“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, you were a pretty lady.”
“Maybe I still am,” Maggie said. “Maybe prettier.”
Chemo put the photograph back in his coat. “Maybe,” he said.
“You’re going to make me cry and then everything’ll sting.”
He said, “Knock it off.”
“Don’t you think I feel bad enough?” Maggie said. “I get a whole new face—and for what! A month from now and you’d never have recognized me. I could’ve sat in your lap on the subway and you wouldn’t know who I was.”
Chemo thought he heard sniffling behind the bandages. “Don’t fucking cry,” he said. “Don’t be a baby.”
“I don’t understand why Rudy sent you,” Maggie whined.
“To kill you, what else?”
“But why now? Nothing’s happened yet.” Chemo frowned and said, “Keep it down.” The pink patches on his chin tingled in the cold air and made him think about Rudy Graveline. Butcher with a capital B, Maggie had said. Chemo wanted to know more.
A thin young Moonie in worn corduroys came up to the park bench and held out a bundle of red and white carnations. “Be happy,” the kid said to Maggie. “Five dollars.”
“Get lost,” Chemo said.
“Four dollars,’ said the Moonie. “Be happy.”
Chemo pulled the calfskin cover off his Weed Whacker and flicked the underarm toggle for the battery pack. The Moonie gaped as Chemo calmly chopped the bright carnations to confetti.
“Be gone, Hop-sing,” Chemo said, and the Moonie ran away. Chemo recloaked the Weed Whacker and turned to Maggie. “Tell me why the doctor wants you dead.”
It took her several moments to recover from what she had seen. Finally she said, “Well, it’s a long story.”
“I got all day,” Chemo said. “Unless you got tickets to Phantom or something.”
“Can we go for a walk?”
“No,” Chemo said sharply. “Remember?” He had thrown his vomit-covered shoes and socks out the ninth-floor window of Maggie’s room at the Plaza. Now he was sitting in bare feet in Central Park on a forty-degree February morning. He wiggled his long bluish toes and said to Maggie Gonzalez: “So talk.”
She did. She told Chemo all about the death of Victoria Barletta. It was a slightly shorter recital than she’d put on the videotape, but it was no less shocking.
“You’re making this up,” Chemo said.
“I’m not either.”
“He killed this girl with a nose job?”
Maggie nodded. “I was there.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“It was an accident.”
“That’s even worse,” Chemo said. He tore off his hat and threw it on the sidewalk, spooking the squirrels. “This is the same maniac who’s working on my face. I can’t fucking stand it!”
By way of consolation, Maggie said: “Dermabrasion is a much simpler procedure.”
“Yeah, tell me about simple procedures.” Chemo couldn’t believe the lousy luck he had with doctors. He said, “So what does all this have to do with him wanting you dead?”
Maggie told Chemo about Reynaldo Flemm’s TV investigation (without mentioning that she had been the tipster), told how she had warned Rudy about Mick Stranahan, the investigator. She was careful to make it sound as if Stranahan was the whistle-blower.
“Now it’s starting to make sense,” Chemo said. “Graveline wants me to kill him, too.” He held up the arm-mounted Weed Whacker. “He’s the prick that cost me this hand.”
“Rudy can’t afford any witnesses,” Maggie explained, “or any publicity. Not only would they yank his medical license, he’d go to jail. Now do you understand?”
Do I ever, thought Chemo.
The white mask that was Maggie’s face asked: “Are you still going to kill me?”
“We’ll see,” Chemo replied. “I’m sorting things out.”
“How much is that cheap bastard paying you?”
Chemo plucked his rumpled hat off the sidewalk. “I’d rather not say,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed. No way would he let that butcher fuck with his ears. Not now.
Christina Marks and Mick Stranahan got to the Plaza Hotel shortly before ten. From the lobby Stranahan called Maggie’s room and got no answer. Christina followed him into the elevator and, as they rode to the ninth floor, she watched him remove a small serrated blade from his wallet.