Skinny Dip (22 page)

“Take last night,” Chaz pressed on. “I end up all alone with that psycho blackmailer in the middle of the frigging Everglades. In a canoe.”

“You’re alive, ain’t ya?” Tool said.

Red Hammernut couldn’t see over the edge of the desk, but it sounded like Tool was scratching himself.

“Yeah, I’m alive. No thanks to you,” Chaz snapped. Then, appealing to Red: “The bastard hit me over the head with a paddle. And look what he did to my nose!”

Red Hammernut tried to sound sympathetic. “Guy’s got a mean streak, that’s for sure.”

“I thought the whole point of having a bodyguard,” Chaz griped, “was to protect me from shit like this.”

Tool raised his head and, by way of rebuttal, said: “Thar weren’t ‘nough room in that canoe for all three of us.”

“Then how about the other night at the house?” Chaz needled. “The man kicked your ass.”

“We ain’t gonna talk about that,” Tool said.

“Water under the bridge,” Red Hammernut agreed.

“He’s gotta be fifty years old, at least,” Chaz went on, “and he damn near killed you!”

Tool’s tone hardened. “Now you’re just tellin’ stories, boy.”

Red Hammernut’s patience ran out. “Both of you, I swear, just shut the hell up. This ain’t no kindygarten.”

Chaz fidgeted while Red slowly sipped his drink. Tool dozed off and began to snore.

After a few edgy minutes, Chaz let it rip. “What do you think, Red? About paying the guy.”

“I think you got some brass balls, considerin’ you’re the one got us into this train wreck.”

Chaz looked wounded. “Why? What did I do?”

Red thinking: That’s the $500,000 question.

“This is serious,” Chaz persisted. “Whoever this guy is, he could take us all down.”

Of that fact, Red Hammernut was keenly aware. “Wait outside, son. I need to have a word with Mr. O’Toole.”

“Good idea.” Chaz headed confidently for the door. “Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Red Hammernut walked around to the other side of the desk. With the toe of an ostrich-skinned boot he nudged Tool in the rib cage. The big man looked up dolefully and blinked.

“Red, please don’t send me back to Boca fuckin’ Raton.”

“How ‘bout I double your pay to a thousand a day?”

Tool sat up. “The doc kilt his wife.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right,” Red Hammernut said.

“He had a woman over, did I tell ya? Ain’t been widowed a week and already he’s pokin’ poon.”

“If he were the Pope of Rome,” said Red, “I wouldn’t need your help.”

Tool, still itching, unhooked the straps of his overalls to improve access. “Truth is, chief, I ain’t cut out to be no bodyguard.”

“Truth is, that ain’t your job description. Not anymore.”

Samuel Johnson Hammernut winked and slapped an envelope fat with cash on the desk. Tool brightened.

“I’ll take another drink,” he said.

Red passed the bottle.

Twenty-one

Joey was baking in the sun, stretched out on the seawall, when she saw the glint of an airplane high overhead. It made her think of her parents and she had to smile, picturing that doped-up circus bear in the copilot’s seat of the doomed Gulfstream. Hank and Lana Wheeler had lived and died with a flair that Joey envied. In that spirit she removed the top of her bikini and tossed it on the dock. It landed on the nose of Mick’s Doberman, who awoke with a curious snort.

From out on the water came a rowdy hooray, followed by the sound of clapping. Joey spun around and blushed—two men were motoring slowly past the island in a dark green flats skiff, no more than fifty yards from the shore. The men were in their late twenties or early thirties and wore loose-fitting pastel fishing shirts of the style found in high-end outdoor catalogs. Strom shot to attention, shook free of the bikini top and began to bark. When Joey covered her breasts with her arms, the fishermen booed. She lay down and closed her eyes, hoping they would go away. She had come to cherish the solitude of the island, and to appreciate Mick’s antipathy for uninvited visitors.

Strom was clattering up and down the dock in a slobbering rage that would have deterred most sensible persons, but the glimpse of a half-naked woman had obliterated what scant common sense was possessed by the young men in the green skiff. Joey could tell by the engine noise that they were edging closer.

Idiots, she thought.

Even in the middle of Biscayne Bay there was no avoiding this distinctly male brand of bad behavior. A sea breeze delivered their randy chuckles and lewd low-toned commentary, one of the men offering a favorable critique of her legs while the other speculated hopefully on the presence of a tattoo. In vain Joey prayed that their frat-house blather would be drowned out by Strom’s manic barking. Yet when she looked up again, the boat was no more than sixty or seventy feet from the seawall.

“Hey, babe,” one of the men said. “Let’s see those tits again.”

Joey could easily imagine Chaz in that skiff, making the same smurking, cloddish approach to a total stranger. Calmly she got up and walked to the shed where Mick stowed his fishing tackle. He’d been teaching her how to cast a spinning rod, and it seemed like a good opportunity to practice her accuracy. Distracted by a second sighting of her breasts, the two fishermen failed to take note as Joey tied the large plastic minnow to the line—a hefty deep-sea plug bristling with multiple sets of treble hooks.

Strom circled deliriously as Joey advanced, weapon in hand, to the end of the dock. The young man in the bow of the skiff was emitting a gargling sound, presumably in appreciation of Joey’s physique, as she drew back the spinning rod. His gaze never left her chest, so he didn’t see the fishing lure arcing brightly through the noonday sky. Joey wasn’t sure if she snagged his shirt or the flesh of his neck, but in any case she jerked hard enough to spill the howling imbecile into the water.

She had reeled him halfway to shore when Strom, surrendering to ancient instincts, sprung off the dock and lustily attached himself to the thrashing angler’s thigh. His companion bellowed in alarm but gave no thought to heroics; instead, he jammed the skiff’s throttle into reverse and backed smartly away from the island.

The tumult was still in evidence when Mick Stranahan arrived a few minutes later in the Whaler with Rose, Joey’s worldly friend from the book group. Strom released his grip on the fisherman and paddled somewhat ineffectively toward Mick, who with Rose’s assistance hauled the slippery dog into the boat. Making no move to unhook the swimmer, Stranahan bit through the fishing line and instructed the driver of the skiff to come fetch his dumbass partner. The cucumber-sized lure remained attached like a garish brooch to the floundering man’s shirt. Joey also spotted a ragged hole in his cargo shorts—Strom’s zestful contribution—as the man clambered over the gunwale of the skiff, which immediately departed at top speed.

The wild scene seemed surreal to Rose, who hopped off the Whaler, hugged Joey ferociously and exclaimed, “You’re the hottest-looking dead person I ever saw!”

Joey noticed that Rose had bleached her shoulder-length hair to a hue of blond that would have impressed the Gabor sisters. She wore a pullover, black tights and white high-top sneakers—on her way to the gym, no doubt, when Mick had intercepted her.

He pointed toward the receding speck that was the green skiff, heading for the mainland. “Those jackasses give you a hard time?”

“They tried,” Joey said, “but Strom and I taught ‘em some manners.”

Mick pulled her close, kissed her neck and whispered: “Better put your top on. You’re getting fried.”

While Rose and Joey caught up, Mick set the picnic table and fixed a lunch of conch chowder, grapefruit salad, sardine sandwiches and sangria. It was a coolish day and they took their time, Rose frequently interrupting Joey’s story to rail against Chaz Perrone.

“That sonofabitch,” she said for at least the fifth time. “I still can’t believe he pushed you overboard!”

Joey said, “And I can’t believe I didn’t break my neck.”

“You still haven’t gone to the cops?”

“This way is better. This way I’m getting answers.”

“Speaking of which,” Rose said, rummaging through her handbag, “I think I found what you wanted at the library.”

She produced a folded stack of Xeroxed newspaper clippings. Stranahan grinned as he read the first headline aloud: LOCAL FARM CITED AS GLADES POLLUTER.

“Surprise, surprise,” Joey said.

Rose noisily attacked a carrot stick. “So, tell me. Who is this Samuel Hammernut, and what’s he got to do with your husband?” “He owns him,” Mick interjected, “or so it appears.” Joey told Rose about the water-testing that Chaz did in the Everglades, and about the new Humvee purchased for him by Hammernut Farms. Rose gave her a consoling hug and said, “No offense, sweetie, but I always knew that man was a whore. So, what’s next?” “My brother’s flying into Lauderdale on Monday.” Rose looked intrigued. “The one from Australia, who nobody’s ever seen?”

“New Zealand,” said Joey. “You and Corbett are the only ones who know I’m still alive. Besides Mick, I mean.”

“Who, by the way, wouldn’t even tell me how you two met.”

Joey gave Mick the “Are you kidding me?” frown. “He saved my life is all,” she said to Rose. “He’s the one who pulled me out of the ocean.”

Rose reached for the pitcher of sangria. “That is so incredibly romantic. He actually saved you? Like from drowning?”

“Sharks, too,” Mick added dryly. “And giant mutant octopi.”

Joey pinched his earlobe. She was glad that he’d cooled off since last night at Flamingo. He had been furious to hear that she’d left the motel room to chat with Chaz’s bodyguard.

Rose said, “I assume that your brother’s coming here to kick Chaz Perrone’s cowardly ass.”

“He’d love to, but no,” said Joey. “He’s arranging a memorial service for me at some church in Boca. There’ll be a notice in the papers.”

Rose looked at Stranahan and then back at Joey. “You guys are bad.”

“Not compared to Chaz,” Mick said.

Rose set down her glass and rubbed her hands together. “So, tell me. What can I do to help?”

Joey said, “You can come to the service.”

“Of course.”

“And hit on my husband.”

Rose thought about it for a beat or two. “Do I have to sleep with him?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Joey said.

Charles Regis Perrone had a bounty of experience dealing with aggrieved women, and for Ricca he pulled out all the stops. Twelve dozen long-stemmed roses, Godiva chocolates, a magnum of Dom— all were delivered to her apartment that Saturday afternoon. Still, she wouldn’t pick up the telephone. Her adamantine refusal to make contact was exasperating but also arousing; a tough, take-charge side of Ricca that Chaz had never seen. He was confident that once she agreed to meet with him, he could win her back with his dependable arsenal of stage charm, counterfeit sincerity and unforgettable sex. As he rang her doorbell for the third time, Chaz checked his pockets for the potent blue pills that would, if all else failed, endow the ultimate persuasion. “Go away,” Ricca said from the other side of the door.

“Sweetheart, please.”

“Fuck you, Chaz.”

“Honey, this isn’t fair.”

When Chaz heard the click of the dead bolt, his spirits soared. The door opened and Ricca said, “What the hell happened to you?”

“Mosquitoes.”

“Your ears look like rotten guavas.”

“Gee, thanks. Can I come in?”

“You’ve got five minutes.”

Chaz stepped inside. He tried to hold her but she pulled away.

“Where are all the roses?” he asked.

“Dumpster,” Ricca said.

Chaz winced, thinking of the bill from the florist.

“The champagne, I poured down the toilet,” she added.

“I see. And the chocolates?”

“Oh, those I’m keeping,” Ricca said, “except for the nougats. You’ve got four minutes left.”

She was standing against the door, one hand poised on the knob. She wore rumpled sweats and no makeup, and she looked exhausted.

“What’s going on? Why won’t you see me?” Chaz asked.

“Because you killed your wife.”

“Who told you that?”

“A guy who saw the whole thing.”

Chaz felt the blood draining out of his skull. He backed against a chair and sat down.

Ricca said, “He saw you push Joey overboard. Told me exactly how you did it.”

“And you believe him?” Chaz’s voice fluttered like Slim Whitman’s.

“How you grabbed her by the ankles and flipped her backward over the side,” she said. “God, I haven’t slept in two nights.”

“The guy’s shaking me down is all. He heard about Joey on the news and—”

“This is a first for me, Chaz. Dating a wife-killer.”

“Hold on. You’re taking the word of some stranger, some dirtbag scammer—”

“You told that detective I was your cleaning lady.” There was frost in Ricca’s voice. “The cleaning lady?”

Chaz cursed to himself. He remembered Rolvaag bracing him about the phone call from the lobby of the Marriott. The cop didn’t even have his notebook open at the time, so Chaz hadn’t given it a thought. The sneaky bastard must have total recall.

“Rolvaag came to see you?”

Ricca nodded heavily. “Asking all kinds of questions,.”

Chaz tasted bile and swallowed hard. “Well, what was I supposed to tell him, Ricca—that I was calling my girlfriend? The guy’s looking to nail my ass.”

“No shit. He went to all the trouble of tracing the call.”

“I’m sorry. So sorry,” Chaz said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I feel.”

Ricca showed no sign of melting. “Here’s my question: How come he doesn’t believe you?”

“The cop? Oh, please.” Chaz laughed scornfully. “He’s just trying to make a reputation for himself, busting a doctor for murder.”

Ricca rolled her eyes as if to say: Not that “doctor” thing again.

“Let’s go grab a bite to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, “and your time’s up.”

Chaz was stunned to see her open the door and motion for him to go. “Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t give up on me so easy. I’m begging you, Ricca.”

And, by God, he was begging.

“It’s over,” she told him.