All Kipper Garth could say was: “How’d you do that?”
“I told you before, I’m still plugged in.” A travel agent in Coral Gables who owed him one. It was so damn easy Stranahan couldn’t bear to tell his brother-in-law.
“What’s the point of all this?” Kipper Garth asked.
“Never mind, just do it. Sue the asshole.”
The lawyer lifted his pinstriped coat off the back of the chair and checked it for wrinkles. “Mick, let me shop this around and get back to you.”
“No, Jocko. No referrals. You do this one all by yourself.”
The lawyer sagged as if struck by a brick.
“You heard me right,” Stranahan said.
“Mick, please.” It was a pitiable peep. “Mick, I don’t do this sort of thing.”
“Sure you do. I see the billboards all over town.”
Kipper Garth nibbled on a thumbnail to mask the spastic twitching of his upper lip. The thought of actually going to court had pitched him into a cold sweat. A fresh droplet made a shiny trail from the furrow of his forehead to the tip of his well-tanned nose.
“I don’t know,” he said, “it’s been so long.”
“Aw, it’s easy,” Stranahan said. “One of your paralegals can draw up the complaint. That’ll get the ball rolling.” With a thud he stacked the Graveline files on Kipper Garth’s desk; the lawyer eyed the file as if it were nitroglycerine.
“A gold mine,” Stranahan said encouragingly. “I’ll check back in a few days.”
“Mick?”
“Relax. All you’ve got to do is go down to the courthouse and sue.”
Wanly, Kipper Garth said, “I don’t have to win, do I?”
“Of course not,” Stranahan said, patting his arm. “It’ll never get that far.”
Dr. Rudy Graveline lived in a palatial three-story house on northern Biscayne Bay. The house had Doric pillars, two spiral staircases, and more imported marble than the entire downtown art museum. The house had absolutely no business being on Miami Beach, but in fairness it looked no more silly or out of place than any of the other garish mansions. The house was on the same palm-lined avenue where two of the Bee Gees lived, which meant that Rudy had been forced to pay about a hundred thousand more than the property was worth. For the first few years the women whom Rudy dated were impressed to be in the Bee Gees’ neighborhood, but lately the star value had worn off and Rudy had quit mentioning it.
It was Heather Chappell, the actress, who brought it up first.
“I think Barry lives around here,” she said as they were driving back to Rudy’s house after dinner at the Forge.
“Barry who?” Rudy asked, his mind off somewhere.
“Barry Gibb. The singer. Staying alive, staying alive, ooh, ooh, ooh.”
As much as he loved Heather, Rudy wished she wouldn’t try to sing.
“You know Barry personally?” he asked.
“Oh sure. All the guys.”
“That’s Barry’s place there,” Rudy Graveline said, pointing. “And Robin lives right here.”
“Let’s stop over,” Heather said, touching his knee. “It’ll be fun.”
Rudy said no, he didn’t know the guys all that well. Besides, he never really liked their music, especially that disco shit. Immediately Heather sank into a deep pout, which she heroically maintained all the way back to Rudy’s house, up the stairs, all the way to his bedroom. There she peeled off her dress and panties and lay facedown on the king-sized bed. Every few minutes she would raise her cheek off the satin pillow and sigh disconsolately, until Rudy couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked. He was in his boxer shorts, standing in the closet where he had hung his suit. “Heather, are you angry?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. Did I say something wrong? If I did, I’m sorry.” He was blubbering like a jerk, all because he wanted to get laid in the worst way. The sight of Heather’s perfect bare bottom—the one she wanted contoured—was driving him mad.
In a tiny voice she said, “I love the Bee Gees.”
“I’m sorry,” Rudy said. He sat on the corner of the bed and stroked her peachlike rump. “I liked their early stuff, I really did.”