“Do tell.”
“Don’t you guys have it in your files? I mean, when a doctor dies?”
“Not in every case,” Stranahan bluffed.
George Ginger said, “It happened maybe six months after Durkos closed. A hunting accident up around Ocala.”
“Who else was there?”
“I really don’t know,” the doctor said with an insipid shrug. “I’m afraid I’m not clear about all the details.”
“Why,” said Mick Stranahan, “am I not surprised?”
The Rudy Graveline system was brilliant in its simplicity: Sting, persuade, operate, then flatter.
On the wall of each waiting room at Whispering Palms hung a creed: vanity is beautiful. Similar maxims were posted in the hallways and examining rooms. what’s wrong with perfection? was one of Rudy’s favorites. Another: to improve one’s self, improve one’s face. This one was framed in the spa, where post-op patients relaxed in the crucial days following their plastic surgery, when they didn’t want to go out in public. Rudy had shrewdly recognized that an after-surgery spa would not only be a tremendous money-maker, it would also provide important positive feedback during recovery. Everyone there had fresh scars and bruises, so no patient was in a position to criticize another’s results.
As best as he could, Reynaldo Flemm made mental notes of Whispering Palms during his tour. He was posing as a male exotic dancer who needed a blemish removed from his right buttock. For the purpose of disguise, Flemm had dyed his hair brown and greased it straight back; that was all he could bear to do to alter his appearance. Secretly, he loved it when people stared because they recognized him from television.
As it happened, the nurse who greeted him at Whispering Palms apparently never watched In Your Face. She treated Flemm as any other prospective patient. After a quick tour of the facilities, she led him to a consultation room, turned off the lights and showed him a videotape about the wonders of cosmetic surgery. Afterwards she turned the lights back on and asked if he had any questions.
“How much will it cost?” Reynaldo Flemm said.
“That depends on the size of the mole.”
“Oh, it’s a big mole,” Reynaldo said. “Like an olive.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to show her the size of his fictional growth.
The nurse said, “May I see it?”
“No!”
“Surely you’re not shy,” she said. “Not in your line of work.”
“I’ll show it to the doctor,” Flemm said. “No one else.”
“Very well, I’ll arrange for an appointment.”
“With Dr. Graveline, please.”
The nurse smiled. “Really, Mr. LeTigre.”
Flemm had come up with the name Johnny LeTigre all by himself. It seemed perfect for a male go-go dancer.
“Dr. Graveline doesn’t do moles,” the nurse said in a chilly tone. “One of our other excellent surgeons can take care of it quite easily.”
“It’s Dr. Graveline or nobody,” Flemm said firmly. “This is my dancing career, my life we’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Graveline is not available.”
“For ten grand I bet he is.”
The nurse tried not to seem surprised. “I’ll be right back,” she said lightly.
When he was alone, Reynaldo Flemm checked himself in the mirror to see how the disguise was holding up. All he needed was a date and time to see the doctor, then he’d come back with Willie and a camera for the showdown—not out on the street, but inside the clinic. And if Graveline ordered them out, Reynaldo and Willie would be sure to leave through the spa exit, tape rolling. It would be dynamite stuff; even Christina would have to admit it.
The nurse returned and said, “Come with me, Mr. LeTigre.”
“Whereto?”
74 Carl Hiaasen
“Dr. Graveline has agreed to see you.”
“Now?” Flemm squeaked.
“He only has a few minutes.”
A cold prickle of panic accompanied Reynaldo Flemm as he followed the nurse down a long pale-blue hallway. About to meet the target of his investigation and here he was, defenseless—no camera, no tape, no notebooks. He could blow the whole story if he wasn’t careful. The only thing in Flemm’s favor was the fact that he also had no script. He wouldn’t know what to ask even if the opportunity presented itself.