“How about this,” said George Graveline, reaching for Mick Stranahan’s throat.
With his good arm Stranahan intercepted George’s toad-eyed lunge. He seized one of the tree-trimmer’s stubby thumbs and twisted it clean out of the socket. It made a faintly audible pop, like a bottle of flat champagne. George merely squeaked as the color flooded from his face. Stranahan let go of the limp purple thumb, and George pinched it between his knees, trying to squeeze away the pain.
“Boy, I’m really sorry,” Stranahan said.
George grabbed at himself and gasped, “You get out of here!”
“Don’t you want to hear the rest of my theory, the one I’m going to tell the cops? About how you tossed that poor girl’s body into the wood chipper just to save your brother’s butt?”
“Go on,” George Graveline cried, “before I shoot you myself.”
Mick Stranahan got out of George’s truck, shut the door and leaned in through the open window. “I think you’re over-reacting,” he said to the tree trimmer. “I really do.”
“Eat shit,” George replied, wheezing.
“Fine,” Stranahan said. “I just hope you’re not this rude to the police.”
Christina Marks was dreading her reunion with Reynaldo Flemm. They met at twelve-thirty in the lobby of the Sonesta. She said, “You’ve done something to your hair.”
“I let it grow,” Flemm said self-consciously. “Where’ve you been, anyway? What’s the big secret?”
Christina couldn’t get over the way he looked. She circled him twice, staring.
“Ray, nobody’s hair grows that fast.”
“It’s been a couple weeks.”
“But it’s all the way to your shoulders.”
“So what?”
“And it’s so yellow.”
“Blond, goddammit.”
“And so … kinky.”
Stiffly, Reynaldo Flemm said, “It was time for a new look.”
Christina Marks fingered his locks and said, “It’s a bloody wig.”
“Thank you, Agatha Christie.”
“Don’t get sore,” she said. “I kind of like it.”
“Really?”
Despairing of his physical appearance since his visit to Whispering Palms, Reynaldo Flemm had flown back to New York and consulted a famous colorologist, who had advised him that blond hair would make him look ten years younger. Then a makeup man at ABC had told Reynaldo that long hair would make his nose look thinner, while kinked long hair would take twenty pounds off his waist on camera.
Armed with this expert advice, Reynaldo had sought out Tina Turner’s wig stylist, who was booked solid but happy to recommend a promising young protégé in the SoHo district. The young stylist’s name was Leo, and he pretended to recognize Reynaldo Flemm from television, which was all the salesmanship he needed. Reynaldo told Leo the basics of what he wanted, and Leo led him to a seven-hundred-dollar wig that looked freshly hacked off the scalp of Robert Plant, the rock singer. Or possibly Dyan Cannon.
Reynaldo didn’t care. It was precisely the look he was after.
“I do kind of like it,” Christina Marks said, “only we’ve got to do something about the Puerto Rican mustache.”
Flemm said, “The mustache stays. I’ve had it since my first local Emmy.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Now, suppose you tell me what the hell’s been going on.”
Christina hadn’t talked to Reynaldo since the day Mick Stranahan was shot, and then she had told him next to nothing. She had called from the emergency room at Mercy Hospital, and said something serious had happened. Reynaldo had asked if she were hurt, and Christina said no. Then Reynaldo had asked what was so damn serious, and she said it would have to wait for a few weeks, that the police were involved and the whole Barletta story would blow up if they didn’t lay low. She had promised to get back to him in a few days, but all she did was leave a message in Reynaldo’s box at the hotel. The message had begged him to be patient, and Reynaldo had thought what the hell and gone back to Manhattan to hunt for some new hair. “So,” he said to Christina, “let’s hear it.”
“Over here,” she said, and led him to a booth in the hotel coffee shop. She waited until he’d stuffed a biscuit in his mouth before telling him about the shooting.