SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

Sometimes, when he got particularly excited about a story, Reynaldo Flemm would actually try to write out the script himself, with comic results. The murder of Stranahan’s ex-wife was just the sort of bombshell to inspire Reynaldo’s muse, so Christina decided on a preemptive attack. She was reaching across the bed for the telephone when it rang.

It was Maggie Gonzalez, calling collect from somewhere in Manhattan.

“Miss Marks, I got a little problem.”

Christina said: “We’ve been looking all over for you. What happened to your trip to Miami?”

“I went, I came back,” Maggie said. “I told you, there’s a problem down there.”

“So what’ve you been doing the last few weeks,” Christina said, “besides spending our money?” Christina had just about had it with this ditz; she was beginning to think Mick was right, the girl was ripping them off.

Maggie said, “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I was scared. Scared out of my mind.”

“We thought you might be dead.”

“No,” said Maggie, barely audible. A long pause suggested that she was fretting over the grim possibility.

“Don’t you even want to know how the story is going?” Christina asked warily.

“That’s the problem,” Maggie replied. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

Then, almost as an afterthought, Maggie asked, “Who’ve you interviewed so far?”

“Nobody,” Christina said. “We’ve got a lot of legwork to do first.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t interviewed anybody!”

Maggie was trolling for something, Christina could tell. “We’re taking it slow,” Christina said. “This is a sensitive piece.”

“No joke,” Maggie said. “Real sensitive.”

Christina held the phone in the crook of her shoulder and dug a legal pad and felt-tip pen from her shoulder bag on the bed table.

Maggie went on: “This whole thing could get me killed, and I think that’s worth more than five thousand dollars.”

“But that was our agreement,” Christina said, scribbling along with the conversation.

“That was before I started getting threatening calls on my machine,” said Maggie Gonzalez.

“From who?”

“I don’t know who,” Maggie lied. “It sounded like Dr. Graveline.”

“What kind of threats? What did they say?”

“Threat threats,” Maggie said impatiently. “Enough to scare me shitless, okay? You guys tricked me into believing this was safe.”

“We did nothing of the sort.”

“Yeah, well, five thousand dollars isn’t going to cut it anymore. By the time this is finished, I’ll probably have to pack up and move out of Miami. You got any idea what that’ll cost?”

Christina Marks said, “What’s the bottom line here, Maggie?”

“The bottom line is, I talked to 20/20.”

Perfect, Christina thought. The perfect ending to a perfect day.

“I met with an executive producer,” Maggie said.

“Lucky you,” said Christina Marks. “How much did they offer?”

“Ten.”

“Ten thousand?”

“Right,” Maggie said. “Plus a month in Mexico after the program airs … you know, to let things cool off.”

“You thought of this all by yourself, or did you get an agent?”

“A what?”

“An agent. Every eyewitness to a murder ought to have his own booking agent, don’t you think?”

Maggie sounded confused. “Ten seemed like a good number,” she said. “Could be better, of course.”

Christina Marks was dying to find out how much Maggie Gonzalez had told the producer at 20/20, but instead of asking she said: “Ten sounds like a winner, Maggie. Besides, I don’t think we’re interested in the story anymore.”

During the long silence that followed, Christina tried to imagine the look on Maggie’s face.

Finally: “What do you mean, ‘not interested’?”

“It’s just too old, too messy, too hard to prove,” Christina said. “The fact that you waited four years to speak up really kills us in the credibility department … “

“Hold on—”

“By the way, are they still polygraphing all their sources over at 20/20?”

But Maggie was too sharp. “Getting back to the money,” she said, “are you saying you won’t even consider a counteroffer?”

“Exactly.”

“Have you talked this over with Mr. Flemm?”

“Of course,” Christina Marks bluffed, forging blindly ahead.

“That’s very weird,” remarked Maggie Gonzalez, “because I just talked to Mr. Flemm myself about ten minutes ago.”

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