SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

“So you could change my mind.”

Stranahan noticed that a seagull had crapped all over the shotgun while he was asleep. “Damn,” he said under his breath. He took a black bandanna from the pocket of his jeans and wiped the shotgun.

“Well?” came Tina’s voice from below. “You going to change my mind or not?”

“How?”

“Sleep with me.”

“I already did,” Stranahan said.

“You know what I mean.”

“Go back to Richie,” Stranahan advised. “If he hits you again, file charges.”

“Why are you so afraid?”

Stranahan slid butt-first down the grainy slope of the roof, to a spot from which Tina was visible in her tiny tangerine thong swimsuit.

“We’ve been over this,” Stranahan said to her.

“But I don’t want to marry you,” she said. “I promise. Even if you ask me afterwards, I’ll say no—no matter how great it was. Besides, I’m not a waitress. You said all the others were waitresses.”

He groaned and said, “Tina, I’m sorry. It just won’t work.”

Now she looked angry. One of the other girls in the Bayliner turned on the radio and Tina snapped at her, told her to shut off the damn music. “How do you know it won’t work?” she said to Stranahan.

“I’m too old.”

“Bullshit.”

“And you’re too young.”

“Double bullshit.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then name the Beatles.”

“What?” Tina forced a caustic laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Stranahan said, addressing her from the edge of the roof. “If you can name all the Beatles, I’ll make love to you right now.”

“I don’t believe this,” Tina said. “The fucking Beatles.”

Stranahan had done the math in his head: She was nineteen, which meant she had been born the same year the band broke up.

“Well, there’s Paul,” Tina said.

“Last name?”

“Come on!”

“Let’s hear it.”

“McCartney, okay? I don’t believe this.”

Stranahan said, “Go on, you’re doing fine.”

“Ringo,” Tina said. “Ringo Starr. The drummer with the nose.”

“Good.”

“And then there’s the guy who died. Lennon.”

“First name?”

“I know his son is Julian.”

“His son doesn’t count.”

Tina said, “Yeah, well, you’re an asshole. It’s John. John Lennon.”

Stranahan nodded appreciatively. “Three down, one to go. You’re doing great.”

Tina folded her arms and tried to think of the last Beatle. Her lips were pursed in a most appealing way, but Stranahan stayed on the roof. “I’ll give you a hint,” he said to Tina. “Lead guitar.”

She looked up at him, triumph shining in her gray eyes. “Harrison,” she declared. “Keith Harrison!”

Muttering, Stranahan crabbed back up to his vantage beneath the legs of the windmill. Tina said some sharp things, all of which he deserved, and then got on the boat with her friends and headed back across the bay toward Dinner Key and, presumably, Richie.

Joey the shrimper spit over the transom and said, “Well, there’s your boy.”

Christina Marks frowned. Mick Stranahan lay naked in the shape of a T on the roof of the house. His tan legs were straight, and each arm was extended. He had a bandanna pulled down over his eyes to shield them from the white rays of the sun. Christina Marks thought he looked like the victim of a Turkish firing squad.

“He looks like Christ,” said Joey. “Don’t you think he looks like Christ? Christ without a beard, I mean.”

“Take me up to the house,” Christina said. “Do you have a horn on this thing?”

“Hell, he knows we’re here.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“No, ma’am,” Joey said. “You’re wrong.” But he sounded the horn anyway. Mick Stranahan didn’t stir.

Joey idled the shrimp boat closer. The tide was up plenty high, rushing sibilantly under the pilings of the house. Clutching a brown grocery bag, Christina stepped up on the dock and waved the shrimper away.

“Thanks very much.”

Joey said, “You be sure to tell him what we saw. About the big freak on the water scooter.”

She nodded.

“Tell him first thing,” Joey said. He pulled back on the throttle and the old diesel moaned into reverse. The engine farted an odious cloud of blue smoke that enveloped Christina Marks. She coughed all the way up the stairs.