Star Island (12 page)

After agreeing on a fee and per diem, the two men walked out to the parking lot. In an effort to sound sociable, Maury Lykes commented on Chemo’s height and inquired if he’d ever played pro hoops. Chemo replied that the last person who’d asked him that question spent four weeks recovering in a VA hospital. Maury Lykes apologized quickly, and asked Chemo to meet with him and the missing starlet’s mother the next morning at the Raleigh. Chemo got into a Denali with chrome rims and roared away, leaving the promoter to reflect on the extreme measures to which Cherry Pye had pushed him.

Like anyone who dealt with talent, genuine or manufactured, Maury Lykes was a chronic worrier. Now, with Cherry still missing and Chemo unleashed, the promoter was on the brink of an anxiety attack. He was supposed to be reviewing the final mix of the lead backup singer’s track, the one that Cherry would be lip-synching in concert (providing she turned up halfway sober and ambulatory). Instead he found himself pacing the studio, chugging coffee and checking his phone every twenty seconds for messages from the
tracker-slash-bodyguard. Chemo was the first convicted murderer that Maury Lykes had ever put on the payroll, and he hoped the man understood the concept of boundaries.

What if he hurts Cherry?
the promoter thought.
Even worse, what if he falls for her?

At midnight he retreated to his Key Biscayne condo and, as was his habit when under stress, arranged an impromptu debauch. This time the participants were three lithe dancers who were being auditioned for Cherry’s tour. Maury Lykes had spotted them in a Winnipeg theater production of
High School Musical
and flown them down to Florida, where they each signed a paper swearing they were eighteen years old and had simply misplaced their driver’s licenses.

Following directions, the dancers tied down Maury Lykes and took turns thwacking him with a badminton racket while singing “We’re All in This Together,” which was his second-favorite number from the smash Disney play. He was just getting into the spirit of the lyrics when his phone began to vibrate on the marble nightstand. Maury Lykes hollered for somebody to answer it, as his own hands were hitched by parachute cord to the bedposts.

One of the dancers picked up the phone and said hi. She listened briefly and then nodded at Maury Lykes. “It’s for you,” she said. “Some guy named Chemo?”

“Untie me right this second.”

“But you said not to,” the dancer reminded him. “You told us to make you beg.”

“For the love of Christ—then hold the damn phone to my ear!”

The voice on the other end said, “What the hell?”

“Never mind. Tell me some good news.”

“Okay. I found your girl.”

Maury Lykes woo-hooed in relief. “Way to go, brother.”

“She’s a pisser, too,” Chemo said.

“Tell me about it.”

“So double my pay.”

“What?”

Chemo said, “You wanna see her alive, then double my pay.”

“Unfuckingbelievable.”

“She called me ‘Waffle Face.’ Normally I’d kill a person for that. Normally I’d stick a frog gig up their nostrils and yank their tongue out by the roots.”

Maury Lykes groaned. “Fine, you got your raise. Now let me speak to her.”

“Not now. She’s passed out cold,” Chemo reported.

“Lovely. Where’d you catch up with her?”

“Some tattoo shop on Washington Avenue.”

“Shit!” Maury Lykes began thrashing against his bindings, which startled the young auditioneers.

“What the hell did she do now?” the promoter shouted helplessly at the phone. “How bad is it? How bad?”

Chemo said, “All depends on your taste. See you in thirty.”

The visit had begun promisingly for Tanner Dane Keefe, with a vigorous hand job in the back of the limo. It was Cherry Pye’s way of thanking him for dumping his date after Cherry had showed up unannounced on Star Island. Later, snorkeling Red Bull and vodka in the car, she told Tanner Dane Keefe about her escape from Rainbow Bend, an adventure that he cheered as totally sick. The young actor was flattered that Cherry had rented a Gulfstream and flown all the way from L.A. to reconnect, but he was wary about sharing his drugs. He wasn’t up for another overdose scene.

So far, Cherry had been behaving herself. On the first night they’d stayed up until two, playing air hockey and taking dorky pictures with some expensive digital cameras that she had said were a gift from a famous fashion photographer. When Tanner Dane Keefe had scrolled through one of the cameras’ memory cards, he’d found some jarringly unsexy shots of Cherry snoozing on a plane with her boobs hanging out. Cherry had acted like she’d never seen the photos before and deleted them one by one, chuckling the whole time.

Tonight their first stop was the VIP lounge at some super-loud South Beach club called Abcess, where Cherry rocked slowly on
Tanner Dane Keefe’s lap and asked him to accompany her on the upcoming concert tour. He nipped one of her earlobes and whispered, “I can’t, babe. Quentin needs me back in Vancouver to reshoot the last two scenes.”

“Aw, please. I really,
really
want you there, Tanny.”

“I can’t say no to Quentin—it’s for the DVD. You know how they make, like, three different endings to pick from?”

Cherry lowered her eyes. “This really sucks.”

“Tell you what. I’ll fly down for your show in Seattle,” the actor offered.

“I don’t like screwing strangers, especially roadies. That’s why I need you there the whole time.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Tanny, you know how many guys would kill for this?” Now she was pressing it against him. Tanner Dane Keefe felt the soft wedge of heat yet did not succumb, a credit to the dulling effect of the pills.

“Cherry, gimme a break. It’s Tarantino—the fucking
director’s cut!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He said, “Can’t we talk about this later?” Thinking: Like when you’re comatose?

She pushed away and pouted for a while and then pretended to flirt with some famous football player who had plaster casts on each of his thumbs. Tanner Dane Keefe distracted himself by dancing with a Thai supermodel who was five inches taller than he was in three-inch lifts. The model was about to divulge her phone number, when Cherry Pye seized Tanner Dane Keefe by the elbow and steered him outside through a small but raucous knot of paparazzi.

Inside the limo, more drinks were poured. The actor nodded off for a while and, when he awoke, the car was parked in front of a funky storefront that advertised psychic readings for fifteen dollars.

Cherry dragged him through the front door, saying, “You’ll see—she’s amazing.”

The psychic’s name was Madame Tula, and she wore a faded purple shawl, a necklace made of cowrie shells and a Swatch watch. She studied the right palm of Tanner Dane Keefe and announced his new film would do fabulous box office, especially overseas. Then she conducted a tarot reading for Cherry Pye and her expression turned somber. She said the singer’s new CD was destined to bomb unless Cherry immediately got her neck tattooed.

“What kinda tatt?” Cherry asked with tipsy concern.

The psychic closed her eyes. “The head of Axl Rose,” she said, “on the body of a zebra.”

Tanner Dane Keefe snorted and said, “I don’t think so.”

“Shut up,” snapped Cherry.

Madame Tula pushed a business card across the table. “Go see this man.”

“Is he there now?”

“Yes, child, most certainly.” Madame Tula, whose real name was Debbie Metzenbaum, felt no duty to inform Cherry Pye that the tattoo artist was her younger brother, Allan, or that he specialized in Axl Rose–headed creations, or that he gave Debbie a 15 percent cut from every drunk she sent his way; twenty if they paid in cash.

Tanner Dane Keefe tried to talk Cherry out of getting the tatt but she wouldn’t listen, so he slipped her a couple of Xanaxes and sat down to watch. She removed her top and sprawled on a table and yelped at the first hot touch of the needle. Tanner Dane Keefe was too young to remember Guns N’ Roses, so he had no idea if the tattoo guy was any good. The screaming florid face that was emerging on the milky slope of Cherry Pye’s neck reminded Tanner Dane Keefe of no one so much as his Aunt Christine, who’d been banished from holiday gatherings after assaulting the family Airedale.

The actor held up a mirror to show Cherry the ink work, which she pronounced freaking awesome. “I dunno, babe,” Tanner Dane Keefe said doubtfully. He was hesitant to criticize, as the tattoo artist seemed touchy and also outweighed him by probably a hundred pounds.

A bell tinkled merrily as the front door opened. Tanner Dane Keefe turned in his chair and beheld an extremely tall figure with a
clubbed arm, a sorry toupee and a totally fucked-up face. The man directed the tattoo artist to stop drawing on Cherry and, without bothering to evaluate the intruder, the tattoo artist responded crudely in the negative. At that point, the tall, damaged man uncovered his bad limb to reveal a rotary weed cutter, which he started with the touch of a button.

The din captured the full attention of the tattoo artist. He set down his needle and reassessed the visitor, who was eyeing a wall upon which the tattooist had displayed two dozen intricate patterns on rice paper. Not wishing to see his artwork reduced to confetti, the tattooist politely asked the intruder what he wanted.

“Just her.”

The stranger pointed his garden implement at Cherry, who screeched, “Get outta here, you fuckin’ waffle-faced freakazoid!”

“Thing is,” said the tattoo artist, “I ain’t done yet.”

“You sure about that?” the visitor asked.

“Dude, I gotta finish the zebra part.”

“So you’re, like, the next Picasso?”

“Okay, take her,” said the tattoo artist, with the sweep of a luridly illustrated arm. The waffle-faced lawn man handed him a hundred-dollar bill and hoisted Cherry Pye over one shoulder.

The notion to intercede on his date’s behalf briefly entered the mind of Tanner Dane Keefe and then exited just as swiftly when the intruder threatened to scalp him if he tried to be a hero. “No problem,” said the actor. Then, to Cherry: “Catch ya later, babe.”

“You pussy!” she yelled at him as she disappeared through the doorway, squirming in the clutch of her storklike abductor. Once they were out of sight, Tanner Dane Keefe dashed from the tattoo parlor and hurled himself into the back of the limousine and curled up panting on the floorboard. He whispered for the driver to take him home to Star Island.

The next morning, a damaged late-model Mustang belonging to the Hertz Corp. was found at the bottom of a creek along the Card Sound Road. A helicopter pilot from the Monroe Sheriff’s Office had spotted the vehicle during a brief but unfruitful manhunt for
the nude hijacker of a private charter bus. The suspect himself was still safely at large, submerged to his chin among the twisted red roots of a mangrove stand deep in the Crocodile Lake National Wildlife Refuge.

From the air, Skink was practically invisible, his shorn head as brown and featureless as a floating coconut. He could rest for hours like that in a salty marsh, his mind drifting into a meditative zone that was useful on those occasions when he was being pursued. Yet on this day his thoughts returned again and again to the young woman whom he’d pulled from the car, Annie being her name. Annie the actress.

She hadn’t believed it when he’d said he was once the governor of Florida, but that was to be expected. Sometimes he hardly believed it himself. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had recognized him as Clinton Tyree, so many years had passed since he’d fled Tallahassee and that savage realm. The mystery of his disappearance, which had consumed the political press for some time, was no longer of widespread interest. That was fine with the runaway governor, who was happier being an odd historical footnote than he ever was as a headline.

His approximate whereabouts were known but to a single person, Jim Tile, an old friend with whom Skink maintained sporadic contact by marine radio or a cellular telephone, when he had one. Long retired from the state Highway Patrol, and newly widowed, Tile spent his time traveling the length of the peninsula by motorcycle, a continuous lonely circuit from the Panhandle to the Keys and back. Whenever the man he still called governor needed him, Tile went without delay. Better than anyone, he knew how swiftly events could spin out of hand when Skink slipped a gear. His nomadic exile had been eventful—inspired vandalism, snipings, spectacular arsons, abductions, even killings, Tile was sure, although in each suspected instance the victim could hardly be portrayed as undeserving. As Skink grew older, Tile looked in vain for signs of mellowing, but so far the governor’s only act of moderation had been to discard his AK-47 in favor of a chopped-down Remington bird gun.

Tile had asked few questions about Annie before agreeing to take her to the hospital. Skink figured she must be all right; otherwise Jim would have called from the emergency room. Still, he felt a nagging concern that bordered on fatherly, which he didn’t understand. Young Annie owned a lovely self-confidence, though perhaps it was part of her act. He’d been fooled by sure-footed women in the past.

After nightfall Skink floated out of the trees and emerged dripping like a bull otter on a dry wedge of land. Cautiously he picked his way through dense hammocks until he reached his campsite, which he was pleased to find undisturbed. As before, the searchers hadn’t made it that far into the swamp. The presence of crocodiles always dampened their enthusiasm, fine bloodhounds being too pricey to risk on some unhinged old drifter with a shotgun.

A cold front was blowing through the islands, and Skink knew the police helicopter was back on the pad in Marathon. He made a small fire and then hiked to the road in hopes of scavenging supper. He returned with a fresh raccoon and a yellow rat snake, both struck by the same vehicle. Skink figured the coon was probably chasing the reptile when it got thumped.

He fried up all the meat with pepper and Tabasco, and washed it down with three Michelobs that he’d swiped from the refrigerator on the charter bus. Briefly he thought of Jackie Sebago, the turd merchant, and wondered if the doctors had kept count of all the sea urchin quills they’d pulled from his necrotic ball sack. The photos must have been glorious, Skink mused. Maybe they’ll show up in a surgical textbook.