SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

She noticed how deliberately he was moving, and it struck her that something was happening. “What is it, Mick?”

“You mean you don’t hear it?”

Christina said no.

“Just listen,” he said, and before she knew it the stilt house was shuttered, and the door closed, and the two of them were alone in the corner of the bedroom, sitting on the wooden floor. At first the only sound Christina Marks heard was the two of them breathing, and then came some scratching noises that Stranahan said were seagulls up on the roof. Finally, when she leaned her head against the plywood wall, she detected a faraway hum. The longer she listened, the more distinct it became.

The pitch of the motor was too weak to be an airplane and too high to be much of a boat.

“Jesus, it’s him,” she said with a tremble.

Stranahan acknowledged the fact with a frown. “You know,” he said, “this used to be a pretty good neighborhood.”

Chemo wondered about the Ingram, about the effects of salt spray on the firing mechanism. He didn’t know much about machine guns, but he suspected that it was best not to get them wet. The ride out to Stiltsville had been wetter than he’d planned.

He parked the jet ski beneath one of the other stilt houses to wait for the shrimp boat to leave Mick Stranahan’s place. He saw a good-looking woman in a white cottony top and tan safari shorts hop off the shrimp boat and go upstairs, so Chemo began to work her into the scenario. He didn’t know if she was a wife or a girlfriend or what, but it didn’t matter. She was there, and she had to die. End of story.

Chemo pried open a toolshed and found a rag for the Ingram. Carefully he wiped off the moisture and salt. The gun looked fine, but there was only one way to be sure. He took an aluminum mop handle from the shed and busted the padlock off the door of the house. Once, inside he quickly found a target: an old convertible sofa, its flowered fabric showing traces of mold and mildew. Chemo shut the door to trap the noise. Then he knelt in front of the sofa, put the Ingram to his shoulder and squeezed off three rounds. Dainty puffs of white fuzz and dust rose with the impact of each bullet. Chemo lowered the gun and carefully examined the .45 caliber holes in the cushions.

Now he was ready. He slung the gun strap over his shoulder and pulled his soggy Jockey shorts up snugly on his waist. He was about to go when he thought of something. Quickly he moved through the house, opening doors until he found a bathroom.

At the sink Chemo took off his sunglasses and put his face to the mirror. With a forefinger he tested the tiny pink patch of flesh that Dr. Rudy Graveline had dermabraded. The patch no longer stung; in fact, it seemed to be coming along nicely.

Chemo was extremely pleased, and ventured forth in bright spirits.

Someplace, maybe it was Reader’s Digest, he had read where salt water actually expedited the healing process.

“Don’t move,” Mick Stranahan whispered.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Unless I tell you.”

From the hum of the engine, Christina Marks guessed that the jet ski was very close; no more than thirty yards.

Stranahan held the shotgun across his knees. She looked at his hands and noticed they were steady. Hers were shaking like an old drunk’s.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked.

“Basically, my plan is to stay alive.”

“Are you going to shoot him?”

Stranahan looked at her as if she were five years old. “Now what do you think? Of course I’m going to shoot him. I intend to blow the motherfucker’s head off, unless you’ve got some objection.”

“Just asking,” Christina said.

Chemo was thinking: Damn Japanese.

Whoever designed these jet skis must have been a frigging dwarf.

His back was killing nun; he had to hunch over like a washerwoman to reach the handlebars. Every time he hit a wave, the gun strap slipped off his bony shoulder. A couple times he thought for sure he’d lost the Ingram, or at least broken it. Damn Japanese.

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