For Rudy Graveline, the ultimate test of sobriety. In his entire career he had never traded sex for his surgical services, never even discounted. Money was money, pussy was pussy—a credo he drilled into his sure-handed young assistants. Some things in life you don’t give away.”
To Heather Chappell, he said, “I’m afraid it’s going to be expensive.”
“Is it?” She swung one leg up and propped her foot on his right shoulder.
“All these procedures at once, yes, I’m afraid so.”
“How much, Dr. Graveline?”
Up came the other leg, and Rudy was scissored.
“Come here a second,” Heather said.
Rudy Graveline was torn between the thing he loved the most and the thing he needed most: Sex and money. The warm feel of Heather’s bare heels on his shoulders was like the weight of the world. And heaven, too.
Her toes tickled his ears. “I said, come here.”
“Where?” Rudy peeped, reaching out.
“God, are you blind?”
Chemo bought an Ingram submachine gun to go with his .22 pistol. He got it from a man who had come to the club one night with a bunch of Jamaicans. The man himself was not a Jamaican; he was from Colombia. Chemo found this out when he stopped him at the door and told him he couldn’t come inside the Gay Bidet with a machine gun.
“But this is Miami,” the man had said with a Spanish accent.
“I’ve got my orders,” Chemo said.
The man agreed to let Chemo take the gun while he and his pals went inside, which turned out to be a smart thing. As the band was playing a song called Suck Till You’re Sore, a local skinhead gang went into a slam-dancing frenzy, and fights broke out all over the place. The Jamaicans took off, but the Colombian stayed behind to do battle. At one point he produced a pocket knife and tried to surgically remove the swastika tattoo off the proud but hairless chest of a teenaged skinhead. The band took a much-needed break while the Beach police rushed in for the arrests. Later, when Chemo spotted the Colombian in the back of the squad car, he tapped on the window and asked about the Ingram. The Colombian said keep it and Chemo said thanks, and slipped a twenty-dollar bill through me crack of the window.
The thing Chemo liked best about the Ingram was the shoulder strap. He put it on and showed it to his boss, Freddie, who said, “Get the fuck outta here with that thing!”
The next day, the eighteenth of January, Chemo got up early and drove out to Key Biscayne. He knew it would be unwise to go to the same marina where he had taken Chloe, so he looked around for another boat place. He found one near the Marine Stadium, where they race the big Budweiser speedboats. At first a kid with badly bleached hair tried to rent him a twenty-foot Dusky for a hundred ten dollars a day, plus a hundred fifty security deposit. Chemo didn’t have that kind of money.
“Got a credit card?” the kid asked.
“No,” said Chemo. “What about that thing over there?”
“That’s a jet ski,” the kid said.
It was designed like a waterbug with handlebars. You drove it like a motorcycle, only standing up. This one was yellow, with the word Kawasaki on the front.
“You don’t want to try it,” the kid with yellow hair said.
“Why not?”
“Because,” the kid said, laughing, “you’re too tall, man. Hit a wake, it’ll snap your spine.”
Chemo figured the guy was just trying to talk him into renting something bigger, something he didn’t need.
“How much is the jet ski?” he said.
“Twenty an hour, but you got to sign a waiver.” The kid was thinking that, as tall as this guy is, he doesn’t look healthy enough to ride a jet ski; he looks kind of tapped-out and sickly, like he’s been hanging from the wall of some dungeon for a couple months. The kid was thinking maybe he ought to ask if the guy knew how to swim, just in case.
Chemo handed him two twenties.
The kid said, “I’ll still need a deposit.”