Just as he finished the sandwich, George glanced in the rear-view and noticed a big blond man with one arm in a sling. The man wore blue jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt with the left sleeve cut away. He was standing next to the wood chipper, watching George’s crew chief toss pine stumps into the steel maw.
George swung out of the truck and said, “Hey, not so close.”
The man obligingly took a step backward. “That’s some machine. “ He gestured at the wood chipper. “Looks brand new.”
“Had her a couple years,” George Graveline said. “You looking for work?”
“Naw,” the man said, “not with this bum wing. Actually I was looking for the boss. George Graveline.”
George wiped the hoagie juice off his hands. “That’s me,” he said.
The crew chief heaved another pine limb into the chipper. The visitor waited for the buzzing to stop, then he said, “George, my name is Mick Stranahan.”
“Howdy, Mick.” George stuck out his right hand. Stranahan shook it.
“George, we don’t know each other, but I feel like I can talk to you. Man to man.”
“Sure.”
“It’s about your little brother.”
“Rudolph?” Warily George folded his big arms.
“Yes, George,” Stranahan said. “See, Rudy’s been trying to kill me lately.”
“Huh?”
“Can you believe it? First he hires some mobster to do the hit, now he’s got the world’s tallest white man with the world’s worst case of acne. I don’t know what to tell you, but frankly it’s got me a little pissed off.” Stranahan looked down at his sling. “This is from a .45-caliber machine gun. Honestly, George, wouldn’t you be upset, too?”
George Graveline rolled the tip of his tongue around the in-sides of his cheeks, like he was probing for a lost wad of Red Man. The crew chief automatically kept loading hunks of pine into the wood chipper, which spit them out the chute as splinters and sawdust. Stranahan motioned to George that they should go sit in the truck and talk privately, where it was more quiet.
Stranahan settled in on the passenger side and turned down the country music. George said, “Look, mister, I don’t know who you are but—”
“I told you who I am.”
“Your name is all you said.”
“I’m a private investigator, George, if that helps. A few years back I worked for the State Attorney. On murder cases, mostly.”
George didn’t blink, just stared like a toad. Stranahan got a feeling that the man was about to punch him.
“Before you do anything incredibly stupid, George, listen for a second.”
George leaned out the door of the truck and hollered for the crew chief to take lunch. The whine of the wood chipper died, and suddenly the two men were drenched in silence.
“Thank you,” Stranahan said.
“So talk.”
“On March 12, 1986, your brother performed an operation on a young woman named Victoria Barletta. Something terrible happened, George, and she died on the operating table.”
“No way.”
“Your brother Rudy panicked. He’d already been in a shitload of trouble over his state medical license—and killing a patient, well, that’s totally unacceptable. Even in Florida. I think Rudy was just plain scared.”
George Graveline said, “You’re full of it.”
“The case came through my office as an abduction-possible-homicide. Everybody assumed the girl was snatched from a bus bench in front of your brother’s clinic because that’s what he told us. But now, George, new information has come to light.”
“What kind of information?”
“The most damaging kind,” Mick Stranahan said. “And for some reason, your brother thinks that I am the one who’s got it. But I’m not, George.”
“So I’ll tell him to leave you alone.”
“That’s very considerate, George, but I’m afraid it’s not so simple. Things have gotten out of hand. I mean, look at my damn shoulder.”
“Mmmm,” said George Graveline.
Stranahan said, “Getting back to the young woman. Her body was never found, not a trace. That’s highly unusual.”
“It is?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So?”
“So, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about what happened, would you?”
George said, “You got some nerve.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. But how about answering the question?”