“No shit?”
“At least five different operations, from his eyes to his chin. Tony the Eel, he was a regular Michael Jackson. His own mother wouldn’t have known him.”
Stranahan opened another beer and sat down. “Why would a bum like Traviola get his face remade?”
Córdova said, “Traviola did a nickel for extortion, got out of Rahway about two years ago. Not long afterward a Purolator truck gets hit, but the robbers turn up dead three days later—without the loot. Classic mob rip. The feds put a warrant out for Traviola, hung his snapshot in every post office along the Eastern seaboard.”
“Good reason to get the old shnoz bobbed,” Stranahan said.
“That’s what they figure.” Córdova got up and rinsed his plate in the sink.
Stranahan was impressed. “You didn’t get all this out of Metro, did you?”
Córdova laughed. “Hey, even the grouper troopers got a computer.”
This was a good kid, Stranahan thought, a good cop. Maybe there was hope for the world after all.
“I see you went out and got the newspaper,” the marine patrolman remarked. “What’s the occasion, you got a pony running at Gulfstream?”
Hell, Stranahan thought, that was a stupid move. On the counter was the Herald, open to the page with the story about the dead floater. Miami being what it is, the floater story was only two paragraphs long, wedged under a tiny headline between a one-ton coke bust and a double homicide on the river. Maybe Luis Córdova wouldn’t notice.
“You must’ve got up early to get to the marina and back,” he said.
“Grocery run,” Stranahan lied. “Besides, it was a nice morning for a boat ride. How was the fish?”
“Delicious, Mick.” Córdova slapped him on the shoulder and said so long.
Stranahan walked out on the deck and watched Córdova untie his patrol boat, a gray Mako outboard with a blue police light mounted on the center console.
“If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call, Luis.”
“No sweat, it’s Metro’s party,” the marine patrolman said. “Guy sounds like a dirtbag, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Stranahan said, “I feel sorry for that shark, the one that ate his foot.”
Córdova chuckled. “Yeah, he’ll be puking for a week.”
Stranahan waved as the police boat pulled away. He was pleased to see Luis Córdova heading south toward Boca Chita, as Luis had said he would. He was also pleased that the young officer had not asked him about the blue marlin head on the living-room wall, about why the sword was mended together with fresh hurricane tape.
TIMMY Gavigan had looked like death for most of his adult life. Now he had an excuse.
His coppery hair had fallen out in thickets, revealing patches of pale freckled scalp. His face, once round and florid, looked like somebody had let the air out.
From his hospital bed Timmy Gavigan said, “Mick, can you believe this fucking food?” He picked up a chunk of gray meat off the tray and held it up with two fingers, like an important piece of evidence. “This is your government in action, Mick. Same fuckers that want to put lasers in outer space can’t fry a Salisbury steak.”
Stranahan said, “I’ll go get us some takeout.”
“Forget it.”
“You’re not hungry?”
“I got about five gallons of poison in my bloodstream, Mick. Some new formula, experimental super juice. I told ’em to go ahead, why the hell not? If it kills just one of those goddamn cells, then I’m for it.”
Stranahan smiled and sat down.
“A man came out to see me the other day. He was using your name, Tim.”
Gavigan’s laugh rattled. “Not too bright. Didn’t he know we was friends?”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. He was telling people he was you, trying to find out where my house was.”
“But he didn’t tell you he was me?”
“No,” Stranahan said.
Gavigan’s blue eyes seemed to light up. “Did he find your place?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And?”
Stranahan thought about how to handle it.
“Hey, Mick, I haven’t got loads of time, okay? I mean, I could check out of this life any second now, so don’t make me choke the goddamn story out of you.”
Stranahan said, “It turns out he was a bad guy from back East. Killer for the mob.”
“Was?” Gavigan grinned. “So that’s it. And here I thought you’d come by just to see how your old pal was hanging in.”
“That, too,” Stranahan said.
“But first you want me to help you figure it out, how this pasta-breath tied us together.”
“I don’t like the fact he was using your name.”
“How d’you think I feel?” Gavigan handed Stranahan the dinner tray and told him to set it on the floor. He folded his papery hands on his lap, over the thin woolen blanket. “How would he know we was friends, Mick? You never call, never send candy. Missed my birthday three years in a row.”
“That’s not true, Timmy. Two years ago I sent a strip-o-gram.”
“You sent that broad? I thought she just showed up lonely at the station and picked out the handsomest cop. Hell, Mick, I took her to Grand Bahama for a week, damn near married her.”
Stranahan was feeling better; Timmy knew something. Stranahan could tell from the eyes. It had come back to him.
Gavigan said, “Mick, that girl had the finest nipples I ever saw. I meant to thank you.”
“Anytime.”
“Like Susan B. Anthony dollars, that’s how big they were. Same shape, too. Octagonal.” Gavigan winked. “You remember the Barletta thing?”
“Sure.” A missing-person’s case that had turned into a possible kidnap. The victim was a twenty-two-year-old University of Miami student. Victoria Barletta: brown eyes, black hair, five eight, one hundred and thirty pounds. Disappeared on a rainy March afternoon.
Still unsolved.
“We had our names in the paper,” Gavigan said. “I still got the clipping.”
Stranahan remembered. There was a press conference. Victoria’s parents offered a $10,000 reward. Timmy was there from Homicide, Stranahan from the State Attorney’s Office. Both of them were quoted in the story, which ran on the front pages of the Herald and the Miami News.
Gavigan coughed in a way that startled Mick Stranahan. It sounded like Timmy’s lungs had turned to custard.
“Hand me that cup,” Gavigan said. “Know what? That was the only time we made the papers together.”
“Timmy, we got in the papers all the time.”
“Yeah, but not together.” He slurped down some ginger ale and pointed a pale bony finger at Stranahan. “Not together, bucko, trust me. I save all the clippings for my scrapbook. Don’t you?”
Stranahan said no.
“You wouldn’t.” Gavigan hacked out a laugh.
“So you think this Mafia guy got it out of the papers?”
“Not the Mafia guy,” Gavigan said, “but the guy who hired him. It’s a good possibility.”
“The Barletta thing was four years ago, Timmy.”
“Hey, I ain’t the only one who keeps scrapbooks.”
He yawned. “Think hard on this, Mick, it’s probably important.”
Stranahan stood up and said, “You get some rest, buddy.”
“I’m glad you took care of that prick who was using my name.”
“Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.” Gavigan smiled. “Anyway, I’m glad you took care of him. He had no business lying like that, using my name.”
Stranahan pulled the blanket up to his friend’s neck.
“Good night, Timmy.”
“Be careful, Mick,” the old cop said. “Hey, and when I croak, you save the newspaper clipping, okay? Glue it on the last page of my scrapbook.”
“It’s a promise.”
“Unless it don’t make the papers.”
“It’ll make the damn papers,” Stranahan said. “Buried back in the truss ads, where you belong.”
Timmy Gavigan laughed so hard, he had to ring the nurse for oxygen.
CHAPTER 3
FOUR days after the Mafia man came to murder him, Mick Stranahan got up early and took the skiff to the marina. There he jump-started his old Chrysler Imperial and drove down to Gables-by-the-Sea, a ritzy but misnomered neighborhood where his sister, Kate, lived with her degenerate lawyer husband and three teenaged daughters from two previous marriages (his, not hers). The subdivision was nowhere near the ocean but fronted a series of man-made canals that emptied into Biscayne Bay. No one complained about this marketing deception, as it was understood by buyers and sellers alike that Gables-by-the-Sea sounded much more toney than Gables-on-the-Canal. The price of the real estate duly reflected this exaggeration.
Stranahan’s sister lived in a big split-level house with five bedrooms, a swimming pool, a sauna, and a putting green in the yard. Her lawyer husband even bought a thirty-foot sailboat to go with the dock out back, although he couldn’t tell his fore from his aft. The sight of the sparkling white mast poking over the top of the big house made Stranahan shake his head as he pulled into the driveway—Kate’s husband was positively born for South Florida.
When Stranahan’s sister came to the door, she said, “Well, look who’s here.”
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?”
“We 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 pad-locked 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 music players.
“Where’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 for the 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 started 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 sto
ol, 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 résumé.”
“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.
She said, “Are they lined up okay?”
“Appear to be.”
“Reason I ask, I had one of those operations. You know, a boob job. For the kind of modeling I do, it was necessary. I mean, I was about a thirty-two A, if you can imagine.”
Stranahan just shook his head. He felt unable to contribute to the conversation.
“Anyway, I paid three grand for this boob job and it’s really helped. Workwise. Except the other day I did a Penthouse tryout and the photog makes some remark about my tits. Says I got a gravity problem on the left side.”
Stranahan studied the two breasts and said, “Would that be your left or my left?”
“Mine.”
“Well, he’s nuts,” Stranahan said. “They’re both perfect.”
“You’re not just saying that?”