SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

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 padlocked 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 Sony Walk-Mans.

“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 starting 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 stool, 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.”

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