Carl Hiaasen - Skin Tight

It was an envelope with Stranahan’s name printed in block letters on the outside. “Woman with two black eyes told me to give it to you,” the guide said. “Cuban girl, not bad looking, either. She offered me a hundred bucks.”

“Hope you took it.”

“I held out for two,” the guide said. Stranahan folded the envelope in half and tucked it in the back pocket of his jeans. The guide said, “You in some trouble?”

“Just business.”

“Mick, you don’t have a business.”

Stranahan grinned darkly. “True enough.” He knew what his friend was thinking: Single guy, cozy house on the water, a good boat for fishing, a monthly disability check from the state-how could anybody fuck up a sweet deal like that?

“I heard some asshole shot hell out of the place.”

“Yeah.” Stranahan pointed to a sheet of fresh plywood on the door. The plywood covered two of Chemo’s bullet holes.

“I’v e got to get some red paint,” Stranahan said.

The guide said, “Forget the house, what about your shoulder?”

“It’s fine,” Stranahan said.

“Don’t worry, it was Luis who told me.”

“No problem. You want some coffee?”

“ Naw.” The bonefish guide jerked a thumb in the direction of his skiff. “This old fart, he’s on the board of some steel company up north. That’s his secretary.”

“God bless him.”

The guide said, “Last time they went fishing, I swear, she strips off the bottom of her bathing suit. Not the top, Mick, the bottom part. All day long, flashing her bush in my face. Said she was trying to bleach out her hair. Here I’m poling like a maniac after these goddamn fish, and she’s turning somersaults in front of the boat, trying to keep her bush in the sun.”

Stranahan said, “I don’t know how you put up with it.”

“So today there’s no sunshine and of course she’s throwin’ a fit. Meanwhile the old fart says all he wants is a world-record bonefish on fly. That’s all. Mick, I’m too old for this shit.” The guide pulled on his cap so tightly that it crimped the tops of his ears. Lugubriously he descended the stairs to the dock.

“Good luck,” Stranahan said. Under the circumstances, it sounded ridiculous.

The guide untied the yellow skiff and hopped in. Before starting the engine, he looked up at Stranahan and said, “I’ll be out here tomorrow, even if the weather’s bad. The next day, too.”

Stranahan nodded; it was good to know. “Thanks, Captain,” he said.

After the skiff was gone, Stranahan returned to the top of the house and took the envelope out of his pocket. He opened it calmly because he knew what it was and who it was from. He’d been waiting for it.

The message said: “We’ve got your girlfriend. No cops!”

And it gave a telephone number.

Mick Stranahan memorized the number, crumpled the paper, and tossed it off the roof into the milky waves. “Somebody’s been watching too much television,” he said.

That afternoon, Mick Stranahan received another disturbing message. It was delivered by Luis Cordova, the young marine patrol officer. He gave Stranahan a lift by boat from Stiltsville to the Crandon Marina, where Stranahan got a cab to his sister Kate’s house in Gables-by-the-sea.

Sergeant Al Garcia was fidgeting on the front terrace. Over his J. C. Penney suit he was wearing what appeared to be an authentic London Fog trenchcoat. Stranahan knew that Garcia was upset because he was smoking those damn Camels again. Even before Stranahan could finish paying the cabbie, Garcia was charging down the driveway, blue smoke streaming from his nostrils like one of those cartoon bulls. “So,” the detective said, “Luis fill you in?” Stranahan said yes, he knew that Kipper Garth had been gravely injured in a domestic dispute.

Garcia blocked his path up the drive. “By a client, Mick. Imagine that.”

“I didn’t know the client, Al.”

“Name of Nordstrom, John Nordstrom.” Garcia was working the sodden nub of the Camel the same way he worked the cigars, from one side of his mouth to the other. Stranahan found it extremely distracting.

“According to the wife,” Garcia said, “the assailant returned home unexpectedly and found your brother-in-law, the almost deceased-”

“Thank you, Al.”

“-f ound the almost deceased fondling his wife. Whereupon, the assailant attempted to strike the almost deceased at least three times with pelotas. That’s a jai-alai ball, Mick. The third shot struck your brother-in-law at the base of the skull, rendering him unconscious.”

“The dumb shit. How’s Kate?”

“Puzzled,” Garcia said. “But then, aren’t we all?”

“I want to see her.” Stranahan sidestepped the detective and made for the front door.

His sister was standing by the bay window of the Florida room and staring out at Kipper Garth’s sailboat, the Pain-and-Suffering, which was rocking placidly at the dock behind the house. Stranahan gave Kate a hug and kissed her on the forehead.

She sniffled and said, “Did they tell you?”

“Yes, Kate.”

“That he was groping a client-did they tell you?”

Stranahan said, “That’s the woman’s story.”

Kate gave a bitter chuckle. “And you don’t believe it? Come on, Mick, /believe it. Kipper was a pig, let’s face it. You were right, I was wrong.”

Stranahan didn’t know what to say. “He had some good qualities.” Jesus, how stupid. “Has some good qualities, I mean.”

“The doctors say it’s fifty-fifty, but I’m ready for the worst. Kipper’s not a fighter.”

“ He might surprise you,” Stranahan said without conviction.

“Mick, just so you know-I was aware of what he was up to. Some of the excuses, God, you should have heard them. Late nights, weekends, trips to God knows where. I pretended to believe him because… because I liked this life, Mick. The house… this great yard. I mean, it sounds selfish, but it felt good here. Safe. This is a wonderful neighborhood.”

“Katie, I’m sorry.”

“Neighborhoods like this are hard to find, Mick. You know, we’ve only been burglarized twice in four years. That’s not bad for Miami.”

“Not at all,” Stranahan said.

“See, I had to weigh these things every time I thought about leaving.” Kate put a hand on his arm and said, “You knew about all his fooling around.”

“N ot everything.”

“Thanks for not mentioning it.” She was sincere.

Stranahan felt like a complete shit, which he was. “This is my fault,” he said. “I told Kipper to take this case. I made him takeit.”

“How?” she asked. “And why?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s even worse. I can’t tell you all the details, Kate, because there’s going to be trouble and I want you clear of it. But you ought to know that I’m the one who got Kipper involved.”

“But you’re not the one who played grab-the-tittie with your client. He did.” She turned back to the big window and folded her arms. “It’s so… tacky.”

“Yes,” Stranahan agreed. “Tacky’s the word.”

When he came out of the house, Garcia was waiting.

“Wasn’t that courteous of me, not barging in and making a big Cuban scene in front of your sister?”

“ Al, you’re a fucking prince among men.”

“Know why I’m wearing this trenchcoat? It’s brand-new, by the way. I hadda go to another funeral: Bobby Pepsical, the county commissioner. Dropped dead in confession.”

“Good place for it. He was a stone crook.”

“Course he was, Mick. But I got a feeling he didn’t get his penance.”

“Why not?”

“Because there wasn’t a priest in there. Bobby’s confessing to an, empty closet-that’s pretty weird, huh? Anyway, they make a bunch of us go to the fucking funeral, because of who he was. That’s why I’ve got the new coat. It was raining.”