Skinny Dip

by Carl Hiaasen

Another mosquito stung his cheek and he swatted himself so violently that he slid off the hood of the Hummer. Ricca capitalized on the distraction, gimping into the darkness with surprising swiftness. Chaz collected himself and took up the chase, lengthening his stride when he spotted the blur of gray sweat togs ahead of him. He was closing the gap, when suddenly Ricca vectored off the rutted path and, to his profound amazement, dove headlong into the swamp.

  Chaz aborted the pursuit instantly, for nothing so terrified him as the prospect of entering the piss-warm water of the Everglades in total darkness—gagging on soggy duckweed, being lashed to ribbons by the serrated saw grass, and finally getting sucked one leech-covered leg at a time into the inky, inescapable muck.

  Not me, thought Dr. Charles Perrone. No thanks.

  As Ricca tried to swim away, he stood on the embankment, firing his pistol until she rolled over and sank with a gasp. Before long his ears stopped ringing and the water glassed off and the night hummed back to life. Chaz peered at the spot where Ricca had gone down and observed nothing but a fleet of water beetles skating back and forth in the reflected starlight. Something substantial splashed farther away, in a thicket of lily pads. Probably just a coot or a garfish, Chaz thought, but why push my luck? The place is lousy with gators, and I’m out of bullets.

  He jogged back to the Hummer, spun a nifty 180 and headed back toward town. His heart was thumping like a baby sparrow’s, but he felt lightened and liberated and pleased with himself for turning the hated, haunted swamp into an accomplice.

  Twenty-two

  Karl Rolvaag said, “You look lovely this morning, Nellie.”

  “Coming from a degenerate like you, that makes me want to hang myself. You heard about poor Pinchot?”

  “I did,” the detective said. “They find him yet?”

  Mrs. Shulman was bobbing from side to side, trying to see past him into the apartment.

  “Poor Pinchot isn’t here, Nellie.”

  “Then you don’t mind if I look around?”

  “Actually, I do.” Rolvaag didn’t want her to notice that the snake tank was empty.

  She snarled, “I wouldn’t put it past you, kidnapping some poor little puppy for your own depraved pleasures. You probably made a video of it. You probably put it out on the Internet!”

  Daffy old bat, thought Rolvaag.

  “I did not feed Bert Miller’s dog to my snakes,” he said, almost adding: But accidents happen.

  Mrs. Shulman said, “Well, you certainly enjoy hearing those helpless little mice shrieking in agony. Just imagine how much fun a Pomeranian would be!”

  “That’s a totally irresponsible accusation.” The detective choked down a sneeze. Nellie Shulman had drenched herself in a perfume that stunk like rotting gardenias.

  “Then why can’t I come in? It’s Sunday morning, after all.”

  “Because you called me a degenerate,” Rolvaag said.

  “Well, you are. Anyone with a thing for snakes is a sick, sick bastard.” She tried to sneak past but he lowered a shoulder and blocked her. “The Millers are devastated!” she declared.

  Rolvaag already felt terrible. He had searched the grounds of Sawgrass Grove for three hours, but the only snake he’d found was an ornery black racer that bit him on the thumb of his left hand.

  “I saw you prowling around outside yesterday,” Mrs. Shulman said, “hunting for more tasty little dogs.”

  “Nellie, have you been mixing your medications again?”

  She poked him in the belt buckle. “Just because you’re a cop, you think you can get away with anything. Well, you’re wrong, mister. We’re going to evict your heathen butt just like we evicted Neville—and he was a deacon in his church!”

  Gordon Neville, a retired highway engineer, had been forced to leave Sawgrass Grove after a bawdy after-hours shuffleboard match with two women he’d met during outpatient physical therapy at Imperial Point.

  “We nailed him, and we’ll nail you, too,” vowed Mrs. Shulman.

  Rolvaag closed the door firmly in her face. He was halfway to the bedroom when he heard a rustle behind him. He hoped it was one of the missing pythons, but it turned out to be Nellie, sliding another flyer into his apartment. The detective picked it up and morosely looked at the photograph.

  MISSING!!!

  Our beloved darling Pandora

  Blue point Siamese kitten, rhinestone collar

  Easy to Identify: Seven toes on her right front paw!

  Please return her to the Mankiewiczs at Sawgrass Grove 17-G

  Reward: Our eternal gratitude!

  What else can I do? Rolvaag wondered. Snakes can’t be baited and trapped like bears.

  His shrub-to-shrub search having failed, all that remained was to wait for the pythons to reveal themselves. The detective had already decided not to take his pets to Minnesota, the climate there being hostile to tropical reptiles. Leaving them at large in Sawgrass Grove, however, would be perilous not only for the domestic fauna but for the snakes themselves. Many of Rolvaag’s elderly neighbors shared Mrs. Shulman’s harsh sentiments, and had no interest in seeing the pythons captured alive. A garden rake or the business end of an orthopedic cane would do the job nicely.

  Rolvaag ate a light breakfast, showered and packed an overnight bag, including a map of the Everglades Agricultural Area. The map had been provided by Marta, Charles Perrone’s supervisor at the water-management district. She had helpfully marked in red ink the dirt roads and levees upon which Dr. Perrone normally traveled to collect his water samples. Although the map didn’t provide the names of the deed holders whose property abutted the wetlands, Rolvaag had shaded with a no. 2 pencil the approximate boundary of Hammernut Farms.

  The detective wasn’t surprised by what the red lines seemed to show, but he needed to see for himself.

  Before leaving the apartment he opened the window overlooking the courtyard, on the wildly improbable chance that his snakes might find their way home.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet today,” Joey said, “not that you’re ever a chatterbox.”

  Through the bay window they could see Rose flailing in the kayak. Twice already she had flipped it, although she’d gamely declined assistance.

  Stranahan said, “I whacked your husband with a paddle last night. I should’ve told you but I didn’t.”

  “Don’t sweat it. He gets on everybody’s nerves.”

  “I even thought about killing him,” Stranahan said.

  “So? I think about it constantly.”

  “There’s a slight difference.”

  “I know,” Joey said. “I’m only fantasizing. You’ve actually done it before.”

  “Right.”

  “And it messed you up.”

  “I’ve finally gotten to where I sleep through the night.”

  “We’re not going to kill Chaz or any such thing. You said so yourself.”

  Joey kissed Mick on the mouth, leaving him gloriously dizzy. She said, “Thanks for putting up with all this. You deserve a medal.”

  “It’s not too late to bail. Go to the cops and tell them what he did.”

  “Not yet.”

  Rose had tipped over again, and Strom had leapt in to help. The gulls and terns were pitching a fit, but Rose was laughing uproariously as she helped the clumsy dog get to shore.

  “This whole thing could blow up on us,” Stranahan said, half to himself.

  Joey squeezed his arm. “Everything’s under control.”

  Stranahan wasn’t so sure. The cast of characters—himself included—was undisciplined and, in varying degrees, unstable. Falling for Joey was a prime example: It wasn’t part of the plan, but Stranahan was doing it anyway. And the harder he fell, the more powerful was his urge to beat the everlasting shit (and, ideally, a confession) out of Dr. Charles Perrone. Stranahan told himself to get a grip.

  Joey said, “You’re thinking about us, too. I can tell. The big picture.”

  “Unfortunately, my résumé speaks for itself.”


  “Well, it’s true I’ve never been with anyone like you,” she said, “but I’ll bet you’ve never been with anyone like me, either.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  Last night he’d challenged her and Rose to write down the names of all the Beatles, a screening protocol for younger women that in past times had saved Stranahan from certain doom. Rose had gotten only three out of four correct, but Joey Perrone had passed with flying colors, crediting a BBC special that she’d watched one night on the History Channel while Chaz was out with his buddies at a titty bar.

  Stranahan had to smile, for there was no point in pretending he could walk away now. In Joey’s presence he was helpless and driven and probably happy. Someday she would leave, as they all did, and he’d return to his slow-motion existence, revolving peaceably as it did around a dog, a boat and some corroded fishing gear. This was the embedded cycle of his life, as predictable as the tides.

  Joey nudged him and said, “Mick, stop already. I can hear the gears grinding.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Relax, okay?” She peeled out of her swimsuit and led him toward the bedroom. “And that’s an order,” she said.

  Chaz Perrone dreamed he was being mauled by a fifteen-foot alligator with two hungry heads, one chewing on his left leg and the other chewing on his right—a mad contest to see which gobbling maw would reach his crotch first. He woke up wailing, and saw Tool standing expressionless at the foot of the bed.

  “Just a nightmare,” Chaz said, trying to compose himself. He was soaked with perspiration, which he hoped was a result of the dream and not the feverish onset of West Nile virus. The night before he had counted thirty-four mosquito bites on his face, and at the moment every one of them itched like poison ivy.

  Tool said, “Your mother’s on the phone.”

  “Jesus, what time is it? Tell her I’ll call back.”

  “Tell her yourself, dipshit. It’s your ma, for God’s sake.”

  Chaz had detected a menacing chill in Tool’s attitude since they’d left LaBelle. In retrospect, he wondered if it had been unwise to bad-mouth the man in front of Red Hammernut.

  As soon as Tool left the room, Chaz picked up the telephone and heard a familiar question from Panama City: “Any news, son?”

  “No, Mom.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Some days are better than others,” Chaz answered sorrowfully. It was still important to appear needful of sympathy.

  “Don’t give up hope yet.”

  “Mom, it’s been, like, nine days. Nobody can survive that long in the ocean without food or water.”

  “Think positive thoughts,” she said.

  “Mom, please.”

  “Didn’t you see Cast Away?”

  Chaz Perrone sucked his teeth. His relationship with his mother had delaminated during his late teens and early twenties, though not because of her marriage to Roger, the wiggy RAF pilot. Rather, Chaz’s mother had come to notice (and comment often upon) the fact that her son was failing to outgrow the more obnoxious traits of his adolescence. Her list included laziness, habitual self-gratification, a deep-rooted lack of ambition and a reflex aversion to truthfulness. Chaz refused to address the merits of these charges, instead bitingly informing his mother that it would be folly to take career advice from a senior cashier at Target. Once he’d received his doctorate at Duke, Chaz’s mother apologized tearfully for having doubted him. He made a fuss about forgiving her, but in fact her opinion had never mattered enough to either wound him or warm him. He indulged her with a phone call every so often, but it was purely an act of charity. His mother would ramble on about how proud she was; how marvelous that her only son was using his brilliant scientific knowledge to save the Everglades from human destruction. She was such a liberal drip, it was pathetic. She had adored Joey, too, another reason that Chaz wasn’t eager to chat.

  “Miracles do occur,” his mother was saying. “Roger and I have been praying for her every night.”

  Chaz sighed. “Joey’s gone, Mom. They’ll never find her.”

  “Have you thought about seeing a psychic?”

  “No. Have you thought about getting a brain scan?” Chaz slammed down the receiver. “Dingbat,” he grumbled.

  “Ain’t no way to talk to your momma.” It was Tool again, filling the doorway like a load of bricks.

  Chaz foolishly advised him to mind his own damn business, at which point Tool snatched Chaz off his feet and rather effortlessly heaved him against the wall. Chaz was inclined to remain crumpled in a sobbing heap for the remainder of the morning, but Tool seized him by the hair and hoisted him upright.

  “You call her back right this minute,” he said, slapping the phone into Chaz’s limp hand. “Call her back and say you’re sorry. Else I’m gonna stomp on your nuts.”

  As soon as Chaz gathered himself, he phoned his mother and apologized for being so rude. It was difficult, though not nearly as painful as the alternative.

  “It’s all right, Charles, we understand,” his mother assured him. “You’re under a great deal of stress right now.”

  “You’ve got no idea,” he said.

  “Have you thought about trying Saint-John’s-wort? It seems to be helping Roger level off.”

  “Good-bye, Mom.” Chaz gently set down the phone.

  Tool dragged him to the kitchen and placed him in a chair. “Where’d you go last night, Doc?” he asked.

  “See a friend.”

  Chaz was working up the nerve to tell Tool the truth; that he’d gone out and coolly, efficiently committed a homicide. Maybe the dumb gorilla would think twice about knocking him around like a rag doll. On the other hand, Chaz was fairly certain that Red Hammernut wouldn’t approve of his unilateral decision to eliminate Ricca Spillman. Chaz had a feeling that Red didn’t trust him with any responsibilities beyond signing his name to the phony water tests.

  Tool said, “You took your truck off-road. The tires was covered with mud.”

  “My friend and I went for a ride,” Chaz said.

  “You ain’t ’posed to go nowheres without me.”

  “But you were asleep. Snoring like a train.”

  “Where’s that gun?” Tool asked.

  “I, uh . . . I don’t know.”

  Tool grabbed his throat. “Where’s the fuckin’ gun?”

  “Backpack,” Chaz peeped.

  “And where’s the fuckin’ backpack?”

  “Hummer.” Chaz jerked a thumb in the general direction of the driveway.

  Tool let go of him and headed for the door. Chaz gingerly massaged his neck, congratulating himself for having had the foresight to dispose of the spent shell casings and wipe down the .38. When Tool returned, he displayed no suspicion that the pistol had been recently fired. He placed it on the counter and matter-of-factly inquired, “So, who’d ya shoot?”

  Chaz began to stutter.

  Tool slapped him. “Spit it out, boy.”

  Obviously the working dynamic between the two men had changed. “You’re not supposed to be slapping me around,” Chaz complained. “You’re my bodyguard, for Christ’s sake!”

  Tool shook his head. “Not no more. Now tell me—who was it? I smelled the barrel, Doc. I know what you done.”

  Here goes, Chaz thought. “Remember that lady with the little blue Ford? The one who came by last week?”

  “I ’member. Your grief nurse, you said.”

  “Yeah, well, she got it in her head to make trouble. It was going to be bad.”

  “Is that right,” Tool said.

  “Ricca was her name. I’m pretty sure she hooked up with that asshole who’s blackmailing us. I bet she was the one you saw down at Flamingo.”

  Tool frowned. “She sure didn’t look familiar.”

  “But it was dark. And you said she wore a hat.”

  “Yeah, but still.” He remembered the blue-Ford lady as being sort of short and stacked. The one with the ball cap seemed taller and thinner.
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  “Listen,” Chaz said, “I need you to help me ditch her car and go through the apartment. We should make it look like she ran out on her rent.”

  Tool eyed him as if he were a tick. “That’s two girls you whacked. What’s up with you?”

  “Come on. Will you help me or not?”

  Tool dug a bottle of Mountain Dew out of the refrigerator and took a chug. “I ain’t a bodyguard no more,” he reiterated. “Now on, I’m your ‘baby-sitter’ is what Red says. That means I can spank your sorry ass, you don’t do zackly what you’re tole.”

  “My baby-sitter,” Chaz repeatedly thinly. It was even more degrading than he’d feared. “I’m calling Red right now. We’ll get this nonsense straightened out.”

  Tool shoved his cell phone at Chaz. “He’s on the speed dial. Number one.”

  Red Hammernut was empathetic but unmoved. He said that while he was sensitive to Chaz’s feelings, the gravity of the blackmail situation required that Mr. O’Toole take a more proactive role. Chaz was left with the unnerving impression that Red’s goon would not be protecting him so much as holding him in custody. He was, more or less, under house arrest.

  Cheerfully, Red Hammernut added, “Relax, son. Soon as we’re done with this greedy prick who’s shakin’ us down, everything’ll go back to normal in your life.”

  Chaz doubted that seriously. He said, “You’re gonna pay him, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, he’ll be paid. Don’t you worry.”

  After Red said good-bye, Chaz passed the cellular back to Tool, who asked, “How come you didn’t tell him ’bout that woman you shot?”

  Chaz turned away. “Guess I forgot.”

  “Don’t ever set foot outta this house without me. You hear?”

  “Aye, aye,” Chaz said, assuming incorrectly that Tool would miss the sarcasm. Tool promptly clouted him in the head and told him to get with the damn program.

  Chaz shrank away, shielding himself with his arms. He was sick and tired of getting pummeled, first by the smartass blackmailer and now by this hairy troglodyte. He hadn’t suffered so many bruises since the night he got wiped on roofies and fell down the stairs of a sorority house in Durham.