Carl Hiaason
Skin Tight
SKIN TIGHT
Carl Hiaasen
[23 jan 2002-scanned, proofed and released for #bookz]
1
On the third of January, a leaden, blustery day, two tourists from Covington, Tennessee, removed their sensible shoes to go strolling on the beach at Key Biscayne.
When they got to the old Cape Florida lighthouse, the young man and his fiancee sat down on the damp sand to watch the ocean crash hard across the brown boulders at the point of the island. There was a salt haze in the air, and it stung the young man’s eyes so that when he spotted the thing floating, it took several moments to focus on what it was.
“It’s a big dead fish,” his fiancee said. “Maybe a porpoise.”
“I don’t believe so,” said the young man. He stood up, dusted off the seat of his trousers, and walked to the edge of the surf. As the thing floated closer, the young man began to wonder about his legal responsibilities, providing it turned out to be what he thought it was. Oh yes, he had heard about Miami; this sort of stuff happened every day.
“Let’s go back now,” he said abruptly to his fiancee.
“No, I want to see what it is. It doesn’t look like a fish anymore.”
The young man scanned the beach and saw they were all alone, thanks to the lousy weather. He also knew from a brochure back at the hotel that the lighthouse was long ago abandoned, so there would be no one watching from above.
“It’s a dead body,” he said grimly to his fiancee.
“Come offit.”
At that instant a big, lisping breaker took the thing on its crest and carried it all the way to the beach, where it stuck-the nose of the dead man grounding as a keel in the sand.
The young man’s fiancee stared down at the corpse and said, “Geez, you’re right.”
The young man sucked in his breath and took a step back.
“Should we turn it over?” his fiancee asked. “Maybe he’s still alive.”
“Don’t touch it. He’s dead.”
“How do you know?”
The young man pointed with a bare toe. “See that hole?”
“That’s a hole?”
She bent over and studied a stain on the shirt. The stain was the color of rust and the size of a sand dollar.
“Well, he didn’t just drown,” the young man announced.
His fiancee shivered a little and buttoned her sweater. “So what do we do now?”
“Now we get out of here.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“It’s our vacation, Cheryl. Besides, we’re a half-hour’s walk to the nearest phone.”
The young man was getting nervous; he thought he heard a boat’s engine somewhere around the point of the island, on the bay side.
The woman tourist said, “Just a second.” She unsnapped the black leather case that held her trusty Canon Sure-Shot.
“What are you doing?”
“I want a picture, Thomas.” She already had the camera up to her eye.
“Are you crazy?”
“Otherwise no one back home will believe us. I mean, we come all the way down to Miami and what happens? Remember how your brother was making murder jokes before we left? It’s unreal. Stand to the right a little, Thomas, and pretend to look down at it.”
“Pretend, hell.”
“Come on, one picture.”
“No,” the man said, eyeing the corpse.
“Please? You used up a whole roll on Flipper.”
The woman snapped the picture and said, “That’s good. Now you take one of me.”
“Well, hurry it up,” the young man grumped. The wind was blowing harder from the northeast, moaning through the whippy Australian pines behind them. The sound of the boat engine, wherever it was, had faded away.
The young man’s fiancee struck a pose next to the dead body: She pointed at it and made a sour face, crinkling her zinc-coated nose.
“I can’t believe this,” the young man said, lining up the photograph.
“Me neither, Thomas. A real live dead body-just like on theTV show. Yuk!”
“Yeah, yuk,” said the young man. “Fucking yuk is right.”
The day had begun with only a light, cool breeze and a rim of broken raspberry clouds out toward the Bahamas. Stranahan was up early, frying eggs and chasing the gulls off the roof. He lived in an old stilt house on the shallow tidal flats of Biscayne Bay, a mile from the tip of Cape Florida. The house had a small generator powered by a four-bladed windmill, but no air-conditioning. Except for a few days in August and September, there was always a decent breeze. That was one nice thing about living on the water.
There were maybe a dozen other houses in the stretch of Biscayne Bay known as Stiltsville, but none were inhabited; rich owners used them for weekend parties, and their kids got drunk on them in the summer. The rest of the tune they served as fancy, split-level toilets for seagulls and cormorants.
Stranahan had purchased his house dirt-cheap at a government auction. The previous owner was a Venezuelan cocaine courier who had been shot thirteen times in a serious business dispute, then indicted posthumously. No sooner had the corpse been air-freighted back to Caracas than Customs agents seized the stilt house, along with three condos, two Porsches, a one-eyed scarlet macaw, and a yacht with a hot tub. The hot tub was where the Venezuelan had met his spectacular death, so bidding was feverish. Likewise the macaw-a material witness to its owner’s murder-fetched top dollar; before the auction, mischievous Customs agents had taught the bird to say, “Duck, you shithead!”
By the time the stilt house had come up on the block, nobody was interested. Stranahan had picked it up for forty thousand and change.
He coveted the solitude of the flats, and was delighted to be the only human soul living in Stiltsville. His house, barn-red with brown shutters, sat three hundred yards offthe main channel, so most of the weekend boat traffic traveled clear of him. Occasionally a drunk or a total moron would try to clear the banks with a big cabin cruiser, but they did not get far, and they got no sympathy or assistance from the big man in the barn-red house.
January third was a weekday and, with the weather blackening out east, there wouldn’t be many boaters out. Stranahan savored this fact as he sat on the sun deck, eating his eggs and Canadian bacon right out of the frying pan. When a pair of fat, dirty gulls swooped in to nag him for the leftovers, he picked up a BB pistol and opened fire. The birds screeched off in the direction of the Miami skyline, and Stranahan hoped they would not stop until they got there.
After breakfast he pulled on a pair of stringy denim cutoffs and started doing push-ups. He stopped at one hundred five, and went inside to get some orange juice. From the kitchen he heard a boat coming and checked out the window. It was a yellow bonefish skiff, racing heedlessly across the shallows. Stranahan smiled; he knew all the local guides. Sometimes he’d let them use his house for a bathroom stop, if they had a particularly shy female customer who didn’t want to hang it over the side of the boat.
Stranahan poured two cups of hot coffee and went back out on the deck. The yellow skiff was idling up to the dock, which was below the house itself and served as a boat garage. The guide waved up at Stranahan and tied off from the bow. The man’s client, an inordinately pale fellow, was preoccupied trying to decide which of four different grades of sunscreen to slather on his milky arms. The guide hopped out of the skiff and climbed up to the sun deck.
“Morning, Captain.” Stranahan handed a mug of coffee to the guide, who accepted it with a friendly grunt. The two men had known each other many years, but this was only the second or third occasion that the captain had gotten out of his boat and come up to the stilt house. Stranahan waited to hear the reason.
When he put down the empty cup, the guide said: “Mick, you expecting company?”
“No.”
“There was a man this morning.”
“A tthe marina?”
“No, out here. Asking which house was yours.” The guide glanced over the railing at his client, who now was practicing with a fly rod, snapping the line like a horsewhip.