Rudy fidgeted against the handcuffs.
Chemo said, “For Christ’s sake, just tell him what he wants to hear.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” said Rudy. By now he was fairly certain that Stranahan was bluffing. Already Stranahan had skipped several fundamental steps in the rhinoplasty. He had not attempted to file the bony dorsum, for example. Nor had he tried to make any incisions inside of Rudy’s nostrils. This led Rudy to believe that Stranahan wasn’t serious about doing a homemade nose job, that he was merely trying to frighten the doctor into a cheap confession.
To Chemo, of course, the makeshift surgical suite was a gulag of horrors. One glimpse of Rudy, blindfolded and splayed like a pullet on a bed, convinced Chemo that Mick Stranahan was monstrously deranged.
Stranahan was running a forefinger down a page of the surgical text. “Apparently this is the most critical part of the operation—fracturing the nasal bones on both sides of the septum. This is very, very delicate.”
He handed Chemo a small steel mallet and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve been reading up on this.”
Chemo tested the weight of the mallet in his hand. “This isn’t funny,” he said.
“Is it supposed to be? We’re talking about a young woman’s death.”
“Probably it was an accident,” Chemo said. He gestured derisively at Rudy Graveline. “The guy’s a putz, he probably just fucked up.”
“But you weren’t there. You don’t know.”
Chemo turned to Rudy. “Tell him, you asshole.”
Rudy shook his head. “I’m an excellent surgeon,” he insisted.
Stranahan foraged through the toolbox until he found the proper instrument.
“What’s that, a chisel?” Chemo asked.
“Very good,” Stranahan said. “Actually, it’s called an osteotome. A Storz number four. But basically, yeah, it’s just a chisel. Look here.”
He leaned over the bed and pinched the bridge of Rudy Graveline’s nose. With the other hand he gingerly slipped the osteotome into the surgeon’s right nostril, aligning the instrument lengthwise along the septum. “Now, Mr. Tatum, I’ll hold this steady while you give it a slight tap—”
“Nuggghhh,” Rudy protested. The dull pressure of the chisel reawakened the fear that Stranahan was really going to do it. “Did you say something?” Stranahan asked. “You were right,” the surgeon said. His voice came out in a wheeze. “About the Barletta girl.” “You killed her?”
“I didn’t mean to, I swear to God.” Between the pinch of Stranahan’s fingers and the poke of the osteotome, Rudy Graveline talked like he had a terrible cold. He said, “What happened was, I let go of her nose. It was … terrible luck. I let go just when the nurse hit the chisel, so-”
“So it went all the way up.”
“Yes. The radio was on, I lost my concentration. The Lakers and the Sonics. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Stranahan said, “And afterwards you got your brother to destroy the body.”
“Uh-huh.” Rudy couldn’t nod very well with the Number 4 osteotome up his nostril.
“And what about my assistant?” Stranahan glanced over at Chemo. “You hired him to kill me, right?”
Rudy’s Adam’s apple hopped up and down like a scalded toad. Sightless, he imagined the scene by what he could hear: The plink of the instruments, the two men breathing, the wind and the waves shaking the house, or so it seemed.
Stranahan said, “Look, I know it’s true. I’d just like to hear the terms of the deal.”
Rudy felt the chisel nudge the bony plate between the eye sockets, deep in his face. He was, understandably, reluctant to give Mick Stranahan the full truth—that the price on his head was to be paid in discount dermatological treatments.
Rudy said, “It was sort of a trade.”
“This I gotta hear.”
“Tell him,” Rudy said blindly to Chemo. “Tell him the arrangement with the dermabrasion, tell—”
Chemo reacted partly out of fear of incrimination and partly out of embarrassment. He let out a feral grunt and swung the mallet with all his strength. It was a clean blow to the butt of the osteotome, precisely the right spot.
Only much too hard. So hard that it knocked the chisel out of Stranahan’s hand.
So hard the instrument disappeared entirely, as if inhaled by Rudy Graveline’s nose.