Star Island (30 page)

So he charged the room to his Platinum Card, and up the elevator they went. The last thing Whaddup Coyle remembered with clarity was chugging the dregs from a magnum of unpronounceable champagne while the model and the infielder grappled on the carpet, snorting like goats. One of them would pause every so often to suck on Whaddup Coyle’s toes, which failed to make him feel like an equal participant.

Now, he gradually came to perceive that he was back in the Jag, slumped over the steering wheel. The top was up, the engine was running, his feet were bare and dawn was breaking. A man was rapping on the windshield, and Whaddup Coyle assumed he was a cop—with any luck, a reader of the sports pages. Whaddup Coyle aimed a sheepish smile at the broad silhouette.

“Whaddup, Officer?”

“You’re in no shape to drive.”

“Big fun last night.”

“Out,” the man said.

Emerging from the car, Whaddup Coyle saw that his visitor was most definitely not a police officer. The man’s skin was baked brown, like an Indian’s, and one eye was messed up. He wore a funky trench coat and his scalp was shaved bald, except for two mismatched sprouts that rattled with red and green attachments.

Whaddup Coyle labored to steady himself. He was distressed to observe that the Jaguar’s rear end was crumpled; apparently he’d backed into the concrete wall of a kosher bakery and nodded off. A flattened tin garbage can protruded from beneath one of the rear wheels.

“Aw shit,” he said.

The stranger got into the XKR and revved the engine.

“Say, whaddup?” re-inquired Whaddup Coyle.

“It’s drivable,” the man said.

“Are you for real jackin’ this bitch?”

“Call it a loan.”

“Fuck that,” Whaddup Coyle said. “This is
my
ride, old man.”

When he seized the guy by the shoulder, something metallic and heavy came down upon his hand. It was the barrel of a shotgun, and Whaddup Coyle wondered why he hadn’t noticed it earlier. He thought:
I must be totally trashed
.

“Here’s the deal,” the man said.

“Naw, we’re cool.” Whaddup Coyle backpedaled until he found himself braced against the bakery wall. He felt woozy and nauseated.

“Where are your shoes?” the stranger asked.

“Fuck if I know.”

The man pointed. “Collins is thataway. It’s your best shot at a taxi.” Then he drove off in the imported convertible.

As drunk as Whaddup Coyle was, he realized it would be counterproductive at that moment to summon the authorities. The police report would likely make mention of his polluted condition and then a story would wind up in the
Herald
, which wouldn’t improve his standing with the coach.

So he decided to go home and sleep it off. Later he would phone the leasing company and say the Jaguar had been stolen from his driveway during the night. That way, if the car turned up, they wouldn’t blame him for the damage. Had to be the thief who wrecked it, right? So please send over a new one right away—that’s what Ruben “Whaddup” Coyle would say. Liquid silver, same as the others.

It was a sweet plan, and he congratulated himself for stitching it together so swiftly. Then he doubled over and keeled unconscious into a box of stale pumpernickel.

Had D. T. Maltby not been such a cheapskate, he wouldn’t have found himself in the sticky position of being interviewed by an overly diligent Monroe County detective.

“It’s no big deal,” he insisted.

“A break-in is always a big deal,” Detective Reilly said, not bothering to add: Especially at the Ocean Reef Club.

“What did the intruder look like, Mr. Maltby?”

“Just a bum. You know, some pathetic crackhead.”

The former lieutenant governor had no intention of identifying Clinton Tyree or steering law enforcement in the direction of that vengeful degenerate. Maltby had called the police only because the insurance company required a report and a case number.

“Was he tall or short?” Reilly asked.

“I really couldn’t say. See, he was sittin’ down.”

“Defecating in your dryer.”

“Washer,” Maltby said tightly.

“You’re absolutely sure he didn’t say anything?”

“Look, I already told you what happened—he took a shit and ran off. Could you please just write up the report?”

The detective asked Maltby why he’d waited days before reporting the break-in.

“Because I didn’t want to bother you folks over somethin’ this dumb—it’s the damn insurance people who made me call.”

Reilly said, “It’s not dumb, Mr. Maltby, it’s a felony home invasion. You say nothing was stolen.”

“No, sir.”

“That’s pretty weird to think this person broke in just for the purpose of—”

“Hey, people are nuts,” Maltby interjected uselessly.

“—emptying his bowels in your washing machine, even though there was a perfectly comfortable bathroom down the hall.”

“Obviously the guy’s a sicko.” Maltby was becoming exasperated. “But, come on, it’s not the crime of the century.”

“A speedboat was stolen from one of your neighbors on the same night.”

“So I heard.” Maltby was hoping Tyree had taken off for the Bahamas. Maybe he would capsize in the Gulf Stream and drown.

The detective said a wandering vagrant had been implicated in some recent bizarre incidents on North Key Largo. “Do you know a man named Jackie Sebago?”

Maltby’s tongue turned to chalk. He never should have bothered with the insurance. He should have bitten the bullet and paid for a new goddamn washer out of his own pocket. Now here he was, lying through his teeth to a cop.

“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said.

Reilly related that Mr. Sebago and several associates had been hijacked on Card Sound Road by a deranged-looking street person carrying a sawed-off shotgun. “He described the man as tall with a partially bald head and one bad eye. The suspect also had a young woman with him. Mr. Sebago was personally assaulted in an unusual way.”

“That’s awful,” Maltby said with a false wince.

He preferred that the detective remain unaware he had illegally fixed the building permits for Jackie Sebago’s town-house project, and then unfixed them after being threatened by the ex-governor, his former partner in politics, who shat in his Whirlpool. After the break-in, Maltby had jammed the tracks of all the sliding doors with broom handles. Still he hadn’t slept a wink.

Reilly said, “What I’m thinking—you’re a well-known person in Florida.”

“Not really. Not anymore.”

“But what happened to you is so … ”

“Warped?”

“Personal,” said Reilly. “It seems almost like a grudge thing.”

Maltby stiffened up to scoff. “That’s ridiculous. I never saw that jerk before in my life. And he didn’t have a gun, or a girlfriend.”

“Maybe somebody paid him to throw a scare in you,” the detective speculated. It was the same theory he’d floated past Jackie Sebago the day before. “Are you involved in any unpleasant business situations?”

“None.”

“Personal disputes?”

“Nope.”

“What about your wife, Mr. Maltby? Are there any family circumstances that could stir up this kind of hostility?”

“Hell no!” Maltby was beside himself. “Holy Jesus, it’s just
some wingnut happened to pick my house to pinch a loaf in. He’s probably halfway to Key West and meanwhile my laundry’s piling up, okay? All I need is for you to write up a damn report so I can put in for a new washing machine.”

“Of course,” said Reilly, reaching for his clipboard. “But this time you might consider one of those front-loading models.”

“Not funny.”

“In case the guy comes back.”

If the Star Island session unfolded as Bang Abbott anticipated, he would finish the day with enough stark portraits for a lavish coffee-table volume, to be rushed into print within weeks of Cherry’s final breath.

Such were the heights of his delusion.

“You’re a silly man,” Ann DeLusia said.

“Hold still.” He snapped half a dozen more frames.

“Let’s see ’em,” she said.

He was studying the images of Ann in the viewfinder. “The tatt’s fading,” he remarked.

“Not fast enough.”

“Have you put on some weight? Check out your little jelly roll in this one.”

“Drop dead, Claude.”

Actually, the photos looked pretty good—Ann cuffed to the bed, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the motel room. Bang Abbott was pleased with himself; shooting with a different trigger finger wasn’t so hard, once he’d gotten used to it.

“Where’s my little black dress?” she asked.

“Forget it. You shot me.”

“That was your own fault. Don’t be such a wuss-boy.”

He said, “The dress is a filthy rag. Besides, I need it for Star Island.”

“Tell me you’re not giving it to her!”

“Absolutely. It’ll look like she wore it to a gang bang.”

“You, sir,” Ann said, “are all class. Here, let me see.”

He handed over the camera and she scrolled critically through the frames. “I told you I don’t do well in captivity,” she said. “Where’s the damn delete button?”

Bang Abbott took back the Nikon and erased the pictures click-click-click. “They made you look real, and that’s the whole idea. To come across as human.”

“As opposed to what—a werewolf?” said Ann.

Breakfast was a prehistoric granola bar that he dug out of his camera bag. He ate nothing himself, which was unprecedented. She could see he was jumpy and wired, suggesting at least a residual connection to reality.
There’s no way
, thought Ann,
that today will go exactly as planned
. It was about time Claude got nervous.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Forty-four.”

“Ever been married?”

“What for?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You paparazzi studs get laid all the time. On Learjets, no less.”

“It was a Gulfstream.”

Ann said, “Fifty bucks says she won’t even remember.”

He winked. “A hundred says she’ll never forget.”

“Silly man.”

“Rich man,” said Bang Abbott. He unlocked the cuffs and told her to put on some clothes, which meant the frumpy cotton dress he’d bought at the secondhand shop.

“Is it time, Claude?”

“Yup,” he said. “Get your cute little bum in gear.”

The kid from room service was quavering in the coat closet. Chemo reached in and administered another zing with the cattle prod.

“Tell me again,” he said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

When the kid stopped thrashing, he wheezed through the list of what he’d brought to Cherry’s suite: Xanax, tramadol, Ecstasy, Bayer gelcaps, Ex-Lax, banana nut Cheerios and a bottle of Stoli.

“But she didn’t do it all!” he cried.

Chemo was ticked off at himself for making another bush-league mistake. Cherry had only been pretending to sleep when he snuck downstairs for a steak. He couldn’t have been gone more than an hour, but he returned to the suite just as the kid from room service was creeping out. The wiry little ape sported a fresh hickey on his sternum, which was visible only because Cherry had peeled off his tuxedo jacket and shirt. The suck mark bore a signature—“Cherish”—scrawled with a pink Sharpie.

After Chemo shoved the kid in the closet, he called a number that one of the Larks had provided his first day on the job. The line belonged to a doctor who’d previously treated Cherry’s “gastritis,” and was known to be prompt.

“Is she breathing?” he had asked.

“Like a snot fountain.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

After further prodding, the kid from room service informed Chemo that Cherry had paid him six hundred bucks, the fee negotiated during an afternoon delivery of pomegranate juice and toast points. It had taken a while to scrounge up all the drugs, which the kid had stashed in the kitchen’s pastry locker until Cherry had called to say the coast was clear. And although she’d welshed on her promise of a blow job, she had granted him permission to post a snapshot of the autographed hickey on his Facebook page.

Chemo booted the kid and stalked to Cherry’s bedroom. She was outstretched on the floor, humming “Yellow Submarine” and blinking up at the ceiling while snapping the waistband on a pair of silk boxers, which was all she wore. The carpet was mined with mucky puddles of Cheerio-filled vomit. It was a bad scene; worse, it made Chemo look bad. He had been hired to prevent such reckless nonsense.

With his intact arm he scooped her up and stood her under a cold shower. For balance, she dug her fingernails into his cloaked prosthesis.

“What time izzit?” she asked.

“Four-thirty.”

“In the mornin’?”

“Wash your face,” he said.

“Don’t tell Mom about the dope, ’kay? And I promise not to tell her ’bout the cattle taze, so we’re, like, even.”

“Jesus H. Christ.” Chemo plucked a white oblong pill from her hair and flicked it into the toilet.

Cherry laughed. “What really happened to your face? C’mon, tall dude. Whisper in baby’s ear.”

She started to wobble, so he gave her a slap. “Get your act together. We got a big day.”

“I don’t wanna go back to rehab,” she drooled. “I wanna stay naughty.”

Chemo dried her off and wrapped her in a robe. The doctor arrived, stinking of cigar-bar cologne. He wore jogging shoes and a shiny track suit and a colored rubber bracelet on one wrist. Chemo wouldn’t have allowed the man to treat a guinea pig.

After a cursory examination, the doctor said he could either send Cherry to the hospital for observation or keep her under bed rest at the Stefano for a day. “We’ll pump some fluids. Get a nurse to stay close.”

Chemo wasn’t keen on either option as they would interfere with the Star Island photo appointment and therefore his payday. Based on experience—and he’d seen many overdoses during his bouncer days—Cherry wasn’t on the verge of death, or even a mild coma. The bodyguard phoned the Larks and described the situation.

“No hospital,” they decreed, in unison.

“What about calling mom and dad?”

On that question the sisters were split, so Chemo made an executive decision. He was in no mood to deal with the Buntermans. After dismissing the doctor, he hauled Cherry to the other bedroom and buzzed the housekeeping department, which was accustomed to mopping superstar barf from the master suites. By nine o’clock, when Ned and Janet Bunterman showed up, the carpet was dry and the stink was gone. Most importantly, Cherry had made it through the night without fatally aspirating.