“All right,” Chemo said. Feverishly he set his limited imagination to work, trying to come up with another story.
“I don’t care what you are.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. Long as you’re not a friend of Mick’s.”
Chemo said, “I’m not a friend.”
“Then I’ll help,” Chloe said, “maybe.”
“What about the money?” Chemo said. “The most I can do is a hundred dollars, maybe one fifty.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Christ, he couldn’t believe this woman. A hundred bucks.
She said, “But before I agree to help, you ought to know everything. It would be irresponsible for me not to warn you what you’re up against.”
“I can handle myself,” Chemo said with a cold smile. Even that—his fractured, cadaverous leer—didn’t seem to bother Chloe Simpkins Stranahan.
She said, “So you really don’t want to know?”
“Go ahead, then, shoot. What did Stranahan do to your precious boyfriend?”
“He put Krazy Glue on his balls.”
“What?”
“A whole tube,” Chloe said. “He glued the man to the hood of his car. By the balls. Stark naked, glued to the hood of an Eldorado convertible.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Chemo said.
“Ever seen the hood ornament on a Cadillac?”
Chemo nodded.
“Think about it,” Chloe said grimly.
“And glue burns like hell,” Chemo remarked.
“Indeed it does.”
“So Mick came home, caught you two in the sack—”
“Right here on the divan.”
“Wherever,” Chemo said. “Anyway, he hauls Mr. Stud-hunk outside and glues him buck naked to the hood of his Caddy.”
“By the testicles.”
“Then what?”
“That’s it,” Chloe said. “Mick packed his suitcase and left. The paramedics came. What more is there?”
“Your male friend—is this the same guy you’re married to?”
“No, it isn’t,” Chloe said. “My male-type friend never recovered from his encounter with Mick Stranahan. I mean never recovered. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“The doctors insisted there was nothing wrong, medically speaking. I mean, the glue peeled off with acetone, and in a few days the skin healed just like new. But, still, the man was never the same.”
Chemo said, “It’s a major trauma, Mrs. Stranahan. It probably takes some time—”
He flinched as Chloe threw her cocktail glass against the wall. “Time?” she said. “I gave him plenty of time, mister. And I tried every trick I knew, but he was a dead man after that night with Mick. It was like trying to screw linguini.”
Chemo couldn’t imagine the hellish bedroom scene. He felt himself shrivel, just thinking about it.
“I loved that man,” Chloe went on. “At least, I was getting there. And Mick ruined everything. He couldn’t just beat the shit out of him, like other jealous husbands. No, he had to torture the guy.”
In a way, Chemo admired Stranahan’s style. Murder is the way Chemo himself would have handled the situation: A bullet in the base of the skull. For both of them.
Chloe Simpkins Stranahan was up and pacing now, arms folded across her chest, heels clicking on the Spanish tile. “So you see,” she said, “this is why I hate my ex-husband so much.”
There had to be more, but who cared. Chemo said, “You want to get even?”
“Boy, are you a swifty. Yes, I want to get even.”
“Then why should I pay you anything? You should pay me.”
Chloe had to smile. “Good point.” She bent over and picked a chunk of broken glass out of the deep-pile carpet. She looked up at Chemo and asked, “Who are you, anyway?”
“Doesn’t matter, Mrs. Stranahan. The question is, how bad do you want revenge on your ex-husband?”
“I guess that is the question,” Chloe said thoughtfully. “How about another ginger ale?”
CHAPTER 7
OF the four plastic surgeons who had worked with Dr. Rudy Graveline at the Durkos Center, only one had remained in Miami after the clinic closed. His name was George Ginger, and Stranahan found him on a tennis court at Turnberry Isle in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Mixed doubles, naturally.
Stranahan watched the pudgy little man wheeze back and forth behind the baseline, and marveled at the atrociousness of his hair-piece. It was one of those synthetic jobs, the kind you’re supposed to be able to wear in the shower. In Dr. George Ginger’s case, the thing on his head looked a lot like fresh roadkill.
Each point in the tennis game became its own little comedy, and Stranahan wondered if this stop was a waste of time, an unconscious stall on his part. By now he knew exactly where to l ocate Rudy Graveline; the problem was, he didn’t know what to ask him that would produce the truth. It was a long way from Vicky Barletta to Tony the Eel, and Stranahan still hadn’t found the thread, if there was one. One way or another, Dr. Graveline was central to the mystery, and Stranahan didn’t want to spook him. For now, he wanted him safe and contented at Whispering Palms.
Stranahan strolled into the dead lane of the tennis court and said, “Dr. Ginger?”
“Yo!” said the doctor, huffing.
Stranahan knew about guys who said yo.
“We need to talk.”
“Do we now?” said Dr. Ginger, missing an easy backhand. His doubles partner, a lanky, overtanned woman, shot Stranahan a dirty look.
“Just take a minute,” Stranahan said.
Dr. Ginger picked up two of the tennis balls. “Sorry, but I’m on serve.”
“No, you’re not,” Stranahan said. “And besides, that was the set.” He’d been following the match from a gazebo two courts over.
As Dr. Ginger intently bounced one of the balls between his feet, the other players picked up their monogrammed club towels and calfskin racket covers and ambled off the court.
Solemnly George Ginger said, “The tall fellow was my lawyer.”
“Every doctor should have a lawyer,” said Mick Stranahan. “Especially surgeons.”
Ginger jammed the tennis balls into the pockets of his damp white shorts. “What’s this all about?”
“Rudy Graveline.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
This was going to be fun, Stranahan thought. He loved it when they played it cool.
“You worked for him at the Durkos Center,” Stranahan said to George Ginger. “Why don’t you be a nice fellow and tell me about it?”
George Ginger motioned Stranahan to follow. He picked a quiet patio table with an umbrella, not far from the pro shop.
“Who are you with?” the doctor inquired in a low voice.
“The board,” Stranahan said. Any board would do; Dr. Ginger wouldn’t press it.
After wiping his forehead for the umpteenth time, the doctor said, “There were four of us—Kelly, Greer, Shulman, and me. Graveline was the managing partner.”
“Business was good?”
“It was getting there.”
“Then why did he close the place?”
“I’m still not certain,” George Ginger said.
“But you heard rumors.”
“Yes, we heard there was a problem with a patient. The sort of problem that might bring in the state.”
“One of Rudy’s patients?”
George Ginger nodded. “A young woman is what we heard.”
“Her name?”
“I don’t know.” The doctor was quite a lousy liar.
“How bad a problem?” Stranahan went on.
“I don’t know that, either. We assumed it was a major fuckup, or else why would Graveline pull out so fast?”
“Didn’t any of you guys bother to ask?”
“Hell, no. I’ve been to court before, buddy, and it’s no damn fun. None of us wanted to get dragged down that road. Anyway, we
show up for work one day and the place is empty. Later we get a certified check from Rudy with a note saying he’s sorry for the inconvenience, but good luck with our careers. Before you know it, he’s back in business at Bal Harbour—of all places—with a frigging assembly-line operation. A dozen boob jobs a day.”
Stranahan said, “Why didn’t you call him?”
“What for? Old times’ sake?”
“That certified check, it must’ve been a good one.”
“It was,” Dr. Ginger conceded, “very generous.”
Stranahan picked up the doctor’s graphite tennis racket and plucked idly at the strings. George Ginger eyed him worriedly. “Do you remember the day the police came?” Stranahan asked. “The day a young female patient disappeared from a bus bench in front of the clinic?”
“I was off that day.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Stranahan studied him through the grid of the racket strings.
“I remember hearing about it,” George Ginger said lamely.
“That happened right before Dr. Graveline split, didn’t it?”
“I think so, yes.”
Stranahan said, “You consider yourself a bright man, Dr. Ginger? Don’t look so insulted, it’s a serious question.” He put the tennis racket down on the patio table.
“I consider myself to be intelligent, yes.”
“Well, then, didn’t you wonder about the timing? A girl gets snatched from in front of your office, and a few weeks later the boss closes up shop. Could that be the fuckup you guys heard about? What do you think?”
Sourly, George Ginger said, “I can’t imagine a connection.” He picked up his tennis racket and, with a touch of pique, zipped it into its carry case.
Stranahan stood up. “Well, the important thing is, you still got your medical license. Now, where can I find the rest of the stooges?”
Dr. Ginger wrapped the towel around his neck, a real jock gesture. “Kelly moved to Michigan. Shulman’s up in Atlanta, working for some HMO. Dr. Greer is deceased, unfortunately.”
“Do tell.”
“Don’t you guys have it in your files? I mean, when a doctor dies?”
“Not in every case,” Stranahan bluffed.
George Ginger said, “It happened maybe six months after Durkos closed. A hunting accident up around Ocala.”
“Who else was there?”
“I really don’t know,” the doctor said with an insipid shrug. “I’m afraid I’m not clear about all the details.”
“Why,” said Mick Stranahan, “am I not surprised?”
THE Rudy Graveline system was brilliant in its simplicity: Sting, persuade, operate, then flatter.
On the wall of each waiting room at Whispering Palms hung a creed: VANITY IS BEAUTIFUL. Similar maxims were posted in the hallways and examining rooms. WHAT’S WRONG WITH PERFECTION? was one of Rudy’s favorites. Another: TO IMPROVE ONE’S SELF, IMPROVE ONE’S FACE. This one was framed in the spa, where post-op patients relaxed in the crucial days following their plastic surgery, when they didn’t want to go out in public. Rudy had shrewdly recognized that an after-surgery spa would not only be a tremendous moneymaker, it would also provide important positive feedback during recovery. Everyone there had fresh scars and bruises, so no patient was in a position to criticize another’s results.
As best as he could, Reynaldo Flemm made mental notes of Whispering Palms during his tour. He was posing as a male exotic dancer who needed a blemish removed from his right buttock. For the purpose of disguise, Flemm had dyed his hair brown and greased it straight back; that was all he could bear to do to alter his appearance. Secretly, he loved it when people stared because they recognized him from television.
As it happened, the nurse who greeted him at Whispering Palms apparently never watched In Your Face. She treated Flemm as any other prospective patient. After a quick tour of the facilities, she led him to a consultation room, turned off the lights and showed him a videotape about the wonders of cosmetic surgery. Afterward she turned the lights back on and asked if he had any questions.
“How much will it cost?” Reynaldo Flemm said.
“That depends on the size of the mole.”
“Oh, it’s a big mole,” Reynaldo said. “Like an olive.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to show her the size of his fictional growth.
The nurse said, “May I see it?”
“No!”
“Surely you’re not shy,” she said. “Not in your line of work.”
“I’ll show it to the doctor,” Flemm said. “No one else.”
“Very well, I’ll arrange for an appointment.”
“With Dr. Graveline, please.”
The nurse smiled. “Really, Mr. LeTigre.”
Flemm had come up with the name Johnny LeTigre all by himself. It seemed perfect for a male go-go dancer.
“Dr. Graveline doesn’t do moles,” the nurse said in a chilly tone. “One of our other excellent surgeons can take care of it quite easily.”
“It’s Dr. Graveline or nobody,” Flemm said firmly. “This is my dancing career, my life we’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Graveline is not available.”
“For ten grand I bet he is.”
The nurse tried not to seem surprised. “I’ll be right back,” she said lightly.
When he was alone, Reynaldo Flemm checked himself in the mirror to see how the disguise was holding up. All he needed was a date and time to see the doctor, then he’d come back with Willie and a camera for the showdown—not out on the street, but inside the clinic. And if Graveline ordered them out, Reynaldo and Willie would be sure to leave through the spa exit, tape rolling. It would be dynamite stuff; even Christina would have to admit it.
The nurse returned and said, “Come with me, Mr. LeTigre.”
“Where to?”
“Dr. Graveline has agreed to see you.”
“Now?” Flemm squeaked.
“He only has a few minutes.”
A cold prickle of panic accompanied Reynaldo Flemm as he followed the nurse down a long pale-blue hallway. About to meet the target of his investigation and here he was, defenseless—no camera, no tape, no notebooks. He could blow the whole story if he wasn’t careful. The only thing in Flemm’s favor was the fact that he also had no script. He wouldn’t know what to ask even if the opportunity presented itself.
The nurse abandoned him in a spacious office with a grand view of North Biscayne Bay, foamy with whitecaps. Reynaldo Flemm barely had time to snoop the joint over before Dr. Rudy Graveline came in and introduced himself. Reynaldo took a good close look, in case he might later have to point him out to Willie from the TV van: Lean build, medium height, sandy brown hair. Had a golfer’s tan but not much muscle. Overall, not a bad-looking guy.
Rudy Graveline didn’t waste any time. “Let’s see your little problem, Mr. LeTigre.”
“Hold on a minute.”
“It’s only a mole.”
“To you, maybe,” Reynaldo Flemm said. “Before we go any further, I’d like to ask you some questions.” He paused, then: “Questions about your background.”
Dr. Graveline settled in behind a gleaming onyx desk and folded his hands. “Fire away,” he said amiably.
“What medical school did you go to?”
“Harvard,” Rudy replied.
Reynaldo nodded approvingly.
He asked, “How long have you been in practice?”
“Sixteen years,” Dr. Graveline said.
“Ah,” said Reynaldo Flemm. He couldn’t think of much else to ask, which was fine with Rudy. Sometimes patients wanted to know how high the doctor had placed in his med school class (dead last), or whether he was certified by a national board of plastic and reconstructive surgeons (he was not). In truth, Rudy had barely squeaked through a residency in radiology and had never been trained in plastic surgery. Still, no law prevented him from declaring it to be his specialty; that was the beauty of the medical profession—once you got a de
gree, you could try whatever you damn well pleased, from brain surgery to gynecology. Hospitals might do some checking, but never the patients. And failing at one or more specialties (as Rudy had), you could always leave town and try something else.
Still stalling, Reynaldo Flemm said, “What’s involved in an operation like this?”
“First we numb the area with a mild anesthetic, then we use a small knife to remove the mole. If you need a couple sutures afterward, we do that, too.”
“What about a scar?”
“No scar, I guarantee it,” said Dr. Graveline.
“For ten grand, you’re damn right.”
The doctor said, “I didn’t realize male strippers made that much money.”
“They don’t. It’s inheritance.”
If Flemm had been paying attention, he would have noticed a hungry flicker in Dr. Graveline’s expression.
“Mr. LeTigre, you won’t mind some friendly professional advice?”
“Of course not.”
“Your nose,” Rudy ventured. “I mean, as long as you’re going to all the trouble of surgery.”
“What the hell is wrong with my nose?”
“It’s about two sizes too large for your face. And, to be honest, your tummy could probably come down an inch or three. I can do a liposuction after we excise the mole.”
Reynaldo Flemm said, “Are you kidding? There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Rudy said. “This is my specialty. I just thought someone in a job like yours would want to look their very best.”
Flemm was getting furious. “I do look my very best!”
Dr. Graveline put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. Gently he said, “With all respect, Mr. LeTigre, we seldom choose to see ourselves the way others do. It’s human nature.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Reynaldo Flemm snapped.
“If it’s the money, look, I’ll do the mole and the fat suction as a package. Toss in the rhinoplasty for nothing, okay?”
Flemm said, “I don’t need a goddamn rhinoplasty.”
“Please,” said Dr. Graveline, “go home and think about it. Take a good critical look at yourself in the mirror.”
“Fuck you,” said Reynaldo Flemm, and stormed out of the office.