“I appreciate your confidence,” Rudy said. He leaned forward in his chair and put on his glasses. “Can I ask, what’s that on your face?”
Chemo said, “It’s Wite-Out.”
After a careful pause, Dr. Graveline said, “Can I ask—”
“I might go out to the club later. I wanted to cover up these darn patches.”
Out of pity Rudy had agreed to dermabrade several more one-inch squares along Chemo’s chin.
“You covered them with Wite-Out?”
Chemo said, “Your secretary loaned me a bottle. The color’s just right.”
Rudy cleared his throat. “It’s not so good for your skin. Please, let me prescribe a mild cosmetic ointment.”
“Forget it,” said Chemo. “This’ll do fine. Now what about a new thing for my arm?” With his right hand he gestured at the bandaged limb.
Rudy folded his hands in his lap, a relaxed gesture that damn near exuded professional confidence. “As I said before, we’ve gone over most of the conventional options.”
Chemo said, “I don’t like therapy. I want something easy to use, something practical.”
“I see,” said Rudy Graveline.
“And durable, too.”
“Of course.”
“Also, I don’t want people to stare.”
Rudy thought: Beautiful. A seven-foot, one-handed geek with Wite-Out painted on his face, and he’s worried about people staring.
“So what do you think?” Chemo pressed.
“I think,” said Rudy Graveline, “we’ve got to use our imaginations.”
Detective John Murdock bent his squat, porky frame over the rail of the hospital bed and said, “Wake up, fuckwad.”
Which was pretty much his standard greeting.
Mick Stranahan did not open his eyes.
“Get out of here,” said Christina Marks.
Detective Joe Salazar lit a Camel and said, “You don’t look like a nurse. Since when do nurses wear blue jeans?”
“Good point,” said John Murdock. “I think you’re the one should get out of here.”
“Yeah,” said Joe Salazar. “We got official business with this man.” Salazar was as short as his partner, only built like a stop sign. Fat, florid face stuck on a pipestem body.
“Now I know who you are,” Christina said. “You must be Murdock and Salazar, the crooked cops.”
Stranahan nearly busted out laughing, but he pressed his eyes closed, trying to look asleep.
“I see what we got here,” said Murdock. “What we got here is some kinda Lily Tomlin.”
“Sure,” said Joe Salazar, though he didn’t know who his partner was talking about. He assumed it was somebody they’d arrested together. “Sure,” he chimed in, “a regular Lily Thomas.”
Christina Marks said, “The man’s asleep, so why don’t you come back another time?”
“And why don’t you go change your tampon or something?” snapped John Murdock. “We’ve got business here.”
“We got questions,” Joe Salazar added. When he took the Camel cigarette out of his mouth, Christina noticed, the end was all soggy and mulched.
She said, “I was there when it happened, if you want to ask me about it.”
Salazar had brought a Xerox of the marine patrol incident report. He took it out of his jacket, unfolded it, ran a sticky brown finger down the page until he came to the box marked Witnesses. “So you’re Initial C. Marks?”
“Yes,” Christina said.
“We’ve been looking all over Dade County for you. Two, three weeks we’ve been looking.”
“I changed hotels,” she said. She had moved from Key Biscayne over to the Grove, to be closer to Mercy Hospital.
John Murdock, the senior of the two detectives, took a chair from the corner, twirled it around, and sat down straddling it.
“Just like in the movies,” Christina said. “You think better, sitting with your legs like that?”
Murdock glowered. “What suppose we just throw your tight little ass in the women’s annex for a night or two, would you enjoy that? Just you and all the hookers, maybe a lesbo or two.”
“Teach you some manners,” Joe Salazar said, “and that’s not all.”
Christina smiled coolly. “And here I thought you boys wanted a friendly chat. Maybe I’ll just call hospital security and tell them what’s going on up here. After that, maybe I’ll call the newspapers.”
Mick Stranahan was thinking: She’d better be careful. These guys aren’t nearly as dumb as they look.