Skinny Dip - Страница 56

Ricca whispered to Mick Stranahan: "You were right about that dick-head. He did kill his wife. He told me so."

"What happened to you?"

"Long story short-he dragged me out to the boonies and shot me. Can you believe it?"

Stranahan said he could, easily. "What are you doing here?"

"Freaking him out," Ricca said. "It's crazy but I wanted Chaz to see I was still alive. What can he do to me in a church?"

"Did you go to the cops?"

"Not yet, but I will."

"Can I ask a favor? Could you wait a couple of days?"

Ricca smiled. "So you really are blackmailing him."

"Oh, it's better than that," Stranahan said. "But in the meantime, you be careful. Chaz will insist on seeing you. He's going to beg and cry and probably offer you a ton of dough to keep quiet."

"And then he'll try to kill me again."

"Of course. But I'm going to give you a phone number. Be sure to call it before you go meet with him."

Stranahan scribbled the information on the back of a prayer card.

Ricca didn't recognize the name or the number, but she slipped the card into her purse. The guitar trio ended its song and the church fell silent. Corbett Wheeler returned to the pulpit.

"This has been a most difficult day for all of us," he said with a sideways glance toward the sacristy. "Speaking for myself, I still can't really believe my sister is gone. It seems like just this morning that she was teasing me about my farmer shoes and my Aboriginal haircut."

Everybody chuckled, but only Stranahan got the inside joke. Joey had needled her brother mercilessly while he was dressing for the memorial.

"Thank you all for coming today, and for sharing your memories. Joey would have been touched," Corbett Wheeler said in conclusion. "I know that many of you wish to express your condolences to her husband, Chaz. He'll be waiting to speak with you on your way out."

"Sweet," said Ricca.

"Easy does it," Stranahan warned.

No one was more stunned than Charles Perrone to hear, upon regaining consciousness, that he would be personally greeting the mourners outside St. Conan's. He complained that he was too weak and distraught, but Joey's brother took him by the arm and told him to buck up. Tool made no effort to intervene on Chaz's behalf, having stopped to look at the photograph of the doctor's dead wife on the altar. It was the first time Tool had seen a picture of Joey Perrone, and she reminded him of somebody.

But who? Tool couldn't recall. That was one of the drawbacks of the narcotic patches-they scrambled up your memory at times.

He went outside and found a shady spot under a banyan tree. Lowering himself to the ground, he propped his head against the trunk. As he watched Chaz shake hands and give hugs on the steps of the church, Tool thought again about the photo of Mrs. Perrone on the altar. He wondered how a pretty, smart-looking girl could hook up with such a shitweasel. There was plainly no damn justice in the world.

Tool was annoyed when a man ambled up and sat next to him.

"Remember me?" the man asked.

"Sure do." It was the guy who'd slugged him in the throat that night at Chaz's house. The blackmailer.

Tool's eyes narrowed. "Lucky we ain't alone."

"I don't blame you for being mad. I belted you pretty good."

"Jest wait'll next time, boy."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." The blackmailer lowered his voice. "The money drop."

"The what?"

"For the blackmail payoff."

"Oh. Yeah." Tool shifted uncomfortably. His rump was inopportunely aligned on the knob of a banyan root, which poked against the embedded bullet.

The man said, "I've got a feeling Chaz is going to try something exceptionally stupid. That would be bad for him, and also for Mr. Hammernut."

"Don't worry. He ain't gone try nuthin' long as I'm there."

"Glad to hear you say that." The blackmailer pointed toward the doorway of the church. "You recognize those two people?"

Tool squinted. "The one's a cop."

"Right, that's Detective Rolvaag. How about the dark-haired lady on crutches?"

"Maybe." Tool dug into his overalls to scratch at his crotch.

The blackmailer said the woman's name was Ricca Spillman. "Your boy Chaz tried to kill her the other night."

"No shit?" Tool said, though he knew it was true. He also knew that he should tell Red, because this was serious. The doctor had gone and shot a girl, who, instead of dying quietly, was now chatting it up with a cop. Tool got up and began kneading his buttocks. He could feel the old rifle slug chafing against his tailbone.

The blackmailer stood up, too. He said, "I'd prefer to steer clear of Rolvaag for now, so I'll be on my way."

Tool shrugged. He noticed that the woman on crutches was being approached by Mrs. Perrone's brother, the sheep farmer. More bad news, thought Tool.

The blackmailer said, "For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry about what happened last week at the house."

Tool said, "We ain't done with that yet."

"I figured not."

"Hey, where's your girlfriend? The one that was down at Flamingo?"

"Oh, she's home cleaning the machine guns."

Tool wasn't sure if the guy was joking. Then, out of the blue, it hit him-that's who the picture on the altar looked like: the blackmailer's girlfriend. It had been dark when he'd met her that night on the docks, but what he'd seen of her face strongly resembled the dead woman in the photograph. Hell, maybe they were kin. Maybe the blackmail was a revenge-type deal.

"Mister, can I ast you somethin'?" Tool said.

"Nope," said the blackmailer, and then he was gone.

In a way, Chaz Perrone was relieved to have Corbett Wheeler beside him in the receiving line, sharing the burden of cordiality. It was hard work being polite and commiserative, especially when faking it. Chaz could handle about twelve seconds of heartfelt sympathy from each mourner before passing them down the row like a sandbag. He concluded from their worried expressions that he must have looked like hell, what with the shakes and the damp upper lip and the festering mosquito bites. But all that was good for his act-the grieving husband, falling apart at the seams.

Handshake and hug.

Chaz Perrone struggled to maintain a passable mask of sorrow, but he felt his mouth twist into an ugly scowl when the blackmailer came down the line. The man pressed an envelope into Chaz's hands, leaned close and said in that hokey Charlton Heston voice: "I hear helicopters, Chazzie."

Reflexively Chaz glanced up, but he saw only a small plane trailing a Budweiser banner, heading for the beach.

"See you tomorrow night," the blackmailer said, and strolled away.

Chaz had no time to be flustered, for he'd caught sight of Ricca, conspicuously yakking with Rolvaag about God knows what. The detective appeared cordial and at ease, certainly not acting as if he'd just been informed of an attempted homicide at Loxahatchee. Still, it was all Chaz could do not to bolt like a jackrabbit.

As he was snatched into the moist embrace of Mrs. Raguso, tearful and vaguely redolent of mozzarella, Chaz was dismayed to hear Corbett Wheeler excuse himself from the receiving line. Pinned to Mrs. Raguso's bosom, Chaz watched disconsolately over her shoulder as Joey's brother sauntered over to Ricca and struck up a conversation.

Unbelievable, Chaz thought. I am so fucked.

Within moments Ricca began clomping toward him, Corbett Wheeler leading the way. Chaz extricated himself from Mrs. Raguso, though not in time to flee.

"Your housekeeper," said Joey's brother, "would like a private word."

"Sure," Chaz said, thinking: Housekeeper? Christ, she's never going to let me forget that one.

Corbett Wheeler assumed the primary consoling duties as Chaz stepped away from the line. Ricca stood off to the side, eyeing him about as warmly as a barracuda. The tripod effect of her crutches made a conciliatory hug unfeasible.

In a half whisper he said, "We need to talk."

"Go blow yourself, Chaz."

"I was crazed that night. Completely out of my mind."

Ricca said, "Save it for the jury, you sorry prick."

"I apologize for cleaning out your apartment, too. And getting rid of your car," Chaz said. "I panicked, honey. What can I say?"

"You look like shit. Are those cankers all over your face?"

"Mosquito bites. I'm coming down with the West Nile."

"Good. I hope your balls rot off," Ricca said.

"Look, you've got a right to be pissed. What I did was a horrible thing."

"Duh, yeah?"

"But it wasn't the real me. I was whacked-out," Chaz insisted. "Seriously. What can I do to make things right?"

"Besides dying a slow, miserable death?"

"Shhhh. Please, honey, not so loud."

"Two hundred and fifty grand," Ricca said flatly. "In cash."

"Really?" Chaz felt washed with relief. He'd always pegged her as a money-grubber. It was the cheeriest possible news.

"Plus a new car. Mustang convertible," she said. "You don't come through, I'll be going to visit my new best friend." She cut her eyes toward Karl Rolvaag, now chatting with the white-haired priest.

"Wait, Ricca, don't! I'll give you my answer now!" Chaz reached out, but she raised a crutch menacingly. "The answer is yes," he told her in a low voice. "Whatever you want."

"Wait for my call," she said curtly, and limped away unassisted.

Chaz returned to the receiving line, which had dwindled to a handful of Joey's friends. Corbett Wheeler leaned over and said, "They sure don't make housekeepers like that Down Under. She's a hottie."