SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

He ambled to the rear of the clinic, by the water, and peeked through the bay window into Rudy’s private office. There was the doctor, yakking on the phone. Chemo was annoyed; it was rude of Graveline to be ducking him this way. Rude, hell. It was just plain stupid.

When Chemo turned the corner of the building, he saw a short man in an ill-fitting gray suit standing next to Rudy’s car. The man wore dull brown shoes and black-rimmed eyeglasses. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. Chemo walked up to him and said, “Are you looking for Graveline?”

The man in the black-rimmed glasses appraised Chemo skittishly and said, “Are you him?”

“Fuck no. But this is his car.”

“They told me he wasn’t here.”

“They lied,” Chemo said. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

The man opened a brown billfold to reveal a cheap-looking badge. “I work for the county,” he said. “I’m trying to serve some papers on the doctor. I been trying two, three days.”

Chemo said, “See that side door? You wait here, he’ll be out soon. It’s almost five o’clock.”

“Thanks,” said the process server. He went over and stood, idiotically, by the side entrance to the clinic. He clutched the court papers rolled up in one hand, as if he were going to sap the doctor when he came out.

Chemo slipped the calfskin sheath off the Weed Whacker and turned his attention to Rudy’s new Jaguar. He chose as his starting place the left front fender.

Initially it was slow going—those British sure knew how to paint an automobile. At first the Weed Whacker inflicted only pale stripes on the deep red enamel. Chemo tried lowering the device closer to the fender and bracing it in position with his good arm. It took fifteen minutes for the powerful lawn cutter to work its way down to the base steel of the sedan. Chemo moved its buzzing head back and forth in a sweeping motion to enlarge the scar.

From his waiting post outside the clinic door, the process server watched the odd ceremony with rapt fascination. Finally he could stand it no longer, and shouted at Chemo.

Chemo turned away from the Jaguar and looked at the man in the black-rimmed glasses. He flicked the toggle switch to turn off the Weed Whacker, then cupped his right hand to his ear.

The man said, “What are you doing with that thing?”

“Therapy,” Chemo answered. “Doctor’s orders.”

Like many surgeons, Dr. Rudy Graveline was a compulsive man, supremely organized but hopelessly anal retentive. The day after the disturbing phone call from Commissioner Roberto Pepsical, Rudy meticulously wrote out a list of all his career threatening problems. By virtue of the scope of his extortion, Roberta Pepsical was promoted to the number three spot, behind Mick Stranahan and Chemo. Rudy studied the list closely. In the larger context of a possible murder indictment, Roberto Pepsical was chickenshit. Expensive chickenshit, but chickenshit just the same.

Rudy Graveline dialed the number in New Jersey and waited for Curly Eyebrows to come on the line.

“Jeez, I told you not to call me here. Let me get to a better phone.” The man hung up, and Rudy waited. Ten minutes later the man called back.

“Lemme guess, your problem’s got worse.”

“Yes,” said Rudy.

“That local talent you hired, he wasn’t by himself after all.”

“He was,” Rudy said, “but not now.”

“That’s pretty funny.” Curly Eyebrows laughed flatulently. Somewhere in the background a car blasted its horn. The man said, “You rich guys are something else. Always trying to do it on the cheap.”

“Well, I need another favor,” Rudy said.

“Such as what?”

“Remember the hunting accident a few yeas ago?” Curly Eyebrows said, “Sure. That doctor. The one was giving you a hard time.”

The man in New Jersey didn’t remember the name of the dead doctor, but Rudy Graveline certainly did. It was Kenneth Greer, one of his former partners at the Durkos Center. The one who figured out what had happened to Victoria Barletta. The one who was trying to blackmail him.

“That was a cinch,” said Curly Eyebrows. “I wish they all could be hunters. Every deer season we could clean up the Gambinos that way. Hunting accidents.”

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