Chemo was working the machine toward Rudy’s pubic zone when he spied something inside the tattered lining of the surgeon’s tan coat. He turned off the Weed Whacker and leaned down for a closer look.
With his good hand Chemo reached into the silky entrails of Rudy’s jacket and retrieved the severed corner of a one-hundred-dollar bill. Excitedly he probed around until he found more: handfuls, blessedly unshredded.
Chemo spread the money on the coffee table, beneath which Rudy thrashed and moaned impotently. The stricken surgeon observed the accounting firsthand, gazing up through the frosted glass. As the cash grew to cover the table, Rudy’s face hardened into a mask of abject disbelief. On his way back from the church he had meant to stop at the clinic and return the money to the drop safe. Now it was too late.
“Count it,” Chemo said to Maggie.
Excitedly she riffled through the bills. “Nine thousand two hundred,” she reported. “The rest is all chopped up.”
Chemo dragged Dr. Graveline from under the coffee table. “Why you carrying this much cash?” he said. “Don’t tell me the Jag dealer won’t take credit cards.” His moist salamander eyes settled on the black Samsonite, which Rudy had stupidly left in the middle of the hallway.
Rudy sniffled miserably as he watched Chemo kick open the suitcase and crouch down to count the rest of the money. “Well, well,” said the killer.
“What are you going to do with it?” the doctor asked.
“Gee, I think we’ll give it to the United Way. Or maybe Jerry’s kids.” Chemo walked over to Rudy and poked his bare belly with the warm head of the Weed Whacker. “What the hell you think we’re going to do with it? We’re gonna spend it, and then we’re gonna come back for more.”
After they had gone, Dr. Rudy Graveline sprawled on the rumpled Persian carpet for a long time, thinking: This is what a Harvard education has gotten me—extorted, beaten, stripped, scandalized, and chopped up like an artichoke. The doctor’s fingers gingerly explored the tumescent stripes that crisscrossed his chest and abdomen. If it didn’t sting so much, the sight would be almost comical.
It occurred to Rudy Graveline that Chemo and Maggie had forgotten to tell him their big secret, whatever it was they had done, whatever spectacular felony they had committed to earn this first garnishment.
And it occurred to Rudy that he wasn’t all that curious. In fact, he was somewhat relieved not to know.
27
The man from the medical examiner’s office took one look in the back of the tree truck and said: “Mmmm, lasagna.”
“That’s very funny,” said Al Garcia. “You oughta go on the Carson show. Do a whole routine on stiffs.”
The man from the medical examiner’s office said, “Al, you gotta admit—”
“I told you what happened.”
“—but you gotta admit, there’s a humorous aspect.”
Coroners made Al Garcia jumpy; they always got so cheery when somebody came up with a fresh way to die.
The detective said, “If you think it’s funny, fine. You’re the one’s gotta do the autopsy.”
“First I’ll need a casserole dish.”
“Hilarious,” said Garcia. “Absolutely hilarious.”
The man from the medical examiner’s office told him to lighten up, said everybody needs a break in the monotony, no matter what line of work. “I get tired of gunshot wounds,” the coroner said. “It’s like a damn assembly line down there. GSW head, GSW thorax, GSW neck—it gets old, Al.”
Garcia said, “Listen, go ahead, make your jokes. But I need you to keep this one outta the papers.”
“Good luck.”
The detective knew it wouldn’t be easy to keep the lid on George Graveline’s death. Seven squad cars, an ambulance, and a body wagon—even in Miami, that’ll draw a crowd. The gawkers were being held behind yellow police ribbons strung along Crandon Boulevard. Soon the minicams would arrive, and the minicams could zoom in for close-ups.
“I need a day or two,” Garcia said. “No press, and no next of kin.”
The man from the medical examiner shrugged. “It’ll take at least that long to make the I.D., considering what’s left. I figure we’ll have to go dental.”