Carl Hiaasen - Skin Tight

Stranahan kissed her and said, “Is Jocko home?”

“His name’s not Jocko.”

“He’s a circus ape, Katie, that’s a fact.”

“His name’s not Jocko, so lay off.”

“ Where’s the blue Beemer?”

“W e traded it.”

Stranahan followed his sister into the living room, where one of the girls was watching MTV and never looked up.

“Traded for what?”

“A Maserati,” Kate said, adding: “The sedan, not the sporty one.”

“Perfect,” Stranahan said.

Kate made a sad face, and Stranahan gave her a little hug; it killed him to think his little sister had married a sleazeball ambulance chaser. Kipper Garth’s face was on highway billboards up and down the Gold Coast-”If you’ve had an accident, somebody somewhere owes you money!!! Dial 555-TORT.” Kipper Garth’s firm was called The Friendly Solicitors, and it proved to be a marvelously lucrative racket. Kipper Garth culled through thousands of greedy complainants, dumping the losers and farming out the good cases to legitimate personal-injury lawyers, with whom he would split the fees fifty-fifty. In this way Kipper Garth made hundreds of thousands of dollars without ever setting his Bally loafers on a courtroom floor, which (given his general ignorance of the law) was a blessing for his clients.

“He’s playing tennis,” Kate said.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Stranahan told her. “You know how I feel.”

“I wish you’d give him a chance, Mick. He’s got some fine qualities.”

If you like tapeworms, Stranahan thought. He could scarcely hear Kate over the Def Leppard video on the television, so he motioned her to the kitchen.

“I came by to pick up my shotgun,” he said.

His sister’s eyes went from green to gray, like when they were kids and she was onto him.

“I got a seagull problem out at the house,” Stranahan said.

Kate said, “Oh? What happened to those plastic owls?”

“Didn’t work,” Stranahan said. “Gulls just crapped all over ‘em.”

They went into Kipper Garth’s study, the square footage of which exceeded that of Stranahan’s entire house. His shotgun, a Remington pump, was locked up with some fancy filigreed bird guns in a maplewood rack. Kate got the key from a drawer in her husband’s desk. Stranahan took the Remington down and looked it over.

Kate noticed his expression and said, “Kip used it once or twice up North. For pheasant.”

“He could’ve cleaned off the mud, at least.”

“Sorry, Mick.”

“The man is hopeless.”

Kate touched his arm and said, “He’ll be home in an hour. Would you stay?”

“I can’t.”

“As a favor, please. I’d like you to straighten out this lawsuit nonsense once and for all.”

“Nothing to straighten out, Katie. The little monkey wants to sue me, fine. I understand.”

The dispute stemmed from a pending disbarment proceeding against Kipper Garth, who stood accused of defrauding an insurance company. One of Kipper Garth’s clients had claimed eighty percent disability after tripping over a rake on the seventeenth hole of a golf course. Three days after the suit had been filed, the man was dumb enough to enter the 26-kilometer Orange Bowl Marathon, dumb enough to finish third, and dumb enough to give interviews to several TV sportscasters.

It was such an egregious scam that even the Florida Bar couldn’t ignore it, and with no encouragement Mick Stranahan had stepped forward to testify against his own brother-in-law. Some of what Stranahan had said was fact, and some was opinion; Kipper Garth liked none of it and had threatened to sue for defamation.

“It’s getting ridiculous,” Kate said. “It really is.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t file,” Stranahan said. “He couldn’t find the goddamn courthouse with a map.”

“Will you ever let up? This is my husband you’re talking about.”

Stranahan shrugged. “He’s treating you well?”

“Like a princess. Now will you let up?”

“Sure, Katie.”

At the door, she gave him a worried look and said, “Be careful with the gun, Mick.”

“No problem,” he said. “Tell Jocko I was here.”

“Not hello? Or maybe Happy New Year?”

“No, just tell him I was here. That’s all.”

Stranahan got back to the marina and wrapped the shotgun in an oilcloth and slipped it lengthwise under the seats of the skiff. He headed south in a biting wind, taking spray over the port side and bouncing hard in the troughs. It took twenty-five minutes to reach the stilt house; Stranahan idled in on a low tide. As soon as he tied off, he heard voices up above and bare feet on the planks.

He unwrapped the shotgun and crept up the stairs.

Three naked women were stretched out sunning on the deck. One of them, a slender brunette, looked up and screamed. The others reflexively scrambled for their towels.

Stranahan said, “What are you doing on my house?”

“Are you about to shoot us?” the brunette asked.

“I doubt it.”

“We didn’t know this place was yours,” said another woman, a bleached blonde with substantial breasts.

Stranahan muttered and opened the door, which was padlocked from the outside. This happened occasionally-sunbathers or drunken kids climbing up on the place when he wasn’t home. He put the gun away, got a cold beer, and came back out. The women had wrapped themselves up and were gathering their lotions and Sony Walk-Mans.

“W here’s your boat?” Stranahan asked.

“Way out there,” the brunette said, pointing.

Stranahan squinted into the glare. It looked like a big red Formula, towing two skiers. “Boyfriends?” he said.

The bleached blonde nodded. “They said this place was deserted. Honest, we didn’t know. They’ll be back at four.”

“It’s all right, you can stay,” he said. “It’s a nice day forthe water.” Then he went back inside to clean the shotgun. Before long, the third woman, a true blonde, came in and asked for a glass of water.

“Take a beer,” Stranahan said. “I’m saving the water.”

She was back to her naked state. Stranahan tried to concentrate on the Remington.

“I’m a model,” she announced, and starting talking. Name’s Tina, nineteen years old, born in Detroit but moved down here when she was still a baby, likes to model but hates some of the creeps who take the pictures.

“My career is really taking off,” she declared. She sat down on a bar stool, crossed her legs, folded her arms under her breasts.

“So what do you do?” she asked.

“I’m retired.”

“You look awful young to be retired. You must be rich.”

“A billionaire,” Stranahan said, peering through the shiny blue barrel of the shotgun. “Maybe even a trillionaire. I’m not sure.”

Tina smiled. “Right,” she said. “You ever watch Miami Vice? I’ve been on there twice. Both times I played prostitutes, but at least I had some good lines.”

“I don’t have a television,” Stranahan said. “Sorry I missed it.”

“Know what else? I dated Don Johnson.”

“I bet that looks good on the resume.”

“He’s a really nice guy,” Tina remarked, “not like they say.”

Stranahan glanced up and said, “I think your tan’s fading.”

Tina the model looked down at herself, seemed to get tangled up in a thought. “Can I ask you a favor?”

A headache was taking seed in Mick Stranahan’s brain. He actually felt it sprouting, like ragweed, out of the base of his skull.

Tina stood up and said: “I want you to look at my boobs.”

“ I have. They’re lovely.”

“Please, look again. Closer.”

Stranahan screwed the Remington shut and laid it across his lap. He sat up straight and looked directly at Tina’s breasts. They seemed exquisite in all respects.