“What about it?”
“It didn’t match the mug shots, not even close. They made him through fingerprints and dentals, but when they got the mugs back from the FBI it looked like a different guy altogether. So Metro calls the Bureau and says you made a mistake, and they say the hell we did, that’s Tony Traviola. They go back and forth for about two hours until somebody has the brains to call the M.E.” Córdova stopped to gulp some iced tea; the fish was steaming in his cheeks.
Stranahan said, “And?”
“Plastic surgery.”
“No shit?”
“At least five different operations, from his eyes to his chin. Tony the Eel, he was a regular Michael Jackson. His own mother wouldn’t have known him.”
Stranahan opened another beer and sat down. “Why would a bum like Traviola get his face remade?”
Córdova said, “Traviola did a nickel for extortion, got out of Rahway about two years ago. Not long afterwards a Purolator truck gets hit, but the robbers turn up dead three days later—without the loot. Classic mob rip. The feds put a warrant out for Traviola, hung his snapshot in every post office along the Eastern seaboard.”
“Good reason to get the old shnoz bobbed,” Stranahan said.
“That’s what they figure.” Córdova got up and rinsed his plate in the sink.
Stranahan was impressed. “You didn’t get all this out of Metro, did you?”
Córdova laughed. “Hey, even the grouper troopers got a computer.”
This was a good kid, Stranahan thought, a good cop. Maybe there was hope for the world after all.
“I see you went out and got the newspaper,” the marine patrolman remarked. “What’s the occasion, you got a pony running at Gulf stream?”
Hell, Stranahan thought, that was a stupid move. On the counter was the Herald, open to the page with the story about the dead floater. Miami being what it is, the floater story was only two paragraphs long, wedged under a tiny headline between a one-ton coke bust and a double homicide on the river. Maybe Luis Córdova wouldn’t notice.
“You must’ve got up early to get to the marina and back,” he said.
“Grocery run,” Stranahan lied. “Besides, it was a nice morning for a boat ride. How was the fish?”
“Delicious, Mick.” Córdova slapped him on the shoulder and said so long.
Stranahan walked out on the deck and watched Córdova untie his patrol boat, a gray Mako outboard with a blue police light mounted on the center console.
“If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call, Luis.”
“No sweat, it’s Metro’s party,” the marine patrolman said. “Guy sounds like a dirtbag, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Stranahan said, “I feel sorry for that shark, the one that ate his foot.”
Córdova chuckled. “Yeah, he’ll be puking for a week.”
Stranahan waved as the police boat pulled away. He was pleased to see Luis Córdova heading south toward Boca Chita, as Luis had said he would. He was also pleased that the young officer had not asked him about the blue marlin head on the living-room wall, about why the sword was mended together with fresh hurricane tape.
Timmy Gavigan had looked like death for most of his adult life. Now he had an excuse.
His coppery hair had fallen out in thickets, revealing patches of pale freckled scalp. His face, once round and florid, looked like somebody had let the air out.
From his hospital bed Timmy Gavigan said, “Mick, can you believe this fucking food?” He picked up a chunk of gray meat off the tray and held it up with two fingers, like an important piece of evidence. “This is your government in action, Mick. Same fuckers that want to put lasers in outer space can’t fry a Salisbury steak.”
Stranahan said, “I’ll go get us some take-out.”
“Forget it.”
“You’re not hungry?”
“I got about five gallons of poison in my bloodstream, Mick. Some new formula, experimental super juice. I told ‘em to go ahead, why the hell not? If it kills just one of those goddamn cells, then I’m for it.”
Stranahan smiled and sat down.
“A man came out to see me the other day. He was using your name, Tim.”