“Yes,” Rudy said. “Get out here as fast as you can. We’re going on a boat ride.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
32
Maggie and Chemo left Christina Marks tied up in the trunk of the Bonneville, which was parked in Rudy Graveline’s flagstone driveway. Miserable as she was, Christina didn’t worry about suffocating inside the car; there were so many rust holes, she could actually feel a breeze.
For an hour Maggie and Chemo sat on the white leather sofa in Rudy’s living room and listened to the doleful story of how he had come home to find his lover, his baby doll, his sweetie pie, his Venus, his sugar bunny, his punkin, his blond California sunbeam missing from the bedroom.
They took turns studying the kidnap note, which said:
“Ahoy! You’re Invited to a Party!”
On the front of the note was a cartoon pelican in a sailor’s cap. On the inside was a hand-drawn chart of Stiltsville. Chemo and Rudy grimly agreed that something had to be done permanently about Mick Stranahan.
Chemo asked about the fresh dark drops on the foyer, and Rudy said that it wasn’t Heather’s blood but someone else’s. In chokes and sighs he told them about the mishap at the clinic with Reynaldo Flemm. Maggie Gonzalez listened to the gruesome account with amazement; she had never dreamed her modest extortion scheme would come to this.
“So, where is he?” she asked.
“In there,” Rudy replied. “The Sub-Zero.”
Chemo said, “The what? What’re you talking about?”
Rudy led them to the kitchen and pointed at the cabinet-sized refrigerator. “The Sub-Zero,” he said.
Maggie noticed that the aluminum freezer trays had been stacked on the counter, along with a half-dozen Lean Cuisines and three pints of chocolate Haagen-Dazs.
Chemo said, “That’s a big fridge, all right.” He opened the door and there was Reynaldo Flemm, upright and frosty as a Jell-O pop.
“It was the only way he could fit,” explained Rudy. “See, I had to tear out the damn ice maker.”
Chemo said, “He sure looks different on TV.” Chemo propped open the refrigerator door with one knee; the cold air made his face feel better.
Maggie said nothing. This wasn’t part of the plan. She was trying to think of a way to sneak out of Rudy’s house and run. Go back to the motel room, grab the black Samsonite, and disappear for about five years.
Chemo closed the freezer door. He pointed to more brownish spots on the bone-colored tile and said, “If you got a mop, she can clean that up.”
“Wait a second,” Maggie said. “Do I look like a maid?”
“You’re gonna look like a cabbage if you don’t do what I say.” Balefully Chemo brandished the Weed Whacker.
Maggie recalled the savage thrashing of Rudy Graveline and said, “All right, put that stupid thing away.”
While Maggie mopped, Rudy moped. He seemed shattered, listless, inconsolable. He needed to think; he needed the soothing rhythm of athletic copulation, the sweet crystal tunnel of clarity that only Heather’s loins could give him.
The day had begun with such promise!
Up before dawn to pack their bags. And the airline tickets—he had placed them in Heather’s purse while she slept. He would drive to the clinic, perform the operation on the male go-go dancer, collect the fifteen grand, and come home for Heather. Then it was off to the airport! Fifteen thousand was plenty for starters—a month or two in Costa Rica in a nice apartment. Time enough for Rudy’s Panamanian lawyer to liquidate the offshore trusts. After that, Rudy and Heather could breathe again. Get themselves some land up in the mountains. Split-level ranch house on the side of a hill. A stable, too; she loved to ride. Rudy envisioned himself opening a new surgery clinic; he had even packed his laminated Harvard diploma, pillowing it tenderly in the suitcase among his silk socks and designer underwear. San Jose was crawling with wealthy expatriates and aspiring international jet-setters. An American plastic surgeon would be welcomed vivaciously.
Now, disaster. Heather—fair, nubile, perfectly apportioned Heather—had been snatched from her sickbed.
“We need a boat,” Rudy Graveline croaked. “For tonight.”
Chemo said, “Yeah, a big one. If I’m going back to that damn house I want to stay dry. See if you can find us a Scarab thirty-eight.”