Skinny Dip

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Sure,” Tool said.

  “I believe it’s never too late to change. I’m eighty-one years old, but I still think I can be a better person tomorrow than I am today. And that’s what I’ll believe until I run out of tomorrows,” she said. “Oh, one more thing—you promised to go see a surgeon.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “About the bullet in your you-know-what.”

  “I been real busy,” Tool said.

  “Young man, you listen here. Life’s too darn short to be dragging around that kind of a personal burden.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Now get a move on, before you miss your meeting,” she said. “And be careful tonight.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Whatever it is you’re up to.” Maureen flashing him a sideways glance. “Go on now, Earl.”

  She flicked a papery hand toward the door, and returned her attention to the television.

  They got all the way to Florida City before Tool spoke, which was fine with Chaz Perrone. He wasn’t thinking about the blackmail meeting; he was fantasizing about what it would be like to have $13 million, in the stupefying event that the will bearing Joey’s name turned out to be authentic. The irony would be epic, for she wouldn’t have left Chaz a nickel if she’d suspected him of forging the Everglades data. Since it was dated only weeks ago, the will could be legitimate only if Joey hadn’t figured out Chaz’s deal with Red. . . .

  Meaning he had murdered her for no reason, or at least the wrong reason.

  Contemplating the possibility made him light-headed and queasy. Unless otherwise convinced, he’d stick to the more plausible hypothesis that Karl Rolvaag had fabricated the document to intimidate him.

  “I’m hungry,” Tool grumbled, wheeling sharply into the parking lot of a Miami Subs shop.

  “Bring me a Coke and some fries,” said Chaz.

  “Git it yourself.”

  Chaz hid the .38 under the front seat and followed Tool into the restaurant. Chaz had begged and pestered for a new bodyguard, but Red Hammernut had refused, saying Tool was rock-solid.

  Rock-headed is more like it, Chaz thought. They sat in a booth, Tool wolfishly attacking a turkey sub the size of a football.

  “Where’s the gun?” Tool, spraying half-mulched lettuce.

  Chaz pointed at the car through the window.

  “Ever shot anybody?” Tool asked.

  “No.”

  “Ever shot anything?”

  “Birds,” Chaz said.

  As a kid, he’d used a BB rifle to snipe at the sparrows and warblers that woke him in the mornings.

  Tool said, “You got no bidness with a gun ’less you practice. I been shot by a joker once already and that’s plenty.”

  “Stop worrying.”

  At the entrance of Everglades National Park, a ranger inquired about their lack of fishing gear and camping equipment. A notice taped to the kiosk warned against bringing firearms inside the park.

  “We’re meeting some friends,” Chaz said. “The Thornburghs. They’re in a brand-new Airstream, Michigan plates. Got an Irish setter named Mickey that rides up front. Did they come through here yet?”

  “Couldn’t say. I just now came on duty.”

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll find ’em.” Chaz, waving pleasantly.

  A mile down the road, Tool spoke up. “Where the fuck’d you come up with that one?”

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  “What’s a Airstream?”

  Chaz said, “A motor home. You know, like a Winnebago, only not so clunky. He sure went for it, didn’t he?”

  “And that bullshit about the dog—you just all of a sudden thought that up?”

  “Yep.” Chaz couldn’t tell if Tool was impressed or disgusted.

  “I never seen nobody could lie such a way.”

  “Hey, sometimes you’ve got to think fast,” Chaz said. “That ranger, see, it’s none of his business if we’ve got fishing poles or whatever in the car. But I can’t come out and say that to his face, so I cook up a story and off we go.”

  Tool nodded, both hands on the wheel. “Pretty damn smooth,” he said.

  The sky was clouded and starless. Ahead of them, speared by the twin beams of the headlights, was a canvas of blackness. At first Chaz thought they were riding through a rain shower, but the splattering sound turned out to be a hail of bugs hitting the windshield. When a marsh rabbit appeared on the center stripe, Tool casually swerved to miss it. Chaz told him to stop the car right away.

  “Why, you gotta take a piss?” Tool coasted the sedan off the pavement and braked.

  “Turn us around,” Chaz said.

  “What for?”

  “Hurry!”

  Tool made a flawless three-pointer and headed slowly back up the road until they came to the rabbit, which hadn’t moved. Chaz reached beneath the seat and took out the pistol. Tool blinked at him slowly, like a drugged toad.

  Chaz said, “You told me to practice, right?”

  “Not on a fuckin’ bunny.”

  “It’s just a big overgrown rodent,” said Chaz, betraying an ignorance of taxonomy that would have appalled his colleagues but was lost on Tool. “A rat with big ears,” he added, stealthily opening the car door.

  Tool said, “You shoot that thing, you’re gonna eat it for breakfast.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Doc, I ain’t kiddin’. My momma used to tell us, ‘Anything that dies, fries.’ Ain’t right to waste a critter just for sport.”

  Chaz wondered if the medicine patches were making Tool loopy. Why should he care about a dumb rabbit? Chaz leaned across the hood of the car and took aim at the animal, which remained motionless in the lights. When the .38 went off, the rabbit hopped straight in the air, spun around once, dashed in a circle and then stopped. Its eyes were wide and its nose was quivering.

  “Shit, I missed,” Chaz muttered, and fired again. This time the animal flattened itself to the pavement and laid back its ears, as if hiding in the scrub.

  Tool said, “That’s enough, Rambo.”

  “Just one more.” Chaz thinking: It’s okay for him to plug an alligator.

  “You’re done,” Tool said gruffly.

  “Not quite.” Chaz shutting one eye and squinting down the barrel.

  “I said no.”

  Tool goosed the accelerator a millisecond before Chaz squeezed the trigger. He felt himself vaulted airborne and, suspended in flight, he witnessed the tawny blur of the rabbit disappearing into the tall grass. He came down hard in the loose gravel and rolled twice. For several moments he lay still, dazedly watching the insects swarm around the headlights of the idling car. Soon he heard the crunch of footfalls and saw the broad silhouette of Tool above him.

  “Help me up,” Chaz said with an imprudent lack of remorse.

  “You’re one dumb fuck of a so-called doctor.”

  Tool picked up the .38 and stalked back toward the Grand Marquis.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Chaz hollered after him. “Were you trying to kill me?”

  He struggled to his feet and brushed the pebbles off his clothes. When he got back into the car, Tool jabbed a finger in his chest and said, “If I was tryin’ to kill you, pretty boy, you’d be havin’ this conversation with Saint Peter.”

  Chaz waited another ten miles before asking about the gun.

  Tool said, “You’re done for the night.”

  “But what if I need it later? What if this asshole blackmailer decides to play rough?”

  Tool seemed to think that was quite funny. “Boy, you won’t need a gun,” he said. “You got me.”

  Nineteen

  Stranahan was already on the water when the Grand Marquis rolled up at the marina. The caveman got out slowly while Chaz Perrone practically ejected himself from the passenger side, slapping frenetically at his face and neck. They walked back and forth along the slips, eventually choosing an unoccupied houseboat and prying the door. The caveman ducked inside w
hile Chaz hopped back on the dock, stumbling over a coiled rope. After a while he began to pace in and out of the shadows, still flailing at the bugs. At midnight Stranahan called out his name and Chaz dropped into a ludicrous semi-crouch that he must have picked up from a Jackie Chan movie.

  Stranahan waved. “Over here, numbnuts!”

  Chaz approached tentatively, continuing to affect the coiled pose of a kung fu master. He seemed alarmed to see his blackmailer sitting in a small canoe.

  “Hop in,” Stranahan said as he nosed up to the boat ramp.

  “No way.”

  “This was your idea, Chazzie.”

  “The meeting, not the place,” Chaz said, “and not the damn canoe.”

  Stranahan laid the paddle across his lap and gave Chaz some time to size him up. Then he said, “If you want to hear the deal, park your ass in the bow.”

  Chaz glanced uneasily toward the slip where the houseboat was moored.

  Stranahan said, “That’s another thing. I told you to leave your pal with Dr. Leakey.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re such a dolt. I should triple my price.”

  Chaz stepped gingerly into the canoe. “Where do I sit?”

  “You don’t sit,” Stranahan said. “You kneel.”

  With long, even strokes he began paddling down the Buttonwood Canal toward Whitewater Bay.

  “Can I borrow the bug spray?” Chaz anxiously pointed to a Cutter’s squirt bottle in the bottom of the canoe. Stranahan tossed it to him.

  “Where we going?” Chaz, spritzing himself.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, as long as you don’t tip us over.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not moving a muscle.” Chaz put down the bottle and got a death grip on the sides of the canoe.

  “Moccasin Pass. That’s where we’re headed,” Stranahan said. To his knowledge, there was no such place. However, the ominous name produced the desired effect.

  “Holy shit,” he heard Chaz Perrone murmur.

  “Supposedly it’s got the biggest water moccasins in the ’glades,” Stranahan went on, drawing a defeated groan. In person, Joey’s husband was pretty much what Stranahan had expected—soft and whiny under pressure.

  “You’ve also got your crocodiles and sharks, mister,” Stranahan said, switching momentarily to his Jerry Lewis voice, “which is why I strongly recommend against flipping the canoe.”

  Chaz fell silent. When they reached Whitewater, Stranahan stopped paddling and instructed Chaz to turn around, which he did with the utmost care. When Stranahan aimed a flashlight in his face, he flinched and looked away.

  Stranahan said, “You’re sulking, aren’t you? You think I’m having fun at your expense.”

  To taunt such a pismire was almost unsporting, but it diverted Stranahan from a nagging but barbarous impulse to beat the man into hamburger hash. Perhaps the day for such uncivilized festivities would come, but for now he’d settle for the sight of Charles Perrone’s ears turning black with mosquitoes. It had been Joey’s fine idea to replace the insect repellent with tap water.

  “How’d you get into my house?” Chaz asked.

  “Trade secret.”

  “Are you the one who cut up that picture of my wife and put it under my pillow?”

  “No, that would be the picture fairy.”

  “Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me?” Chaz whacking at both sides of his head.

  “Money, for starters.”

  “There’s more?” Chaz hacked out a sour laugh.

  “Plus I’d like you to answer a few simple questions. That’s it.”

  “What questions? You’re shaking me down over something I didn’t even do.”

  “Fine. Then don’t pay me a penny,” Stranahan said. “We’ll let a jury decide—my word against yours. By the way, have you ever been to scenic Raiford, Florida, home of the Union Correctional prison?”

  Chaz swore and slapped himself again on the head.

  “Nice shot.” Stranahan turned off the flashlight. “I guess the only way to prove I’m not bullshitting is to tell you exactly what happened on the Sun Duchess. Listen carefully.”

  “I am,” Chaz said with a grunt.

  “It was a week ago tonight,” Stranahan began. “You and your wife came on deck shortly before eleven and walked toward the stern. Nobody was outside because it was raining. Oh, I almost forgot: You were wearing a dark blue blazer and charcoal slacks. Mrs. Perrone had on a cream-colored skirt, white sandals and, I believe, a gold watch on her wrist.”

  Joey had also told Stranahan the color of her blouse, but he’d forgotten. He flicked on the flashlight and saw that Chaz looked drained and unsteady.

  “You want me to keep going?”

  “Suit yourself,” Chaz croaked.

  “So the two of you were standing alongside the rail, Mrs. Perrone just staring out to sea, when you pulled a really clever move,” Stranahan said. “You took something from your pocket and dropped it. A coin, a key, something that made a sharp noise. Then you pretended like you were bending down to pick it up—remember?”

  From the bow of the canoe, nothing.

  “But instead you grabbed your wife by the legs and flipped her overboard. It happened so fast, she didn’t have time to fight back. You still with me?”

  When Stranahan zapped Joey’s husband again with the flashlight, his eyes were wide and glassy. Stranahan had seen similar expressions in the studio of an amateur taxidermist.

  “You look like you’re coming down with something,” he said. “Did you ever get vaccinated against that icky Nile virus?”

  Chaz coughed violently. “There’s a vaccine?”

  If it had been almost anyone else, Stranahan might have felt sorry for the wretched fool.

  “Why’d you do it, Chaz?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re calling me a liar? Ouch.”

  Chaz said, “Just tell me how much you want.”

  “Half a million bucks.”

  “Man, you’re fucking crazy.”

  “Cash,” the blackmailer said. “Hundreds are fine.”

  A light breeze had sprung up from the southeast, nudging the small canoe farther into the vast black bay. The mild rocking motion that Stranahan found so calming seemed to have the opposite effect on Joey Perrone’s husband.

  He said, “Where’m I supposed to come up with five hundred grand?”

  “Hey, Chaz, I’ve got an idea.” Stranahan thinking: It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. “You could ask your pal Hammernut!”

  No flashlight was required to gauge Dr. Charles Perrone’s reaction. The raucous whoop of his vomiting incited a lusty reply from a male heron wading the shoreline a quarter of a mile away.

  Mick and Chaz had been gone only twenty minutes when Joey made up her mind to leave the motel room. She put on a baggy cotton jersey and tucked her hair under her Marlins cap and walked down to the docks. In the parking lot she spotted a big black sedan that looked like the one parked in front of Chaz’s house the night before. Leaning against the car was a tall, wide man wearing dark overalls over a fuzzy shirt. When Joey got closer, she saw that the shirt was actually a coat of dense body hair.

  The man spotted her and said, “Come here, boy.”

  Joey positioned herself beneath one of the light stanchions, in the hope he would see that she wasn’t a threat.

  The man said, “You deaf, or what? I said to come here.”

  “You’re the bodyguard, aren’t you?” Joey asked.

  He swatted her with the back of his hand and she went down. With a twist of her jersey he yanked her up off the pavement and dropped her on the trunk of the sedan.

  “You ain’t no damn boy,” he said. “You’s a girl.”

  Joey fumbled to pull down her jersey, which had bunched up around her bra. She faintly tasted blood.

  “Hey, don’t get freaked. I’m here with the blackmailer.”

  “No shit?” the man said curi
ously.

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  The man seemed to want to think about that. Joey let him.

  Then he grabbed the back of her neck and said, “I could kill ya right now. Feed ya to the goddamn gators and by dawn there wouldn’t be nuthin’ left, not even bones.”

  He was squeezing so hard that Joey feared she would pass out. The man was strong enough to pinch off her head with his fingers.

  “And killing me,” she said, “would accomplish . . . what exactly?”

  After a moment’s contemplation, he let go. “Yeah. It’s your boyfriend is the problem.”

  Joey rubbed her neck. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but if anything happens to him, the cops will be getting a package containing all kinds of interesting tidbits about your client.”

  “Client?”

  “The guy you’re guarding. Charles Perrone,” Joey said. “Can I ask your name?”

  “They call me Tool.”

  “I’m Anastasia.” Ever since she was a little girl, she’d wanted to call herself that. It sounded so much more feminine and elegant than Joey.

  The man named Tool said, “Your boyfriend, what’s he want from the doc?”

  Joey said she didn’t know. “I’m just the lookout. He handles the business end.”

  The man turned halfway and looked toward the boat ramp. “Where’s that canal go to?”

  “Beats me. Whatcha got stuck on your back?”

  “Nuthin’.”

  Joey stepped forward and placed a hand on each arm. She had never in her life seen so much hair on a human being. “You turn around,” she said. “Come on, Mr. Tool.”

  Pulling him into the pale circle of light, she noticed that irregular swaths had been crudely shaved across his shoulder blades. Several tan patches had been attached in no particular configuration.

  “They’s medicine stick-ems,” Tool explained.

  “For what?”

  “Killin’ pain.”

  “Uh-oh. You’re sick?” Joey asked.

  “I got me a bullet in a real bad spot.”

  A truck pulled into the parking lot; a cab pickup with blue police lights mounted on the cab.