Skinny Dip - Страница 39

"I'm hungry," Tool grumbled, wheeling sharply into the parking lot of a Miami Subs shop.

"Bring me a Coke and some fries," said Chaz.

"Git it yourself."

Chaz hid the.38 under the front seat and followed Tool into the restaurant. Chaz had begged and pestered for a new bodyguard, but Red Hammernut had refused, saying Tool was rock-solid.

Rock-headed is more like it, Chaz thought. They sat in a booth, Tool wolfishly attacking a turkey sub the size of a football.

"Where's the gun?" Tool, spraying half-mulched lettuce.

Chaz pointed at the car through the window.

"Ever shot anybody?" Tool asked.

"No."

"Ever shot anything?"

"Birds," Chaz said.

As a kid, he'd used a BB rifle to snipe at the sparrows and warblers that woke him in the mornings.

Tool said, "You got no bidness with a gun 'less you practice. I been shot by a joker once already and that's plenty."

"Stop worrying."

At the entrance of Everglades National Park, a ranger inquired about their lack of fishing gear and camping equipment. A notice taped to the kiosk warned against bringing firearms inside the park.

"We're meeting some friends," Chaz said. "The Thornburghs. They're in a brand-new Airstream, Michigan plates. Got an Irish setter named Mickey that rides up front. Did they come through here yet?"

"Couldn't say. I just now came on duty."

"Well, I'm sure we'll find 'em." Chaz, waving pleasantly.

A mile down the road, Tool spoke up. "Where the fuck'd you come up with that one?"

"Pretty good, huh?"

"What's a Airstream?"

Chaz said, "A motor home. You know, like a Winnebago, only not so clunky. He sure went for it, didn't he?"

"And that bullshit about the dog-you just all of a sudden thought that up?"

"Yep." Chaz couldn't tell if Tool was impressed or disgusted.

"I never seen nobody could lie such a way."

"Hey, sometimes you've got to think fast," Chaz said. "That ranger, see, it's none of his business if we've got fishing poles or whatever in the car. But I can't come out and say that to his face, so I cook up a story and off we go."

Tool nodded, both hands on the wheel. "Pretty damn smooth," he said.

The sky was clouded and starless. Ahead of them, speared by the twin beams of the headlights, was a canvas of blackness. At first Chaz thought they were riding through a rain shower, but the splattering sound turned out to be a hail of bugs hitting the windshield. When a marsh rabbit appeared on the center stripe, Tool casually swerved to miss it. Chaz told him to stop the car right away.

"Why, you gotta take a piss?" Tool coasted the sedan off the pavement and braked.

"Turn us around," Chaz said.

"What for?"

"Hurry!"

Tool made a flawless three-pointer and headed slowly back up the road until they came to the rabbit, which hadn't moved. Chaz reached beneath the seat and took out the pistol. Tool blinked at him slowly, like a drugged toad.

Chaz said, "You told me to practice, right?"

"Not on a fuckin' bunny."

"It's just a big overgrown rodent," said Chaz, betraying an ignorance of taxonomy that would have appalled his colleagues but was lost on Tool. "A rat with big ears," he added, stealthily opening the car door.

Tool said, "You shoot that thing, you're gonna eat it for breakfast."

"Yeah, right."

"Doc, I ain't kiddin'. My momma used to tell us, 'Anything that dies, fries.' Ain't right to waste a critter just for sport."

Chaz wondered if the medicine patches were making Tool loopy. Why should he care about a dumb rabbit? Chaz leaned across the hood of the car and took aim at the animal, which remained motionless in the lights. When the.38 went off, the rabbit hopped straight in the air, spun around once, dashed in a circle and then stopped. Its eyes were wide and its nose was quivering.

"Shit, I missed," Chaz muttered, and fired again. This time the animal flattened itself to the pavement and laid back its ears, as if hiding in the scrub.

Tool said, "That's enough, Rambo."

"Just one more." Chaz thinking: It's okay for him to plug an alligator.

"You're done," Tool said gruffly.

"Not quite." Chaz shutting one eye and squinting down the barrel.

"I said no."

Tool goosed the accelerator a millisecond before Chaz squeezed the trigger. He felt himself vaulted airborne and, suspended in flight, he witnessed the tawny blur of the rabbit disappearing into the tall grass. He came down hard in the loose gravel and rolled twice. For several moments he lay still, dazedly watching the insects swarm around the headlights of the idling car. Soon he heard the crunch of footfalls and saw the broad silhouette of Tool above him.

"Help me up," Chaz said with an imprudent lack of remorse.

"You're one dumb fuck of a so-called doctor."

Tool picked up the.38 and stalked back toward the Grand Marquis.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Chaz hollered after him. "Were you trying to kill me?"

He struggled to his feet and brushed the pebbles off his clothes. When he got back into the car, Tool jabbed a finger in his chest and said, "If I was tryin' to kill you, pretty boy, you'd be havin' this conversation with Saint Peter."

Chaz waited another ten miles before asking about the gun.

Tool said, "You're done for the night."

"But what if I need it later? What if this asshole blackmailer decides to play rough?"

Tool seemed to think that was quite funny. "Boy, you won't need a gun," he said. "You got me."

Nineteen

Stranahan was already on the water when the Grand Marquis rolled up at the marina. The caveman got out slowly while Chaz Perrone practically ejected himself from the passenger side, slapping frenetically at his face and neck. They walked back and forth along the slips, eventually choosing an unoccupied houseboat and prying the door. The caveman ducked inside while Chaz hopped back on the dock, stumbling over a coiled rope. After a while he began to pace in and out of the shadows, still flailing at the bugs. At midnight Stranahan called out his name and Chaz dropped into a ludicrous semi-crouch that he must have picked up from a Jackie Chan movie.

Stranahan waved. "Over here, numbnuts!"

Chaz approached tentatively, continuing to affect the coiled pose of a kung fu master. He seemed alarmed to see his blackmailer sitting in a small canoe.

"Hop in," Stranahan said as he nosed up to the boat ramp.

"No way."

"This was your idea, Chazzie."

"The meeting, not the place," Chaz said, "and not the damn canoe."

Stranahan laid the paddle across his lap and gave Chaz some time to size him up. Then he said, "If you want to hear the deal, park your ass in the bow."

Chaz glanced uneasily toward the slip where the houseboat was moored.

Stranahan said, "That's another thing. I told you to leave your pal with Dr. Leakey."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're such a dolt. I should triple my price."

Chaz stepped gingerly into the canoe. "Where do I sit?"

"You don't sit," Stranahan said. "You kneel."

With long, even strokes he began paddling down the Buttonwood Canal toward Whitewater Bay.

"Can I borrow the bug spray?" Chaz anxiously pointed to a Cutter's squirt bottle in the bottom of the canoe. Stranahan tossed it to him.

"Where we going?" Chaz, spritzing himself.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, as long as you don't tip us over."

"Don't worry, I'm not moving a muscle." Chaz put down the bottle and got a death grip on the sides of the canoe.

"Moccasin Pass. That's where we're headed," Stranahan said. To his knowledge, there was no such place. However, the ominous name produced the desired effect.

"Holy shit," he heard Chaz Perrone murmur.

"Supposedly it's got the biggest water moccasins in the 'glades," Stranahan went on, drawing a defeated groan. In person, Joey's husband was pretty much what Stranahan had expected-soft and whiny under pressure.

"You've also got your crocodiles and sharks, mister," Stranahan said, switching momentarily to his Jerry Lewis voice, "which is why I strongly recommend against flipping the canoe."

Chaz fell silent. When they reached Whitewater, Stranahan stopped paddling and instructed Chaz to turn around, which he did with the utmost care. When Stranahan aimed a flashlight in his face, he flinched and looked away.

Stranahan said, "You're sulking, aren't you? You think I'm having fun at your expense."

To taunt such a pismire was almost unsporting, but it diverted Stranahan from a nagging but barbarous impulse to beat the man into hamburger hash. Perhaps the day for such uncivilized festivities would come, but for now he'd settle for the sight of Charles Perrone's ears turning black with mosquitoes. It had been Joey's fine idea to replace the insect repellent with tap water.

"How'd you get into my house?" Chaz asked.

"Trade secret."

"Are you the one who cut up that picture of my wife and put it under my pillow?"

"No, that would be the picture fairy."

"Who the fuck are you? What do you want from me?" Chaz whacking at both sides of his head.

"Money, for starters."

"There's more?" Chaz hacked out a sour laugh.

"Plus I'd like you to answer a few simple questions. That's it."

"What questions? You're shaking me down over something I didn't even do."

"Fine. Then don't pay me a penny," Stranahan said. "We'll let a jury decide-my word against yours. By the way, have you ever been to scenic Raiford, Florida, home of the Union Correctional prison?"