The nurse abandoned him in a spacious office with a grand view of north Biscayne Bay, foamy with whitecaps. Reynaldo Flemm barely had time to snoop the joint over before Dr. Rudy Graveline came in and introduced himself. Reynaldo took a good close look, in case he might later have to point him out to Willie from the TV van: Lean build, medium height, sandy brown hair. Had a golfer’s tan but not much muscle. Overall, not a bad-looking guy.
Rudy Graveline didn’t waste any time. “Let’s see your little problem, Mr. LeTigre.”
“Hold on a minute.”
“It’s only a mole.”
“To you, maybe,” Reynaldo Flemm said. “Before we go any further, I’d like to ask you some questions.” He paused, then: “Questions about your background.”
Dr. Graveline settled in behind a gleaming onyx desk and folded his hands. “Fire away,” he said amiably.
“What medical school did you go to?”
“Harvard,” Rudy replied.
Reynaldo nodded approvingly.
He asked, “How long have you been in practice?”
“Sixteen years,” Dr. Graveline said.
“Ah,” said Reynaldo Flemm. He couldn’t think of much else to ask, which was fine with Rudy. Sometimes patients wanted to know how high the doctor had placed in his med school class (dead last), or whether he was certified by a national board of plastic and reconstructive surgeons (he was not). In truth, Rudy had barely squeaked through a residency in radiology and had never been trained in plastic surgery. Still, no law prevented him from declaring it to be his speciality; that was the beauty of the medical profession—once you got a degree, you could try whatever you damn well pleased, from brain surgery to gynecology. Hospitals might do some checking, but never the patients. And failing at one or more specialties (as Rudy had), you could always leave town and try something else.
Still stalling, Reynaldo Flemm said, “What’s involved in an operation like this?”
“First we numb the area with a mild anesthetic, then we use a small knife to remove the mole. If you need a couple sutures afterward, we do that, too.”
“What about a scar?”
“No scar, I guarantee it,” said Dr. Graveline.
“For ten grand, you’re damn right.”
The doctor said, “I didn’t realize male strippers made that much money.”
“They don’t. It’s inheritance.”
If Flemm had been paying attention, he would have noticed a hungry flicker in Dr. Graveline’s expression.
“Mr. LeTigre, you won’t mind some friendly professional advice?”
“Of course not.”
“Your nose,” Rudy ventured. “I mean, as long as you’re going to all the trouble of surgery.”
“What the hell is wrong with my nose?”
“It’s about two sizes too large for your face. And, to be honest, your tummy could probably come down an inch or three. I can do a liposuction after we excise the mole.”
Reynaldo Flemm said, “Are you kidding? There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Rudy said. “This is my specialty. I just thought someone in a job like yours would want to look their very best.”
Flemm was getting furious. “I do look my very best!”
Dr. Graveline put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward.
Gently he said, “With all respect, Mr. LeTigre, we seldom choose to see ourselves the way others do. It’s human nature.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Reynaldo Flemm snapped.
“If it’s the money, look, I’ll do the mole and the fat suction as a package. Toss in the rhinoplasty for nothing, okay?”
Flemm said, “I don’t need a goddamn rhinoplasty.”
“Please,” said Dr. Graveline, “go home and think about it. Take a good critical look at yourself hi the mirror.”
“Fuck you,” said Reynaldo Flemm, and stormed out of the office.
“It’s no sin to have a big honker,” Rudy Graveline called after him. “Nobody’s born perfect!”
One hour later, as Rudy was fitting a Mentor Model 7000 Gel-Filled Mammary Prosthesis into the left breast of the future Miss Ecuador, he was summoned from the operating suite to take an urgent phone call from New York.
The semi-hysterical voice on the other end belonged to Maggie Gonzalez.
“Take some deep breaths,” Rudy advised.
“No, you listen. I got a message on my machine,” Maggie said. “The phone machine at my house.”