SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

“Willie gets carsick,” Christina Marks said.

Reynaldo Flemm cackled scornfully.

“It’s a lousy idea,” Christina said. She wanted him to go away, now.

“What, you trust that Stranahan?”

“No,” she said, but in a way she did trust him. At least more than she trusted Maggie Gonzalez; there was something squirrely about the woman’s sudden need to fly to Miami. Why had she said she wanted to see Stranahan? Where had she really gone?

Reynaldo Flemm wasn’t remotely concerned about Maggie’s motives—good video was good video—but Christina Marks wanted to know more about the woman. She had better things to do than sit in a steaming van, tailing a guy who, if he caught them, would probably destroy every piece of electronics in their possession.

“So, what other leads we got?” Reynaldo Flemm demanded. “Tell me that.”

“Maggie’s probably got family here,” Christina said, “and friends.”

“Dull, dull, dull.”

“Hard work is dull sometimes,” Christina said sharply, “But how would you know?”

Flemm sat up straight and flared his upper lip like a chihuahua. “You can’t talk to me like that! You just remember who’s the star.”

“And you just remember who writes all your lines. And who does all your dull, dull research. Remember who tells you what questions to ask. And who edits these pieces so you don’t come off looking like a pompous airhead.” Except that’s exactly how Reynaldo came off, most of the time. There was no way around it, no postproduction wizardry that could disguise the man’s true personality on tape.

Reynaldo Flemm shrugged. His attention had been stolen by something on the television: Mike Wallace of CBS was a guest on the Letterman show. Flemm punched up the volume and inched to the edge of the sofa.

“You know how old that geezer is?” he said, pointing at Wallace. “I’m half his age.”

Christina Marks held her tongue.

Reynaldo said, “I bet his producer sleeps with him anytime he wants.” He glanced sideways at Christina.

She got up, went to the door, and held it open. “Go back to your room, Ray.”

“Aw, come on, I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“All right, I wasn’t. Come on, Chris, close the door. Let’s open the wine.”

“Goodnight, Ray.”

He got up and turned off the TV. He was sulking.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You sure are.”

Christina Marks held all the cards. Reynaldo Flemm needed her far worse than she needed him. Not only was she very talented, but she knew things about Reynaldo Flemm that he did not wish the whole world of television to know. About the time she caught him beating himself up, for example. It happened at a Hyatt House in Atlanta. Flemm was supposed to be out interviewing street-gang members, but Christina found him in the bathroom of his hotel room, thwacking himself in the cheek with a sock full of parking tokens. Reynaldo’s idea was to give himself a nasty shiner, then go on camera and breathlessly report that an infamous gang leader named Rapper Otis had assaulted him.

Reynaldo Flemm had begged Christina Marks not to tell the executive producers about the sock incident, and she hadn’t; the weeping is what got to her. She couldn’t bear it.

For keeping this and other weird secrets, Christina felt secure in her job, certainly secure enough to tell Reynaldo Flemm to go pound salt every time he put the make on her.

On the way out the door, he said, “I still say we get up early and follow this Stranahan guy.”

“And I still say no.”

“But, Chris, he knows something.”

“Yeah, Ray, he knows how to hurt people.”

Christina couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a hungry spark in the eyes of Reynaldo Flemm.

The next morning Stranahan left the skiff at the marina, got the Chrysler and drove back across the Rickenbacker Causeway to the mainland. Next to him on the front seat was his yellow notepad, open to the page where he had jotted the names and numbers from the Barletta file. The first place he went was the Durkos Medical Center, except it wasn’t there anymore. The building was now occupied entirely by dentists: nine of them, according to Stranahan’s count from the office directory. He went looking for the building manager.