Carl Hiaasen - Skin Tight

Stranahan said, “How was it? Did they screw him into the ground? That’s about how crooked he was.”

“I know but, Christ, have some respect for the dead.” Garcia rubbed his temples like he was massaging a cramp. “See, this is what’s got me so agitated, Mick. Ever since I got into this thing with you and the doctor, so many people are dying. Dying weird, too. There’s your ex, and Murdock and Salazar-another funeral! Then the business with that goddamn homicidal tree man. So after all that, here I am standing in the rain, watching them plant some scuzzbucket politician who croaks on his knees in an empty confessional, and my frigging beeper goes off. Lieutenant says some big-shot lawyer got beaned by a jai-alai ball and could be a homicide any second. A jai-alai ball! On top of which the big-shot lawyer turns out to be your brother-in-law. It’s like a nightmare of weirdness!”

“It’s been a bad month,” Stranahan conceded.

“Yeah, it sure has. So what about these Nordstroms?”

“ I didn’t know them, I told you.”

Garcia lit up another cigarette and Stranahan made a face. “Know why I’m smoking these things? Because I’m agitated. I get agitated whenever I get jerked around, and I hate to waste a good cigar on agitation.”

Stranahan said, “Can you please not blow it in my face? That’s all I ask.”

The detective took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it behind his back. “There, you happy? Now help me out, Mick. The assailant’s wife, she says Kipper Garth phones her out of the blue and asks if she wants to sue-guess who-Rudy Graveline! Since he’s the quack who gave her the encapsulated whatchamacallits.”

“If that’s what she says, fine.”

“But lawyers aren’t supposed to solicit.”

“ Al, this is Miami.”

Garcia took a quick drag and hid the Camel again. “My theory is you somehow got your sleazy, almost-deceased brother-in-law to sue Graveline, just to bust his balls. Shake things up. Maybe flush the giant Mr. Blondell Tatum out of his fugitive gutter. I don’t expect you to open up your heart, Mick, but just tell me this: Did it work? Because if it did, you’re a fucking genius and I apologize for all the shitty things I’ve been saying about you in my sleep.”

“Didwhat work?”

Garcia grinned venomously. “I thought we were buddies.”

“Al, I’m not going to shut you out,” Stranahan said. “For God’s sake, you saved my life.”

“Aw, shucks, you remembered.”

Stranahan said: “Which one do you want, Al? The freaky hit man or the doctor?”

“Both.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, I could arrest your ass right now. Obstruction, tampering, I’d think of something.”

“And I’d be out in an hour.”

Garcia’s jaw tightened for a moment and he turned away, stewing. When he turned back, he seemed more amused than angry.

“The problem is, Mick, you’re too smart. You know the system too damn well. You know there’s only so much I can get away with.”

“Believe me, we’re on the same side.”

“I know, chico, that’s what scares me.”

“So, which of these bastards do you want for yourself-the surgeon or the geek?”

“Don’t rush me, Mick.”

Early on the morning of February nineteenth, Reynaldo Flemm, the famous Shock Television journalist, arrived at the Whispering Palms Spa and Surgery Center for the most sensational interview of his sensational career. A sleepy receptionist collected the $15,000 cash and counted it twice; if she was surprised by the size of the surgeon’s fee, she didn’t show it. The receptionist handed Reynaldo Flemm two photocopied consent forms, one for a rhinoplasty and one for a suction-assisted lipectomy. Reynaldo skimmed the paperwork and extravagantly signed as “Johnny LeTigre.”

Then he sat down to wait for his moment. On a buff-colored wall hung a laminated carving of one of Rudy Graveline’s pet sayings: to improve one’s self, improve one’s face. That wasn’t Reynaldo’s favorite Rudyism. His favorite was framed in quilted Norman Rockwell-style letters above the water fountain:

vanity is beautiful. That’s the one Reynaldo had told Willie about. Be sure to get a quick shot on your way in, he had told him. What for? Willie had asked. For the irony, Reynaldo Flemm had exclaimed. For the irony! Reynaldo was proud of himself for thinking up that camera shot; usually Christina Marks was in charge of finding irony.

Soon an indifferent young nurse summoned Reynaldo to a chilly examining room and instructed him to empty his bladder, a tedious endeavor that took fifteen minutes and produced scarcely an ounce. Reynaldo Flemm was a very nervous man. In his professional life he had been beaten by Teamsters, goosed by white supremacists, clubbed by Mafia torpedoes, pistol-whipped by Bandito bikers, and kicked in the groin by the Pro-Life Posse. But he had never undergone surgery. Not even a wart removal.

Flemm stiffly removed his clothes and pulled off his hightop Air Jordans. He changed into a baby-blue paper gown that hung to his knees. The nurse gave him a silly paper cap to cover his silly dyed hair, and paper shoe covers for his bare feet.

A nurse anesthetist came out of nowhere, brusquely flipped up the tail of Reynaldo’s gown and stuck a needle in his hip. The hypodermic contained a drug called Robinul, which dries up the mouth by inhibiting oral secretions. Next the nurse seized Reynaldo’s left arm, swabbed it, and stuck it cleanly with an I.V. needle that dripped into his veins a lactated solution of five percent dextrose and, later, assorted powerful sedatives.

The anesthetist then led Reynaldo Flemm and his I.V. apparatus into Suite F, one of four ultramodern surgical theaters at Whispering Palms. She asked him to lie on his back and, as he stretched out on the icy steel, Reynaldo frantically tried to remember the ten searing questions he had prepared for the ambush of Dr. Rudy Graveline.

One, did you kill Victoria Barletta on March 12, 1986?

Two, why would one of your former nurses say that you did?

Three, isn’t it true that you’ve repeatedly gotten into trouble for careless and incompetent surgery?

Four, how do you explain…

Explain?

Explain this strap on my fucking legs!

“Please quiet down, Mr. LeTigre.”

And my arms! What’ve you done to my arms? I can’t move my goddamn arms!

“Try to relax. Think pleasant thoughts.”

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!

“You ought to be feeling a little drowsy.”

This is wrong. This is not right. I read up on this. I got a fucking pamphlet. You’re supposed to tape my eyes, not my arms. What are you smiling at, you dumb twat? Lemme talk to the doctor! Where’s the doctor? Jesus Christ, that’s cold. What are you doing down there!

“Good morning, Mr. LeTigre.”

Doctor, thank God you’re here! Listen good now: These Nazi nurse bitches are making a terrible mistake. I don’t wanna general, I wanna a local. Just pull the I.V., okay? I’ll be fine, just pull the tubes before I pass out.

“John, we’re having a little trouble understanding you.”

No shit, Sherlock, my tongue’s so dry you could light a match on it. Please yank the needles, I can’t think with these damn needles. And make ‘em quit fooling around with me down there. Christ, it’s cold! What’re they doing!

“I assumed they told you-there’s been a change of plans. I’ve decided to do the lipectomy first, then the rhinoplasty. It’ll be easier that way.”

No no no, you gotta do the nose first. Do the fucking nose.

“You should try to relax, John. Here, hold still, we’re going to give you another injection.”

No no no no no no no.