Carl Hiaasen - Skin Tight

Rudy selected a Number 15 blade and made a one-quarter inch incision in Reynaldo’s navel. Through this convenient aperture Rudy inserted the cannula, a long tubular instrument that resembled in structure the nose of an anteater. Rudy rammed the blunt snout of the cannula into the soft meat of Reynaldo’s abdomen, then scraped the instrument back and forth to break up the tissue. With his right foot the surgeon tapped a floor pedal that activated a suction machine, which vacuumed the fat particles through small holes in the tip of the cannula, down a long clear plastic tube to a glass bottle.

Within moments, the first yellow glops appeared.

Johnny LeTigre’s spare tire!

Soon he would be a new man.

In the waiting room, Willie got to talking with some of the other patients. There was a charter-boat captain with a skin cancer the size of a toad on his forehead. There was a dancer from the Miami ballet who was getting her buttocks suctioned for the second time in as many years. There was a silver-haired Nicaraguan man whom Willie had often seen on television-one of the contra leaders-who was getting his eyelids done for eighteen hundred dollars. He said the CIA was picking up the tab.

The one Willie liked best was a red-haired stripper from the Solid Gold club up in Lauderdale. She was getting new boobs, of course, but she was also having a tattoo removed from her left thigh. When the stripper heard that Willie was from PBS, she asked if she could be in his documentary and hiked up her corduroy miniskirt to show off the tattoo. The tattoo depicted a green reticulated snake eating itself. Willie said, in a complimentary way, that he had never seen anything like it. He made sure to get the stripper’s phone number so that he could call her about the imaginary program.

The hour passed without a peep from Reynaldo Flemm, and Willie began to get jittery. Reynaldo had said give it to nine o’clock before you freak, and now it was nine o’clock. The halls of Whispering Palms were quiet enough that Willie was certain he would have heard a scream. He asked the ballet dancer, who had been here before, how far it was from the waiting area to the operating room.

“Which operating room?” she replied. “They’ve got four.”

“Shit,” said Willie. “Four?”

This was shocking news. Reynaldo Flemm had made it sound like there was only one operating room, and that he would be easy to find. More worried than ever, Willie decided to make his move. He hoisted the Betacam to his shoulder, checked the mike and the cables and the belt pack and the battery levels, turned on the Frezzi light (which caused the other patients to mutter and shield their eyes), and went prowling through the corridors in search of Reynaldo Flemm.

When the telephone on the wall started tweeting, Dr. Rudy Graveline glanced up from Johnny LeTigre’s gut and said: “Whoever it is, I’m not here.”

The circulating nurse picked up the phone, listened for several moments, then turned to the doctor. “It’s Ginny at the front desk. There’s a man with a minicam running all over the place.”

Rudy’s surgical mask puckered. “Tell her to call the police… No! Wait-” Oh Jesus. Stay calm. Stay extremely calm.

“He just crashed in on Dr. Kloppner in Suite D.”

Rudy grunted unhappily. “What does he want? Did he say what he wants?”

“He’s looking for you. Should I tell Ginny to call the cops or what?”

The nurse-anesthetist interrupted: “Let’s not do anything until we finish up here. Let’s close up this patient and get him off the table.”

“She’s right,” Rudy said. “She’s absolutely right. We’re almost done here.”

“Take your time,” the anesthetist said with an edge of concern. Under optimum conditions, Rudy Graveline scared the daylights out of her. Under stress, there was no telling how dangerous he could be.

He said, “What’re we looking at here?”

“One more pocket, maybe two hundred cc’s.”

“Let’s do it, okay?”

The wall phone started tweeting again.

“Screw it,” said Rudy. “Let it go.”

He gripped the cannula like a carving knife, scraping frentically at the last stubborn colony of fat inside Reynaldo’s midriff. The suction machine hummed contentedly as it filled the glass jar with gobs of unwanted pudge.

“One more minute and we’re done,” Rudy said. Then the doors opened and an awesome white light bathed the operating room. The beam was brighter and hotter than the surgical lights, and it shone from the top of a camera, which sat like a second head on the shoulder of a man. A man who had no business in Rudy Graveline’s operating room.

The man with the camera cried out: “Ray!”

Rudy said, “Get out of here this minute.”

“Are you Dr. Graveline?”

Rudy’s hand continued to work on Reynaldo Flemm’s belly. “Yes, I’m Dr. Graveline. But there’s nobody named Ray here. Now get out before I phone the police.”

But the man with the camera on his shoulder shuffled closer, scorching the operating team with his fierce, hot light. The anesthetist, the scrub nurse, the circulating nurse, even Rudy flinched from the glare. The camera-headed man approached the table and zoomed in on the sleeping patient’s face, which was partially concealed by a plastic oxygen mask. The voice behind the camera said, “Yeah, that’s him!”

“Who?” Rudy said, rattled. “That’s Ray?”

“Reynaldo Flemm!”

The scrub nurse said: “I told you he looked familiar.”

Again Rudy asked: “Who? Reynaldo who?”

“That guy from the TV.”

“This has gone far enough,” Rudy declared, fighting panic. “You better… just get the hell out of my operating room.”

Willie pushed forward. “Ray, wake up! It’s me!”

“He can’t wake up, you asshole. He’s gassed to the gills. Now turn offthat spotlight and get lost.”

The scope of the journalistic emergency struck Willie at once. Reynaldo was unconscious. Christina was gone. The tape was rolling. The batteries were running out.

Willie thought: It’s up to me now.

The baton microphone, Ray’s favorite, the one Willie was supposed to toss to him at the moment of ambush, was tucked in Willie’s left armpit. Grunting, contorting, shifting the weight of the Betacam on his shoulder, Willie was able to retrieve the mike with his right hand. In an uncanny imitation of Reynaldo Flemm, Willie thrust it toward the face of the surgeon.

Above the surgical mask, Rudy Graveline’s eyes grew wide and fearful. He stared at the microphone as if it were the barrel of a Mauser. From behind the metallic hulk of the minicam, the voice asked: “Did you kill Victoria Barletta?”

A bullet could not have struck Rudy Graveline as savagely as those words. His spine became rigid. The pupils of his eyes shrunk to pinpricks. His muscles cramped, one by one, starting in his toes. His right hand, the one that the held the cannula, the. one buried deep in the livid folds of Reynaldo Flemm’s freshly vacuumed tummy-his right hand twisted into a spastic nerveless talon.

With panic welling in her voice, the anesthetist said: “All right, that’s it!”

“Almost done,” the surgeon said hoarsely. “No, that’s enough!”

But Dr. Rudy Graveline was determined to finish the operation. To quit would be an admission of… something. Composure-that’s what they taught you at Harvard. Above all, a physician must be composed. In times of crisis, patients and staff relied on a surgeon to be cool, calm, and composed. Even if the man lying on the operating table turned out to be… Reynaldo Flemm, the notorious undercover TV reporter! That would explain the woozy babbling while he was going under-the jerkoff wasn’t talking about Victoria Principal, the actress. He was talking about Victoria Barletta, she of the fateful nose job.