The lawyer muttered, “What the hell?”
“Pay attention,” Stranahan said. “This one here is the bill of sale for your spiffy new Maserati. That’s a Xerox of the check—fifty-seven thousand, eight something, what a joke. Anyway, the account that check was written on is your clients’ trust account, Jocko. We’re talking deep shit. Forget disbarment, we’re talking felony.”
Kipper Garth’s upper lip developed an odd tic.
“I’m paying it back,” he said hoarsely.
“Doesn’t matter,” Mick Stranahan said. “Now, some of this other crap—that’s a hotel bill from the Grand Bay in Coconut Grove. Same weekend you told Katie you were in Boston with the ABA. Anyway, it’s none of my business but you don’t look like a man that could drink three bottles of Dom all by your lonesome. See, it’s right there on the bill.” Stranahan pointed, but Kipper Garth’s eyes were focused someplace else, some place far away. By now his lip was twitching like a porch lizard.
“You,” he said to Stranahan. “You jerk.”
“Now what’s this dinner for two, Jocko? My sister was at Grandma’s with the kids that night, if memory serves. Dinner for two at Max’s Place, what exactly was that? Probably just a client, no?”
Kipper Garth collected himself and said, “All right, Mick.”
“You understand the situation.”
“Yes.”
“It was easier than you think,” Stranahan said. “See, once you’re plugged in, it’s hard to get unplugged. I mean, once you know this stuff is out there, it’s real easy to find.” A half-dozen phone calls was all it took.
Kipper Garth began folding the papers, creasing each one with a great deal of force.
Stranahan said, “What scares you more, Jocko, the Florida Bar, the county jail, or an expensive divorce?”
Wearily, Kipper Garth said, “Did you mean what you said before, about the disbarment and all that?”
“You’re asking because you know I don’t have to deal, isn’t that right? Maybe that’s true—maybe you’d do me this favor for nothing. But fair is fair, and you ought to get something in return. So, yeah, I’ll lay off. Just like I promised.”
Kipper Garth said, “Then I’ll talk to my guys about getting the damn state files. Give me a name, please.”
“Graveline,” said Stranahan. “Dr. Rudy Graveline.”
Kipper Garth winced. “Jeez, I’ve heard that name. I think he’s in my yacht club.”
Mick Stranahan clapped his hands. “Yo ho ho,” he said.
Later, on the way to see her plastic surgeon, Tina asked Mick: “Why didn’t you make love to me last night?”
“I thought you enjoyed yourself.”
“It was sweet, but why’d you stop?”
Stranahan said: “Because I’ve got this terrible habit of falling in love.”
Tina rolled her eyes. “After one night?”
“True story,” Stranahan said. “All five of the women I married, I proposed to them the first night we went to bed.”
“Before or after?” Tina asked.
“After,” he said. “It’s like a disease. The scary part is, they tend to say yes.”
“Not me.”
“I couldn’t take that chance.”
“You’re nuts,” Tina said. “Does this mean we’re never gonna do it?”
Stranahan sighed, feeling old and out of it. His ex-wife just gets murdered, some asshole doctor’s trying to kill him, a TV crew is lurking around his house—all this, and Tina wants to know about getting laid, wants a time and date. Why didn’t she believe him about the others?
He stopped at a self-service Shell station and filled three plastic Farm Stores jugs with regular unleaded. When he went up to pay, nobody said a word. He put the gallon jugs in the trunk of the Imperial and covered them with a bunch of boat rags.
Back in the car, Tina gave him a look. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’ve got a boyfriend,” Stranahan said, wishing he could’ve come up with something better, more original.
“Richie? Richie’s history,” said Tina. “No problemo”
It always amazed Stranahan how they could make boyfriends disappear, snap, just like that.
“So,” Tina said, “how about tonight?”
“How about I call you,” he said, “when things cool off?”
“Yeah,” Tina muttered. “Sure.”
Stranahan was glad when they got to the doctor’s office. It was a two-story peach stucco building in Coral Gables, a refurbished old house. The plastic surgeon’s name was Dicer. Craig E. Dicer; a nice young fellow, too nice to say anything nasty about Rudy Graveline at first. Stranahan badged him and tried again. Dr. Dicer took a good hard look at the gold State Attorney’s investigator shield before he said: “Is this off the record?”