SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

After finishing his stretch for the aborted burglary, he moved to a small town outside of Scranton and went to work for the city parks and recreation department. Before long, he parlayed a phony but impressive résumé into the post of assistant city manager, a job that entitled him to a secretary and a municipal car. White the salary was only twenty thousand dollars a year, the secondary income derived from bribes and kickbacks was substantial. Chemo prospered as a shakedown artist, and the town prospered, too. He was delighted to discover how often the mutual interests of private enterprise and government seemed to intersect.

The high point of Chemo’s municipal career was his savvy trashing of local zoning laws to allow a Mafia-owned-and-operated dog food plant to be built in the suburbs. Three hundred new jobs were created, and there was talk of running Chemo for major.

He greatly liked the idea and immediately began gouging illegal political contributions out of city contractors. Soon a campaign poster was designed, but Chemo recoiled when he saw the finished product: the four-foot photographic blowup of his face magnified the two ingrown hair follicles on the tip of his otherwise normal nose; the blemishes looked, in Chemo’s own distraught simile, “like two ticks fucking.” He ordered the campaign posters shredded, scheduled a second photo session, and drove straight to Scranton for the ill-fated electrolysis treatment.

The grisly mishap and subsequent murder of the offending doctor put an end to Chemo’s political career. He swore off public service forever.

They rented an Aquasport and docked it at Sunday’s-on-the-Bay. They chose a table under the awning, near the water.

Chemo ordered a ginger ale and Chloe Simpkins Stranahan got a vodka tonic, double.

“We’ll wait till dusk,” Chemo said.

“Fine by me.” Chloe slurped her drink like a parched coyote. She was wearing a ridiculous white sailor’s suit from Lord and Taylor’s; she even had the cap. It was not ideal boatwear.

“I used to work in this joint,” Chloe said, as if to illustrate how far she’d come.

Chemo said, “This is where you met Mick?”

“Unfortunately.”

The bar was packed for ladies’ night. In addition to the standard assembly of slick Latin studs in lizard shoes, there were a dozen blond, husky mates off the charter boats. In contrast to the disco Dannies, the mates wore T-shirts and sandals and deep Gulf Stream tans, and they drank mostly beer. The competition for feminine attention was fierce, but Chemo planned to be long gone before any fights broke out. Besides, he didn’t like sitting out in the open, where people could stare.

“Have you got your plan?” Chloe asked.

“The less you know, the better.”

“Oh, pardon me,” she said caustically. “Pardon me, Mister James Fucking Bond.”

He blinked neutrally. A young pelican was preening itself on a nearby dock piling, and Chemo found this infinitely more fascinating than watching Chloe Simpkins Stranahan in a Shirley Temple sailor cap, sucking down vodkas. It offended him that someone so beautiful could be so repellent and obnoxious; it seemed damned unfair.

On the other hand, she had yet to make the first wisecrack about his face, so maybe she had one redeeming quality.

“This isn’t going to get too heavy?” she said.

“Define heavy.”

Chloe stirred her drink pensively. “Maybe you could just put a good scare in him.”

“Bet on it,” Chemo said.

“But you won’t get too tough, right?”

“What is this, all of a sudden you’re worried about him?”

“You can hate someone’s guts and still worry about him.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

Chloe said, “Chill out, okay? I’m not backing down.”

Chemo toyed with one of the infrequent black wisps attached to his scalp. He said: “Where does your husband think you are?”

“Shopping,” Chloe replied.

“Alone?”

“Sure.”

Chemo licked his lips and scanned the room. “You see anybody you know?”

Chloe looked around and said, “No. Why do you ask?”

“Just making sure. I don’t want any surprises; neither do you.”

Chemo paid the tab, helped Chloe into the bow of the Aqua-sport and cast off the ropes. He checked his wristwatch: 5:15. Give it maybe an hour before nightfall. He handed Chloe a plastic map of Biscayne Bay with the pertinent channel markers circled in red ink. “Keep that handy,” he shouted over the engine, “case I get lost.”

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