Skinny Dip - Страница 41

"He's capable," said Tool. "What I'm trying to figger out is how your boyfriend fits into the program, how he come to-whatchacallit?- mastermine the blackmail."

"He was in the right place at the right time. That's all."

"Is he the same one broke into my man's house last night? 'Cause he got some payback due if it is. Middle-aged guy? Real tan? Looked sorta like him in the canoe, but I couldn't see so good from that houseboat. Damn windows all grimed up with salt."

"He's the one," Joey said. Tool would find out anyway as soon as Mick returned with Chaz.

"He's old enough to be your pa, ain't he?"

"Not hardly," she said defensively.

"Well, he's a strong sumbitch, I'll give him that. He hurt me good." Tool probed thoughtfully at his Adam's apple.

"He gets around all right for a geezer," Joey agreed. "Say, what was your wife's name?"

"Jean. Jeannie Suzanne is what we calk her."

"You miss her?" Joey asked.

"Not no more. Time heals is what they say."

"Do you think Mr. Perrone misses his wife?"

Tool said, "You tell me. He took all her pitchers down-every pitcher in the house, gone."

"But he told you she was pretty."

"That's what he said, but she coulda been a hog snapper for all I know." Tool shrugged. "I don't get paid to figger this shit out."

Joey said, "I've got to be going now. Thanks for the chat."

Tool seemed disappointed. "You can't hang around for when they come back?"

She shook her head. "Better not. I've got my orders."

"Me, too," Tool said with wearv frustration.

It was by far the worst night of Charles Perrone's life.

"You done?" the blackmailer asked.

Chaz wiped off his lips and spit hard over the side, trying to purge the pukey taste from his mouth. He had no clue how the man had found out about Red Hammernut. It was the second piece of disastrous news that Chaz received in the canoe, the first being that the blackmailer had in fact witnessed Joey's murder.

"You're surprised that I've done my homework," the man said. "So was Ricca."

He knows about Ricca, too? Chaz thought miserably. What a nightmare.

He boxed at his head, trying to vanquish the unbearable chorus of mosquitoes. The damn things seemed to have drilled through his eardrums into the meat of his brain. Other disturbing sounds rose from the darkness of the bay; loud violent splashes, piercing cries of birds.

This is hell, Chaz told himself. That's where I am.

"Your buddy Hammernut owns some serious farmland south of the big lake," the man said. "I'm guessing you fake the water tests to make it look clean. Saves him a fortune, too. How much is he paying you? Besides the new Hummer, I mean."

Chaz turned away, anticipating another blast from the flashlight. "You don't know what you're talking about," he insisted hoarsely.

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm talking about. So do you."

Chaz couldn't make out the blackmailer's expression, but the white crescent of a smile was visible.

"And here's another bulletin for you, Chazzie boy: Karl Rolvaag isn't in on this deal. I've never met the guy in my life, and you'd better pray that I don't."

Chaz fought back a fresh impulse to gag. He lowered his head and waited for the sensation to pass.

"What about the fake will?" he mumbled to his kneecaps.

"What will?" the man said.

"Oh Jesus."

"If you barf in this canoe, you're swimming home."

Chaz said, "I'll be all right. Just give me a minute."

It dawned on him that he wouldn't even know which way to swim. The sky had cleared but the glittering constellations offered no navigational guidance, Dr. Charles Perrone being as ignorant of astronomy as he was of the terrestrial sciences.

"Whose will?" the blackmailer asked again. "Your wife's?"

"Never mind."

So, it -was real, Chaz thought, the document that Rolvaag had shown him. Thirteen million dollars with my name on it, and all I've got to do is avoid Death Row.

"Let's say I scrape up the money," he said.

"Yes, let's say." The blackmailer laughed. "Bring it in a suitcase. Now for the questions."

"Oh, come on," Chaz said.

"I've only got two. First, why did you marry her?"

Swell, thought Chaz. I'm being shaken down by Montel Williams.

"Because I really liked her," he said impatiently. "She was fun and good-looking and sharp. I thought I was ready to settle down."

Without warning, the blackmailer clobbered him with the paddle, the flat side landing squarely on the crown of Chaz's head. He saw it coming even in the dimness, an arcing downward blur. On impact he let out a moan and pitched forward. The canoe rocked but did not flip.

"All you wanted," the man said, "was a hot girl on your arm, Chazzie. A girl your buddies would notice and talk about-the female equivalent of a new Rolex. You weren't getting married, you were accessorizing."

Chaz slowly pushed himself up from the bottom of the canoe and repositioned on his knees. He touched his scalp and felt a rising knot. Meanwhile the blackmailer had resumed paddling, as if nothing had happened. He looked tan and solidly built, but he was so much older that Chaz had been completely surprised by the sudden blow. It was the sort of thing a young hothead might do.

"And the fact she was rich didn't hurt, did it?" the man said.

"I never asked for a dime," Chaz protested.

"Which leads to my second question: Why'd you throw her into the ocean?"

Chaz swallowed in a way that sounded like a dying bullfrog. He had no intention of admitting the crime.

"I guess you want to spend the night out here," the blackmailer said, "alone."

"Anything happens to me, you don't get paid."

The man's laughter made Chaz shudder. "Try to understand, junior, it's not just the money. I'm pissed."

"But you didn't even know her!"

"Funny, though, I feel like I do." Calmly the man swung the paddle out of the water and batted Chaz in the face; not hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough to crimp his nose.

"Goddamn!" Chaz cried, a warm trickle running down his fingers.

The blackmailer said, "As you can tell, I'm taking this whole thing very personally. Tell me why you did it and I'll row you back to the docks."

"I just can't."

"Chazzie, you know that I know exactly what happened. All I'm asking you is why."

The guy had a point. He already knew everything, and Chaz wasn't keen on getting smacked again.

"What if you're wearing a wire?" Chaz was pinching his nostrils, trying to stanch the bleeding. Now he sounded like a cartoon duck.

Again the blackmailer's grin gleamed in the starlight. "You're priceless," he said, peeling off his T-shirt. Then he held the flashlight at arm's length and aimed it back toward his bare chest, which was quickly darkening with mosquitoes.

"See? No hidden microphones," he said to Chaz. "Feel better now?'

"I guess."

"Then answer the question, please."

"I thought Joey had busted me," Chaz heard himself say. "I thought she'd figured out the water scam."

"And for that you heaved her overboard? In the middle of the fucking Gulf Stream?"

"You don't understand," Chaz said. "If she ever blew the whistle on me and Mr. Hammernut… you can't possibly understand the implications. The thing is, I was out of options. If only she…"

"What, Chaz?"

If only she'd given me a reason not to do it, Chaz thought. Like showing me the new will.

"Never mind," he said.

The blackmailer began paddling with more purpose, and Chaz marveled at how briskly they were gliding across the water. Being averse to exercise, he'd never been a fan of canoes; a ski boat powered by a two-hundred-horse Mercury was Chaz's idea of a dream ride.

"How's the shnoz?" the blackmailer asked him.

"It hurts." Chaz's nose had swollen to the size of a bell pepper.

Soon they came to the long canal through which they'd entered the bay, and Chaz was immensely relieved. The blackmailer was taking him back to Flamingo.

Suddenly the man stopped rowing and leaned back. Chaz could see the shine of his sweat and hear the ravenous buzz of insects on his face and chest. "Want some bug spray?" Chaz asked.

The man chuckled. "No thanks." He extended the paddle to Chaz and said, "Your turn, killer."

"What?"

"Yeah, I'm whipped."

Chaz took the paddle and examined it as if it were an intricately engineered device.

"Please don't tell me you've never rowed a canoe," the blackmailer said.

"Of course I have."

Chaz tried to remember the last time-way back in grad school, on some scummy lake in North Carolina. He and another student were helping a professor trace the dissolution of muskrat feces in bottom sediment. Chaz had ended the day with oozing blisters on the palms of both hands. He couldn't swing a golf club for a month.

"Hurry up, Chazzie, we're drifting back to Whitewater."

"Sorry, but I'm not up for this. My head's killing me."

"You'll be fine."

"But I'm still bleeding, for God's sake."

"Did you ever see Deliverance?" the blackmailer said. "Remember what happened to the chubby guy?"

Chaz Perrone started paddling.

Twenty

Being labeled a crook was a new experience for Karl Rolvaag, and it kept him awake much of the night. He was more intrigued than indignant, for it was impossible to feel insulted by someone like Charles Perrone. The blackmail accusation was so boggling that the detective viewed it as a critical twist in the case, a clue no less important than the fingernails in that soggy bale of weed.