Carl Hiaasen - Skin Tight

Christina Marks had gotten all the Stranahan numbers from directory assistance. When she had called Chloe from New York, Chloe assumed it was just one of Mick’s girlfriends, and had given a vitriolic and highly embellished account of their eight-month marriage and nine-month divorce. Finally Christina Marks had cut in and explained who she was and what she wanted, and Chloe Simpkins Stranahan had said: “That’ll cost you a grand.”

“Five hundred,” Christina countered.

“Bitch,” Chloe hissed. But when the cashier’s check arrived the next afternoon by Federal Express, Chloe faithfully picked up the phone and called Christina Marks (collect) in New York and told her where to locate her dangerous lunatic of an ex-husband.

“Give him a disease for me, will you?” Chloe had said and then had hung up.

The hit man known as Chemo was not nearly as resourceful as Christina Marks, but he did know enough to check the telephone book for Stranahans. There were five, and Chemo wrote them all down.

The day after his meeting with Dr. Rudy Graveline, Chemo went for a drive. His car was a royal blue 1980 Bonneville, with tinted windows. The tinted windows were essential to conceal Chemo’s face, the mere glimpse of which could cause a highspeed pileup at any intersection.

Louis K. Stranahan was the first on Chemo’s list. A Miamian would have recognized the address as being in the middle of Liberty City, but Chemo did not. It occurred to him upon entering the neighborhood that he should have asked Dr. Graveline whether the man he was supposed to kill was black or white, because it might have saved some time.

The address was in the James Scott housing project, a bleak and tragic warren where few outsiders of any color dared to go. Even on a bright winter day, the project gave off a dark and ominous heat. Chemo was oblivious; he saw no danger here, just work. He parked the Bonneville next to a fenced-in basketball court and got out. Almost instantly the kids on the court stopped playing. The basketball hit the rim and bounced lazily out of bounds, but no one ran to pick it up. They were all staring at Chemo. Theonly sound was the dental-drill rapof Run-D.M.C. from a distant quadrophonic blaster.

“Hello, there,” Chemo said.

The kids from the project glanced at one another, trying to guess how they should play it; this was one of the tallest white motherfuckers they’d ever seen this side of the Interstate. Also, one of the ugliest.

“Game’s full,” the biggest kid declared with a forced authority.

“Oh, I don’t want to play,” Chemo said.

A look of relief spread among the players, and one of them jogged after the basketball.

“I’m looking for a man named Louis Stranahan.”

“He ain’t here.”

“W here ishe?”

“Gone.”

Chemo said, “Does he have a brother named Mick?”

“He’s got six brothers,” one of the basketball players volunteered. “Butno Mick.”

“There’s a Dick,” said another teenager.

“And a Lawrence.”

Chemo took the list out of his pocket and frowned. Sure enough, Lawrence Stranahan was the second name from the phone book. The address was close by, too.

As Chemo stood there, cranelike, squinting at the piece of paper, the black kids loosened up a little. They started shooting a few hoops, horsing around. The white guy wasn’t so scary after all; shit, there were eight of them and one of him.

“Where could I find Louis?” Chemo tried again.

“ Raiford,” said two of the kids, simultaneously.

“ Raiford,” Chemo repeated. “That’s a prison, isn’t it?”

With this, all the teenagers doubled up, slapping fives, howling hysterically at this gangly freak with the fuzzballs on his head.

“Fuck, yeah, it’s a prison,” one of them said finally.

Chemo scratched the top two Stranahans off his list. As he opened the door of the Bonneville, the black kid who was dribbling the basketball hollered, “Hey, big man, you a movie star?”

“No,” Chemo said.

“I swear you are.”

“I swear I’m not.”

“Then how come I saw you in Halloween III? ”

The kid bent over in a deep wheeze; he thought this was so damn funny. Chemo reached under the car seat and got a.22-caliber pistol, which was fitted with a cheap mail-order suppressor. Without saying a word, he took aim across the roof of the Bonneville and shot the basketball clean out of the kid’s hands. The explosion sounded like the world’s biggest fart, but the kids from the project didn’t think it was funny. They ran like hell.

As Chemo drove away, he decided he had taught the youngsters a valuable lesson: Never make fun of a man’s complexion.

It was half-past noon when Chemo found the third address, a two-story Mediterranean-style house in Coral Gables. An ill-tempered Rottweiler was chained to the trunk of an olive tree in the front yard, but Chemo ambled past the big dog without incident; the animal merely cocked its head and watched, perhaps not sure if this odd extenuated creature was the same species he’d been trained to attack.

Chloe Simpkins Stranahan was on the phone to her husband’s secretary when the doorbell rang.

“Tell him, if he’s not home by eight, I sell the Dali. Tell him that right now.” Chloe slammed down the phone and stalked to the door. She looked up at Chemo and said, “How’d you get pastthe pooch?”

Chemo shrugged. He was wearing black Raybans, which he hoped would lessen the effect of his facial condition. If necessary, he was prepared to explain what had happened; it wouldn’t be the first time.

Yet Chloe Simpkins Stranahan didn’t mention it. She said, “You selling something?”

“I’m looking for a man named Mick Stranahan.”

“He’s a dangerous lunatic,” Chloe said. “Come right in.”

Chemo removed the sunglasses and folded them into the top pocket of his shirt. He sat down in the living room, and put a hand on each of his bony kneecaps. At the wet bar Chloe fixed him a cold ginger ale. She acted like she didn’t even notice what was wrong with his appearance. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Collection agent,” Chemo said. Watching Chloe move around the house, he saw that she was a very beautiful woman: auburn hair, long legs, and a good figure. Listening to her, he could tell she was also hard as nails.

“Mick is my ex,” Chloe said. “I have nothing good to say about him. Nothing.”

“He owe you money, too?”

She chuckled harshly. “No, I took him for every goddamn dime. Cleaned his clock.” She drummed her ruby fingernails on the side of the ginger ale glass. “I’m now married to a CPA,” she said. “Has his own firm.”

“Nice to hear it,” Chemo said.

“Dull as a dog turd, but at least he’s no lunatic.”

Chemo shifted in the chair. “Lunatic, you keep saying that word. What do you mean? Is Mr. Stranahan violent? Did he hit you?”

“Mick? Never. Not me,” Chloe said. “But he did attack a friend of mine. A male-type friend.”

Chemo figured he ought to learn as much as possible about the man he was supposed to kill. He said to Chloe, “What exactly did Mick do to this male-type friend?”

“It’s hard for me to talk about it.” Chloe got up and dumped a jigger of vodka into her ginger ale. “He was always on the road, Mick was. Never home. No doubt he was screwing around.”

“You know for a fact?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“So you got a… boyfriend.”

“You’re a smart one,” Chloe said mordantly. “A goddamn rocket scientist, you are. Yes, I got a boyfriend. And he loved me, this guy. He treated me like a queen.”

Chemo said. “So one night Mr. Stranahan gets home early from a trip and catches the two of you-”