the hood of the Lincoln. “There’s a legal term for your condition,” he told Paul. “It’s called ‘diminished capacity.’ Which means the injury to your head is affecting your judgment.”

  Joyce nodded. “He hasn’t been sleeping well.”

  Paul Guber stopped jumping and let his arms fall slack. “You two are incredible,” he said, panting. Joyce’s glare failed to intimidate him. “It must run in the family,” he said, “this conniving.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Joyce’s voice was taut.

  Mordecai moved between them. “Come now. Let’s have a nice peaceful ride home.”

  Joyce insisted on driving. Mordecai wedged into the Lincoln beside her. Paul Guber rode in the backseat alone; he fell asleep before they got to the 1-595 interchange. His snores brought a mirthless chuckle from Mordecai.

  “Young Paul is being foolish,” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “This is such an opportunity,” the lawyer said. “Such a rare, rare opportunity.”

  Joyce glanced back at her snoozing husband-to-be. It was not a look of pure, unconditional love.

  She said, “I was thinking …”

  Go on.

  “Do we need him? I mean, when all is said and done …” She pretended to concentrate on the highway. “Supposing they agree to a settlement right off the bat—then you wouldn’t even need to file court papers, is that right?”

  “Correct. A few phone calls, a few meetings, a cashier’s check made out to a trust account—that’s the simplest way, for all concerned.”

  Joyce lowered her voice. “So … do we really need him?”

  The lawyer fingered the multiple clefts of his chin and pondered the innocent snores of his client. “That’s a good question,” he told his cousin. “A very good question.”

  * * *

  When Erin arrived at the Eager Beaver, she saw a crew of workmen on the roof, dismantling the fluorescent sign. Orly and Shad stood in the parking lot, deep in discussion. As Erin got out of the car, Orly waved for her to join them.

  “Well, you get your wish,” he said.

  “You’re changing the name?”

  “Got to,” Shad said. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Orly told Erin not to get a swelled head. The decision had nothing to do with the dancers’ complaints; it was strictly a legal matter.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Erin. “There’s another strip joint with the same awful name.”

  “Not a strip joint,” Orly said, “a chainsaw.”

  Shad bit his lower lip, trying not to laugh. Erin was on the verge of exploding. With a straight face, she said, “Mr. Orly, I’ve never heard of Eager Beaver Chainsaws.”

  He sneered. “Me, neither. Apparently they’re very big in New England, like I give a shit.”

  Shad said, “They sent a registered letter. Threatened to sue.”

  “You believe that?” Orly threw his hands in the air. “They said I’m hurting their corporate image, on account a using the name to promote sex and nudity. Fucking asshole lawyers!”

  A liquor truck pulled in, and Shad excused himself to check the shipment. Up on the roof, the last plastic vestige of BEAVER fell to a workman’s wrench. Orly winced at the sight, as he still had three remaining payments on the lettering.

  “How,” he mused, “can you slander a fucking garden tool?”

  Erin said she was impressed that the Eager Beaver Chainsaw company had heard about Orly’s club, so far away. Orly said it was reported by a vacationing chainsaw salesman: “Supposedly he just drove by and noticed the name.”

  “Oh sure,” Erin said. “He just drove by.”

  “Anyway, my asshole lawyers talked to their asshole lawyers and the upshot is, it’s easier to switch the goddamn sign than go to court.”

  Erin couldn’t resist a Mafia dig. “I never imagined the mob would be scared off by a lawsuit.”

  “Scared’s got nothing to do with it,” Orly grumped. She’d nailed him good this time. “Little Nicky, guys like him, they don’t like publicity. Case like this could wind up on the front page.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “So their attitude is screw it, just change the name.”

  “The end of an era,” Erin said, with mock wistfulness.

  “You know me. I’d love to fight the bastards!”

  “But they could drag it out for years,” she said. “It’s best to be practical.”

  Orly rubbed his nose fiercely, as if trying to dislodge a bumblebee. “Anyone tells you it’s a free country, they’re full a shit. That’s all I can say.” He trudged toward the entrance of the lounge. Erin stayed at his side. She asked him if he’d given any thought to a new name.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact. And I don’t want to hear boo about it, OK?”

  “Let’s have it,” said Erin.

  Orly shuffled into the club. Erin wasn’t offended that he didn’t hold the door. The man was a pig. He couldn’t help it. In the office, he went directly to the refrigerator and got a cold Dr. Pepper. The thought of offering one to Erin never crossed his m
ind.

  “Tell me the new name,” she said.

  “You’ll be a big girl? No whining?”

  “No whining.”

  “All right,” Orly said, slurping his soda. “Tickled Pink.’ How about that?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I think it’s fine.” Orly smacked his lips. “Feminine. Funny. I like it.”

  “It’s dreadful,” Erin said. She got up to leave.

  “Now don’t go making trouble out there—”

  “Tickled Pink?”

  “Hey, this ain’t the Christian Science Reading Room, it’s a tittie bar. I got a product to sell.”

  Erin said, “You’re the boss.”

  “Sometimes I think you forget what you do for a living, which is take off your clothes for money. Or maybe it’s just you prefer to forget.” Orly rocked back and forth behind the desk. “It’s only a name, honey. Doesn’t change the merchandise.”

  Erin didn’t back down. She wanted to keep Orly on the defensive.

  He said: “Both Moniques love ‘Tickled Pink.’ They said it sounds like the name of a French boutique.”

  “No,” said Erin, “it sounds like a gynecologist’s yacht.”

  Orly slammed the soda can on his desk “That’s all in your head!” he snapped. “I can’t help it you got a filthy mind.”

  As Erin walked down the hall, she heard Orly shouting: “Hell, it’s classier than ‘Flesh Farm’! It’s classier than those fucking Lings!”

  Sgt. Al García spent the morning at a rockpit on the outskirts of Hialeah. He was searching for Francisco Goyo’s head. Goyo was a gun dealer who’d been kidnapped on Key Biscayne, murdered in Carol City and dismembered in Homestead. Body parts were turning up from one end of Dade County to the other. Al García had put hundreds of bitter miles on the Caprice, collecting Francisco Goyo’s hands, feet, torso and limbs. García hated dismemberments because the paperwork multiplied in direct proportion to the number of body parts; it took hours to write up a simple severed thumb. Naturally, the Goyo case had spawned an office pool. To win, one had to match a particular component of Francisco Goyo with the date of discovery. When an anonymous caller reported a possible floating head in Hialeah, a detective named Jimbo Fletcher let out a jubilant roar—if the head was that of the murdered gun dealer, Fletcher stood to make sixty-five bucks. As much as García disliked Fletcher, he found himself hoping that the floating head did belong to the late Señor Goyo. García wanted the case to be over. He had a suspect and a motive; what he needed was a semi-assembled corpse.