SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

“What?”

“A whole tube,” Chloe said. “He glued the man to the hood of his car. By the balls. Stark naked, glued to the hood of an Eldorado convertible.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Chemo said.

“Ever seen the hood ornament on a Cadillac?”

Chemo nodded.

“Think about it,” Chloe said grimly.

“And glue burns like hell,” Chemo remarked.

“Indeed it does.”

“So Mick came home, caught you two in the sack—”

“Right here on the divan.”

“Wherever,” Chemo said. “Anyway, he hauls Mr. Stud-hunk outside and glues him buck naked to the hood of his Caddy.”

“By the testicles.”

“Then what?”

“That’s it,” Chloe said. “Mick packed his suitcase and left. The paramedics came. What more is there?”

“Your male friend—is this the same guy you’re married to?”

“No, it isn’t,” Chloe said. “My male-type friend never recovered from his encounter with Mick Stranahan. I mean never recovered. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I think so.”

“The doctors insisted there was nothing wrong, medically speaking. I mean, the glue peeled off with acetone, and in a few days the skin healed just like new. But, still, the man was never the same.”

Chemo said, “It’s a major trauma, Mrs. Stranahan. It probably takes some time—”

He flinched as Chloe threw her cocktail glass against the wall. “Time?” she said. “I gave him plenty of time, mister. And I tried every trick I knew, but he was a dead man after that night with Mick. It was like trying to screw linguini.”

Chemo could imagine the hellish bedroom scene. He felt himself shrivel, just thinking about it.

“I loved that man,” Chloe went on. “At least, I was getting there. And Mick ruined everything. He couldn’t just beat the shit out of him, like other jealous husbands. No, he had to torture the guy.”

In a way, Chemo admired Stranahan’s style. Murder is the way Chemo himself would have handled the situation: A bullet in the base of the skull. For both of them.

Chloe Simpkins Stranahan was up and pacing now, arms folded across her chest, heels clicking on the Spanish tile. “So you see,” she said, “this is why I hate my ex-husband so much.”

There had to be more, but who cared. Chemo said, “You want to get even?”

“Boy, are you a swifty. Yes, I want to get even.”

“Then why should I pay you anything? You should pay me.”

Chloe had to smile. “Good point.” She bent over and picked a chunk of broken glass out of the deep-pile carpet. She looked up at Chemo and asked, “Who are you, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter, Mrs. Stranahan. The question is, how bad do you want revenge on your ex-husband?”

“I guess that is the question,” Chloe said thoughtfully. “How about another ginger ale?”

7

Of the four plastic surgeons who had worked with Dr. Rudy Graveline at the Durkos Center, only one had remained in Miami after the clinic closed. His name was George Ginger, and Stranahan found him on a tennis court at Turnberry Isle in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Mixed doubles, naturally.

Stranahan watched the pudgy little man wheeze back and forth behind the baseline, and marveled at the atrociousness of his hairpiece. It was one of those synthetic jobs, the kind you’re supposed to be able to wear in the shower. In Dr. George Ginger’s case, the thing on his head looked a lot like a fresh road kill.

Each point in the tennis game became its own little comedy, and Stranahan wondered if this stop was a waste of time, an unconscious stall on his part. By now he knew exactly where to locate Rudy Graveline; the problem was, he didn’t know what to ask him that would produce the truth. It was a long way from Vicky Barletta to Tony the Eel, and Stranahan still hadn’t found the thread, if there was one. One way or another, Dr. Graveline was central to the mystery, and Stranahan didn’t want to spook him. For now, he wanted him safe and contented at Whispering Palms.

Stranahan strolled into the dead lane of the tennis court and said, “Dr. Ginger?”

“Yo!” said the doctor, huffing.

Stranahan knew about guys who said yo.