“Wide open?”
Luis Córdova said, “The throttle was all the way down. You got to be nuts to run that creek wide open at night.”
“Or amazingly stupid,” Stranahan said. “Let me guess who they were looking for.”
Garcia nodded. “You’re on some roll, Mick. A regular archangel of death, you are. First your ex, now Murdock and Salazar. I’m noticing that bad things happen to people who fuck with you. Seems to be a pattern going way back.”
Stranahan said, “I can’t help it these jerks don’t know how to drive a boat.”
Luis Córdova said, “It was an accident, that’s all.”
“I just find it interesting,” said Al Garcia. “Maybe the word is ironic, I don’t know. Anyway, you’re right, Mick. The two boys were coming to pay you a visit. They kept it real quiet around the shop, too. I can only guess why.” He reached in his jacket and took out a soggy white piece of paper. The paper was folded three times, pamphlet sized.
Garcia showed it to Stranahan. “We found this in Salazar’s back pocket.”
Stranahan knew what it was. He’d seen a thousand just like it. The word warrant was still legible in the standard judicial calligraphy. As he handed it back to Garcia, Stranahan wondered whether he was about to be arrested.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Garbage,” Garcia replied. He crumpled the sodden document in his right hand and lobbed it out a window into the water.
Stranahan smiled. “You liked the videotape.”
“Obviously,” said the detective.
At the Holiday Inn where they got a room, Maggie Gonzalez was going through the yellow pages column by column, telling Chemo which plastic surgeons were good enough to finish the dermabrasion treatments on his face; some of the names were new to her, but others she remembered from her nursing days. Chemo was stooped in front of the bathroom mirror, picking laconically at the patches left on his chin by Dr. Rudy Graveline.
Out of the side of his mouth, Chemo said, “Fucker’s not returning my calls.”
“It’s early,” Maggie said. “Rudy sleeps late on his day off.”
“I want to see some cash. Today.”
“Don’t worry.”
“The sooner I get the money, the sooner I can take care of this.” Meaning his skin. In the mirror, Chemo could see Maggie’s expression—at least, as much of it as the bandages revealed—and something that resembled genuine sympathy in her eyes. Not pity, sympathy.
She was the first woman who had ever looked at him that way. Certainly she seemed sincere about helping him find a new plastic surgeon. Chemo thought: She’s either a truly devoted nurse or a sneaky little actress.
Maggie ripped a page of physicians from the phone book and said offhandedly, “How much are we hitting him for?”
“A million dollars,” Chemo said. His sluglike lips quivered into a smile. “You said he’s loaded.”
“Yeah, he’s also cheap.”
“A minute ago you said don’t worry.”
“Oh, he’ll pay. Rudy’s cheap, but he’s also a coward. All I’m saying is, he’ll try to play coy at first. That’s his style.”
“Coy?” Chemo thought: What in the fuck is she talking about? “I wouldn’t know about coy,” he said. “I got a Weed Whacker strapped to my arm.”
Maggie said, “Hey, I’m on your side. I’m just telling you, he can be stubborn when he wants.”
“You know what I think? I think you’re in this for more than the money. I think you want to see a show.”
Maggie’s brown eyes narrowed above the gauze. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Chemo said, “I think you’d enjoy it if the boys got nasty with each other. I think you’ve got your heart set on blood.”
He was beaming as if he had just discovered the secret of the universe.
Dr. Rudy Graveline stared at the vaulted ceiling and contemplated his pitiable existence. Chemo had turned blackmailer. Maggie Gonzalez, the bitch, was still alive. So was Mick Stranahan. And somewhere out there a television crew was lurking, waiting to grill him about Victoria Barletta.
Aside from that, life was peachy.
When the phone rang, Rudy pulled the bedsheet up to his chin. He had a feeling it was more bad news.