She was the first woman who had ever looked at him that way. Certainly she seemed sincere about helping him find a new plastic surgeon. Chemo thought: She’s either a truly devoted nurse or a sneaky little actress.
Maggie ripped a page of physicians from the phone book and said offhandedly, “How much are we hitting him for?”
“A million dollars,” Chemo said. His sluglike lips quivered into a smile. “You said he’s loaded.”
“Yeah, he’s also cheap.”
“A minute ago you said don’t worry.”
“Oh, he’ll pay. Rudy’s cheap, but he’s also a coward. All I’m saying is, he’ll try to play coy at first. That’s his style.”
“Coy?” Chemo thought: What in the fuck is she talking about? “I wouldn’t know about coy,” he said. “I got a Weed Whacker strapped to my arm.”
Maggie said, “Hey, I’m on your side. I’m just telling you, he can be stubborn when he wants.”
“You know what I think? I think you’re in this for more than the money. I think you want to see a show.”
Maggie’s brown eyes narrowed above the gauze. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Chemo said, “I think you’d enjoy it if the boys got nasty with each other. I think you’ve got your heart set on blood.”
He was beaming as if he had just discovered the secret of the universe.
Dr. Rudy Graveline stared at the vaulted ceiling and contemplated his pitiable existence. Chemo had turned blackmailer. Maggie Gonzalez, the bitch, was still alive. So was Mick Stranahan. And somewhere out there a television crew was lurking, waiting to grill him about Victoria Barletta.
Aside from that, life was peachy.
When the phone rang, Rudy pulled the bedsheet up to his chin. He had a feeling it was more bad news.
“Answer it.” Heather Chappell’s muffled command came from beneath a pillow. “Answer the damn thing.”
Rudy reached out from the covers and seized the receiver fiercely, as if it were the neck of a cobra. The grim gassy voice on the other end of the line belonged to Commissioner Roberto Pepsical.
“You see the news on TV?”
“No,” Rudy said. “But I got the paper here somewhere.”
“There’s a story about two policemen who died.”
“Yeah, so?”
“In a boat accident,” Roberto said.
“Cut to the punch line, Bobby.”
“Those were the guys.”
“What guys?” asked Rudy. Next to him, Heather mumbled irritably and wrapped the pillow tightly around her ears.
“The guys I told you about. My guys.”
“Shit, “said Rudy.
Heather looked up raggedly and said: “Do you mind? I’m trying to sleep.”
Rudy told Roberto that he would call him right back from another phone. He put on a robe and hurried down the hall to his den, where he shut the door. Numbly he dialed Roberta’s private number, the one reserved for bagmen and lobbyists.
“Let me make sure I understand,” Rudy said. “You were using police officers as hit men?”
“They promised it would be a cinch.”
“And now they’re dead.” Rudy was well beyond the normal threshold of surprise. He had become conditioned to expect the worst. He said, “What about the money-can I get it back?”
Roberto Pepsical couldn’t believe the nerve of this cheapskate. “No, you can’t get it back. I paid them. They’re dead. You want the money back, go ask their widows.” The commissioner’s tone had become impatient and firm. It made Rudy nervous; the fat pig should have been apologizing all over himself.
Rudy said, “All right, then, can you get somebody else to do it?”
“Do what?”
“Do Stranahan. The offer’s still open.”
Roberto laughed scornfully on the other end; Rudy was baffled by this change of attitude.
“Listen to me,” the commissioner said. “The deal’s off, forever. Two dead cops is major trouble, Doctor, and you just better hope nobody finds out what they were up to.”
Rudy Graveline wanted to drop the subject and crawl back to bed. “Fine, Bobby,” he said. “From now on, we never even met. Good-bye.”
“Not so fast.”
Oh brother, Rudy thought, here we go.
Roberto said, “I talked to The Others. They still want the original twenty-five.”
“That’s absurd. Cypress Towers is history, Bobby. I’m through with it. Tell your pals they get zippo.”
“But you got your zoning.”
“I don’t needthedamn zoning,” Rudy protested. “They can have it back, understand? Peddle it to some other dupe.”
Roberta’s voice carried no trace of understanding, no patience for a compromise. “Twenty-five was the price of each vote. You agreed. Now The Others want their money.”
“Don’t you ever get sick of being an errand boy?”
“It’s my money, too,” Roberto said soberly. “But yeah, I do get sick of being an errand boy. I get sick a dealing with cheap scuzzbuckets like you. When it comes to paying up, doctors are the fucking worst.”
“Hey,” Rudy said, “it doesn’t grow on trees.”
“A deal is a deal.”
In a way, Roberto was glad that Dr. Graveline was being such a prick. It felt good to be the one to drop the hammer for a change. He said, “You got two business days to cover me and TheOthers.”
“What?” Rudy bleated.
“Two days, I‘m calling my banker in the Caymans and having him read me the balance in my account. If it’s not heavier by twenty-five, you’re toast.”
Rudy thought: This can’t be the same man, not the way he’s talking to me.
Roberto Pepsical went on, detached, businesslike: “Me and The Others got this idea that we-meaning the county-should start certifying all private clinics. Have our own testing, license hearings, bi-monthly inspections, that sort of thing. It’s our feeling that the general public needs to be protected.”
“Protected?” Rudy said feebly.
“From quacks and such. Don’t you agree?”
Rudy thought: The whole world has turned upside down.
“Most clinics won’t have anything to worry about,” Roberto said brightly, “once they’re brought up to county standards.”
“Bobby, you’re a bastard.”
After Rudy Graveline slammed down the phone, his hand was shaking. It wouldn’t stop.
At the breakfast table, Heather stared at Rudy’s trembling fingers and said, “I sure don’t like the looks of that.”
“Muscle spasms,” he said. “It’ll go away.”
“My surgery is tomorrow,” Heather said.
“I’m aware of that, darling.”
They had spent the better part of the morning discussing breast implants. Heather had collected testimonials from all her Hollywood actress friends who ever had boob jobs. Some of them favored the Porex line of soft silicone implants, others liked the McGhan Biocell 100, and still others swore by the Replicon. Heather herself was leaning toward the Silastic II Teardrop model, because they came with a five-year written warranty.
“Maybe I better check with my agent,” she said.
“Why?” Rudy asked peevishly.
“This is my body we’re talking about. My career.”
“All right,” Rudy said. “Call your agent. What do I know? I’m just the surgeon.” He took the newspaper to the bathroom and sat down on the John. Ten minutes later, Heather knocked lightly on the door.
“It’s too early on the coast,” she said. “Melody’s not in the office.”
“Thanks for the bulletin.”
“But a man called for you.”
Rudy folded the newspaper across his lap and braced his chin in his hands. “Who was it, Heather?”
“He didn’t give his name. Just said he was a patient.”
“That certainly narrows it down.”
“He said he came up with a number. I think he was talking about money.”
Crazy Chemo. It had to be. “What did you tell him?” Rudy asked through the door.
“I told him you were unavailable at the moment. He didn’t sound like he believed me.”
“Gee, I can’t imagine,” said Rudy.
“He said he’ll come by the clinic later.”
“Splendid.” He could hear her breathing at the door. “Heather, is there something else?”
“Yes, there was a man out front. A process server from the courthouse.”
Rudy felt himself pucker at both ends.
Heather said, “He rang the bell about a dozen times, but I wouldn’t open the door. Finally he went away.”
“Good girl,” Rudy said. He sprang off the toilet, elated. He flung open the bathroom door, carried Heather into the shower, and turned on the water, steamy hot. Then he got down on his bare knees and began kissing her silky, perfect thighs.