Rudy Graveline took a chair at the card table while Chemo stretched out on the whorehouse sofa.
Rudy said: “I was worried when you didn’t call from New York. What happened?”
Chemo ran a whitish tongue across his lip. “Aren’t you even going to ask about my face, how it’s healing?”
The doctor seemed impatient. “It looks fine from here. It looks like the dermabrasion is taking nicely.”
“As if you’d know.”
Rudy’s mouth twitched. “Now what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a fucking menace to society. I’m getting myself another doctor—Maggie’s picking one out for me.”
Rudy Graveline felt the back of his neck go damp. It wasn’t as if he had not expected problems with Chemo—that was the reason for choosing Roberto Pepsical and his crooked cops as a contingency. But it was merely failure, not betrayal, that Rudy had anticipated from his homicidal stork.
“Maggie?” the doctor said. “Maggie Gonzalez?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. We had a long talk, she told me some things.”
“Talking to her wasn’t the plan,” Rudy said. “Yeah, well, the plan has been changed.” Chemo reached into the Igloo cooler and got a beer. He twisted off the cap, tilted the bottle to his lips, and glowered at the doctor the whole time he gulped it down. Then he belched once and said: “You tried to gyp me.”
Rudy said, “That’s simply not true.”
“You didn’t tell me the stakes. You didn’t tell me about the Barletta girl.”
The color washed from Rudy’s face. Stonily he stared into his own lap. Suddenly his silk Armani seemed as hot and heavy as an army blanket.
Chemo rolled the empty Heineken bottle across the bare terrazzo floor until it clanked to rest against the snake cage. The sleek green python flicked its tongue once, then went back to sleep.
Chemo said, “And all this time, I thought you knew what the fuck you were doing. I trusted you with my own face.” He laughed harshly and burped again. “Jesus H. Christ, I bet your own family won’t let you carve the bird on Thanksgiving, am I right?”
In a thin abraded voice, Rudy Graveline said: “So Maggie is still alive.”
“Yeah, and she’s going to stay that way as long as I say so.” Chemo swung his spidery legs off the sofa and sat up, straight as a lodgepole. “Because if anything should happen to her, you are going to be instantly famous. I’m talking TV, Dr. Frankenstein.”
By now Rudy was having difficulty catching his breath.
Chemo went on. “Your nurse is a smart girl. She made three videotapes for insurance. Two of them are locked up safe and sound in New York. The other … well, you’d better pray that I find it before it finds you.”
“Go do it.” Rudy’s voice was toneless and weak.
“Naturally this will be very expensive.”
“Whatever you need,” the doctor croaked. This was a scenario he had never foreseen, something beyond his worst screaming nightmares.
“I didn’t realize plastic surgeons made so much dough,” Chemo remarked. “Maggie was telling me.”
“The overhead,” Rudy said, fumbling, “is sky-high.”
“Well, yours just got higher by seven feet.” Chemo produced a small aerosol can of WD-40 and began lubricating the rotor mechanism of the Weed Whacker. Without glancing up from his chore, he said, “By the way, Frankenstein, you’re getting off easy. Last time a doctor screwed me over, I broke his frigging neck.”
In his mental catacomb Rudy clearly heard the snap of the old dermatologist’s spine, watched as the electrolysis needle fell from the old man’s lifeless hand and clattered on the office floor.
As soon as he regained his composure, Rudy asked, “Who’s got the missing tape?”
“Oh, take a wild guess.” There was amusement in Chemo’s dry tone.”
“Shit,” said Rudy Graveline.
“My sentiments exactly.”
22
Reynaldo Flemm hadn’t even finished explaining the plan before Willie, the cameraman, interrupted.
“What about Christina?” he asked. “What does she say?”
“Christina is tied up on another project.”
Willie eyed him skeptically. “What project?”
“That’s not important.”
Willie didn’t give up; he was accustomed to Reynaldo treating him like hired help. “She in New York?”