Skinny Dip

by Carl Hiaasen

  She released Chaz’s hair and his chin dropped to his chest.

  He said, “I thought you were gonna rat me out for faking the water tests.”

  “But I didn’t even know what you were doing!”

  “So maybe I overreacted.”

  “Excuse me?” Joey said.

  Chaz scratched absently at a dime-size scab on his neck. “You don’t understand. Red’s deadly serious when it comes to business.”

  “It was our anniversary!”

  “Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” Chaz looked up. “Thanks for the awesome golf-club covers. I found them later in my suitcase.”

  “You really are a monster,” Joey said hoarsely.

  “If you were real, I’d tell you I was sorry.”

  “And I’d tell you to go straight to hell,” she said. “Why did you marry me in the first place?”

  Chaz seemed truly surprised at the question. “Because you were hot. And we were so fantastic together.”

  “Because I was hot?” Joey eyed the lamp’s electrical cord and thought: No jury in the country would convict me.

  Chaz said, “I’m getting really sleepy. Can you go back to heaven now? Or wherever you came from?”

  “Didn’t you ever love me?” Joey switched off the light in case she started crying again. “Ever, Chaz?”

  “Sure I did.”

  “Then what happened?” she demanded. “First the whoring around, which was bad enough—”

  A wary grunt from the shadows.

  “—then you push me overboard on our anniversary cruise! I don’t get it,” Joey said. “If you wanted out so badly, all you had to do was ask. See, they’ve got this new thing called divorce.”

  Now all she heard was the low scrape of heavy breathing. Five, ten, fifteen seconds went by.

  “Chaz?”

  Nothing.

  She jerked the pillow from beneath his head and said, “Wake up, dammit! I’m not finished.”

  A perturbed, groggy groan. Then: “You can’t hurt me, Joey. You’re already dead.”

  Arduously he gathered himself and lunged for her, missing in the dark. She pounced on his back, pinning him to the mattress.

  “Because I was ‘hot’? Are you serious?” Her mouth was inches from his ear.

  “Hey, it’s a compliment,” Chaz said. “Now, can you please get off me? My hard-on’s gettin’ bent.”

  “What a moving sentiment. Are you stealing from Neil Diamond again?”

  The door opened, throwing a wedge of light on the bed.

  “It’s okay. We’re fine,” Joey said over her shoulder.

  “Who’s there?” Chaz asked, squirming.

  The door closed.

  “Rose?”

  Joey said, “Relax, Romeo, you’re not getting any tonight.”

  “Lemme up.”

  “It’s still only me, Chaz. Your dearly departed wife.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “But I’m not deceased.”

  “Are, too.”

  Joey dug an elbow into his back. “Does that feel real?”

  “Bad dream,” he groaned.

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Pinch me in the nuts again. Go ahead, see if I care.”

  Joey said, “What went wrong with you, Chaz?”

  His shoulders hitched. “People change, it’s nobody’s fault,” he said. “Lemme sleep, please?”

  “No sir, not yet.”

  “If you were real, Joey, you would’ve already killed me by now.” Then he sighed heavily and went slack beneath her.

  She shook him by the collar, then she pressed so close that her lips brushed the fuzz on his earlobes. “Chaz!” she said sharply. “Chaz, you listen. I’m telling the cops everything. And it won’t just be my word against yours—they’ll have the new will, the videotape, all the Everglades stuff. Your friend Red, he’s toast, too. Wake up, Romeo, it’s over. Attempted murder, fraud, bribery. Even if you beat the rap, you’ll be broke and out of work and owing lawyers for the rest of your miserable life. Ruined, Chaz.”

  From her husband, not a peep. He had passed out.

  Joey climbed off and called for Mick. Together they jostled and prodded Chaz, but they were unable to rouse him.

  She said, “Now what do we do? The asshole thinks he’s hallucinating. He thinks I’m not real.”

  “You’re not,” Stranahan said fondly.

  “I’m serious, Mick. Obviously he was bombed when he got here, then Rose doped him into oblivion.”

  “Gosh. I sure hope he doesn’t get a boo-boo on the way home. Drive himself into a canal, or fall asleep on the train tracks.”

  “Oh no you don’t.”

  “Hey, stuff like that happens. You read about it all the time.”

  Joey stared at the reprehensible heap of snoring, drool-flecked flesh to which she was wed, and she felt only hollowness and exhaustion. How strange that she no longer wanted to punch him or choke him or kill him, or even just scream at him. All her rage and indignation was dried up, leaving only an aftertaste of disgust.

  “You all right?” Stranahan asked.

  “Peachy. I married a total piece of shit.”

  “It’s not hard to do. You want to whale on the bastard, now’s your chance.”

  Joey shook her head. “Honestly, Mick, I don’t care what happens to him anymore.”

  “Well, I do,” Stranahan said, grabbing Charles Regis Perrone by the ankles.

  Twenty-eight

  Nellie Shulman cornered him in the elevator. Her housecoat smelled of mothballs and tuna fish.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re moving out? What’s with all the sneaking around?”

  Karl Rolvaag said, “I’m taking a job up north.”

  “And renting your place out to Gypsies, no doubt. Deviates and loners like yourself.”

  “I’ll be selling the condo, Nellie.”

  She clacked her yellow dentures. “To another snake freak, right? Some psycho with spitting cobras, maybe.”

  “Whoever can afford to buy it. That’s the law.”

  The elevator door opened and the detective bolted, Nellie scuttling after him.

  “Aren’t you the smug one?” she said. “Just because they found Rumsfeld, you think you can dance out of here with a clean conscience.”

  Rumsfeld was the miniature poodle that had gone AWOL, the third pet missing from Sawgrass Grove. The detective was secretly happy to learn that the incontinent little hair ball had not been devoured by one of his wayfaring pythons.

  “They found him behind the Albertsons’,” Mrs. Shulman reported somberly, “sleeping in a liquor box. Some bum was feeding him soda crackers.”

  “What about Pinchot and whatsit, that Siamese?” Rolvaag asked. Poised at his front door, he groped through his pockets for the keys. Mrs. Shulman seemed committed to a full-blown confrontation.

  She said, “Don’t play innocent with me. Her name was Pandora and you know damn well what happened—you sacrificed her to those vicious reptiles of yours! Same with poor old Pinchot. And my precious Petunia is probably next on the menu!”

  “Those are serious accusations you’re making, Nellie, with no proof whatsoever.”

  Mrs. Shulman grew defensive. “It’s not just me, everybody around here’s talking about it. ‘Why else would a grown man keep anacondas?’ they say. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ ”

  Rolvaag said, “They’re pythons, not anacondas. And they don’t eat house cats or Pomeranians.” He hoped his lack of conviction wasn’t apparent to the acting vice president of the Sawgrass Grove Condominium Association.

  “Know what I think, Nellie? I think you’re disappointed that you won’t get to evict me. I think you’re bummed because I’m moving out on my own terms.” At last he found his key and speared it into the lock.

  Mrs. Shulman’s arthritic talons clenched his arm. “Ha! I’m the only reason you’re leaving town!”

  The detective smiled suggestively. “You’re going to miss me, aren’
t you?”

  “Agghh!” Mrs. Shulman stumbled out of her slippers as she backed off.

  Rolvaag quickly entered his apartment and shut the door. He logged on to the computer and clicked open the weather page for the Twin Cities. It was sixty-two degrees and brightly sunny in St. Paul; the glory of a midwestern spring. He wondered if his ex-wife had planted a garden, a hobby she’d abandoned in the suffocating heat of South Florida.

  The detective took a can of pop from the refrigerator, sat down in the kitchen and emptied his briefcase. On top of the pile was the rental agreement for the green Chevrolet Suburban. Initially the manager of the car-rental agency had refused to fax it to the Sheriff’s Office, but he’d changed his mind after Rolvaag offered to drive there personally and jump up on the counter and wave his gold badge for all the customers to see.

  According to the contract, the Suburban had been rented on Joey Perrone’s credit card three days after she went overboard from the Sun Duchess. Rolvaag placed the rental agreement side by side with a Xeroxed sheet of canceled checks provided by Mrs. Perrone’s bank. The signature on the car contract and the signature on the old checks appeared strikingly similar. Next, the detective compared the handwriting on the car contract with that on the will delivered by Mrs. Perrone’s brother. Rolvaag studied the characteristics of the penmanship for a few minutes, then returned the documents to his briefcase. Telling Chaz Perrone would be a waste of time; the man was a goner, and there was nothing inside the law that Rolvaag could do to change that, even if he’d wanted to.

  He phoned the Coast Guard station and tracked down Petty Officer Yancy. “You know that bale of Jamaican weed? The one we took the fingernails from?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s in the evidence warehouse,” Yancy said, “as you requested.”

  “Tell them to go ahead and burn it. I won’t be needing it after all.”

  “I’ll fax you the paperwork, sir.” Yancy paused. “Did they ever find that missing woman off the cruise ship?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Not necessarily,” the detective said.

  As soon as he hung up, he started packing for Minnesota.

  Tool spent the night beside Maureen’s bed at the convalescent home. She slept poorly, making small murmurs that could have been caused by bad dreams, or pain. Red Hammernut had called up angrily, ordering Tool to return to Chaz Perrone’s house and keep an eye on the conniving little rodent. Tool had pretended the battery on the cell phone was dying and he couldn’t make out what Red was saying.

  No way was he leaving Maureen until she felt better.

  He found the TV station that showed country-music videos, and that’s how he passed the time. Some of the songs were depressing, if he listened too closely to the words, and other songs he couldn’t relate to one bit. There seemed to be no end of stories about men who wouldn’t stay put in one place, and the loving women they left behind. That’s one good thing about farming, Tool thought—you’ve got a home and you know right where it is.

  By daybreak his tailbone was so sore from the poacher’s bullet that he had to get up and do some walking. When he returned to the room, Maureen was awake. She looked up and gave a limp smile. The sunlight slanting through the blinds made bright stripes across the bed, but Maureen’s blue eyes, once star-like, seemed as dull and gray as lead. Tool noticed that she kept pressing the call button, so he asked what was wrong. She pointed at the IV bag, which was empty.

  “I need a refill,” she whispered.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “They haven’t given me a bath in three days. It’s so annoying.”

  “Here.” He took the call switch and mashed on it repeatedly with his thumb. They waited and waited, but nobody came.

  Maureen said, “In the mornings they’re short-staffed. Sometimes it takes a while.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Tool snatched the first person he found who was dressed like a nurse and hustled her into Maureen’s room. The woman was startled and confused.

  “Earl, that’s Natacha,” Maureen explained. “She works in the kitchen.”

  Tool did not release Natacha’s arm. “Go fetch somebody to bring this lady some pain medicine. I mean right now.”

  “Natacha, I must apologize for my nephew. He worries too much about me,” Maureen said.

  Natacha nodded tenuously. Tool let go of her and she scooted for the door, Maureen calling after her, “That lentil soup was heavenly last night. I demand your recipe!”

  Tool said, “Ain’t they any damn doctors in this place?”

  Maureen pulled the top sheet snug to her chest. “The woman can’t do corned beef to save her life, but she is the grand diva of lentil.”

  “Lemme go fetch somebody else.”

  “Oh no you don’t.” Maureen wagged a finger. “If you make trouble, they’ll ask you to leave. Just sit tight and relax. I’m fine for now.”

  Tool could tell that she wasn’t fine. Gently he rolled her on one side and untied the string of her gown.

  “Earl, don’t,” she said.

  “Hush up.”

  He hiked the top of his lab whites, then reached behind his back and peeled off his last remaining patch. Carefully he centered it between Maureen’s shoulder blades and pressed down firmly, so that it would stick.

  When he turned her over, she said, “That wasn’t necessary, but thank you.”

  “It ain’t too fresh, but it’s better than nuthin’.”

  “Earl, I want you to listen.” She held out her hand, which felt cool to his touch.

  “Some people give up when they come to a place like this,” she said. “I see it in their faces—they just run out of fight. And the weaker you get, believe me, it’s tempting. . . . The painkillers they’ve got nowadays, goodness, the days and weeks slide by my window like a big warm river. But don’t worry, I’m not ready to call it quits just yet.”

  “You can’t!” Tool blurted. He felt mad, although he wasn’t sure why. “When’s the last time you seen your daughters?”

  “It’s hard for them to get away. The children are in school.”

  “That’s a bullshit excuse.”

  Maureen laughed softly. “I’d slap you, Earl, if I had the strength.”

  He was at a loss. “You want, I’ll try and give you a bath.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” She pinched his wrist. “Good Lord, I shouldn’t have said a word.”

  Tool’s mother had passed away barely a month after the doctors had told her she was sick. It was in the middle of a tomato harvest, and he didn’t get back to Jacksonville in time to say good-bye. He heard himself telling the whole story to Maureen, who said, “Don’t feel bad. I’m sure she knew how much you loved her.”

  “Your daughters oughta be here. It ain’t that far away.” He pressed the call button so hard that it broke apart in his fist. “Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Earl, you need to calm down. I’ve got no intention of dying today.”

  At last a nurse came in with a fresh IV bag, two small vials of narcotics and a diaper for grown-ups. Tool stepped away from the bed to give Maureen some privacy. The nurse was a muscular pitch-black woman who spoke quietly to Maureen in an accent that Tool recognized as Jamaican. He thought about all the pickers from Jamaica that he’d yelled at and slapped around and ripped off, and he felt sort of shitty and low. The nurse who was helping Maureen might have been one of their sisters or cousins, or even a daughter. Her smile was as bright as a sunrise, and when she touched a hand to Maureen’s forehead, Tool knew right then and there that he was done with crew bossing forever. He’d never be able to look one of them sweaty black boys in the eye and not think about this moment, about how jumbled and sour he felt toward himself. Somewhere in life he’d taken a wrongheaded turn, and most likely it was too late to back up. For sure he’d gotten in awful deep with Red Hammernut, who now wanted him to do some
thing that would send him even further down the highway to hell. A week ago Tool would’ve said yes to any fool job, no matter how bad, as long as it paid in cash. But then he’d met Maureen.

  “She gonna be okay?” he asked the Jamaican nurse.

  “Oh, she’ll feel better after breakfast.”

  Maureen said, “Earl, this is Evie. She’s one of the good ones.”

  The nurse laughed. “I’ll come back in an hour for your bath.”

  As soon as they were alone again, Maureen said: “She’s a sharp girl. You should let her take a look at that problem with your you-know-what.”

  “No thanks.” Tool wasn’t spreading his ass crack to any female stranger, black, white, or purple polka-dotted.

  “For heaven’s sake, Earl, she’s a professional health-care provider.”

  “How about some TV?”

  “Hmmm-hmmm,” said Maureen.

  Tool noticed that her breathing had slowed and her eyelids were droopy. The drugs that Nurse Evie had brought, combined with the secondhand fentanyl patch, were taking effect. Maybe now Maureen could grab a decent sleep.

  He said, “I better go.”

  “Thank you for the company, Earl.”

  “Anytime.”

  “I didn’t even think to ask about your bodyguarding,” she said drowsily. “How’s it going with that big-shot doctor?”

  “Same old crap.”

  When Tool stood to leave, Maureen turned her face to the wall and curled herself into a shape that reminded him of a question mark.

  “Don’t you dare give up,” he said anxiously.

  “Not me.”

  “I’m dead serious now.”

  “Earl?”

  He could barely hear her speak, so he leaned over the bed rail and balanced his huge head close to hers.

  “Yes, ma’am. What is it?”

  “Earl, I need a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “It’s a whopper,” Maureen said.

  “Just name it.”

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  Tool smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chaz Perrone awoke nude in his yellow Humvee on the shoulder of Interstate 95, somewhere in Palm Beach County.