“Imagine me with black hair,” he said to the legal secretary, who flicked a soap bubble off her nose and said no, she still wouldn’t recognize him.
He said, “You get TV, right? I’m Reynaldo Flemm.”
“Yeah?”
“From In Your Face.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Ever seenit?”
“No,” said the secretary, “but I don’t watch all that much television.” She was trying to be nice. “I think I’ve seen your commercials,” she said.
Flemm shrunk lower in the tub.
“Is it, like, a game show?” the woman asked.
“No, it’s a news show. I’m an investigative reporter.”
“Like that guy on Sixty Minutes!”
Reynaldo bowed his head. Feeling guilty, the secretary slid across the tub and climbed on his lap. She said, “Hey, I believe you.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
She felt a little sorry for him; he seemed so small and wounded among the bubbles. She said, “You certainly look like you could be on television.”
“I am on fucking television. I’ve got my own show.”
The woman said, “Okay, whatever.”
“I could loan you a tape-you got a VCR?”
The secretary told him to hush. She put her lips to his ear and said, “Why don’t we try it right here?”
Reynaldo half-heartedly slipped one arm around her waist and began kissing her breasts. They were perfectly lovely breasts, but Reynaldo’s heart wasn’t in it. After a few moments the woman said, “You’re not really in the mood, huh?”
“I wa s.”
“I’m sorry. Here, let me do your back.”
Reynaldo’s buttocks squeaked as he turned around in the tub so the secretary could scrub him. He watched her in the mirror; her hands felt wondrously soothing. Eventually he closed his eyes.
“There you go,” she said, kneading his shoulder blades. “My great big TV star.”
Reynaldo found he was getting excited again. He touched himself, underwater, just to make sure. He was smiling until he opened his eyes and saw something new in the mirror.
A man standing in the doorway. The man with the tarpon gaff.
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Mick Stranahan.
The woman squealed and dove for a towel. Reynaldo Flemm groped for floating suds to cover his withering erection.
“I was looking for Christina,” Stranahan said. He walked up to the Roman tub with the gaff held under one arm, like a riding crop. “She’s not in her hotel room.”
“ How’d you find me?” Reynaldo’s voice was reedy and taut, definitely not an anchorman’s voice.
“Miami is not one of the world’s all-time great hotel towns,” Stranahan said. “Hotshot celebrities like you always end up in the Grove. But tell me: Why’s Christina still registered out at Key Biscayne?”
Nervously the secretary said, “Who’s Christina?”
Stranahan said: “Ray, I asked you a question.” He poked the fish gaff under the suds and scraped the point across the bottom of the tub. The steel screeched ominously against the ceramic. Reynaldo Flemm drew up his knees and sloshed protectively into a corner.
“Chris doesn’t know I’m here,” he said. “I ditched her.”
Stranahan told the legal secretary to get dressed and go home. He waited until she was gone from the bathroom before he spoke again.
“I checked Christina’s room at the Sonesta. She hasn’t been there fortwo days.”
Reynaldo said, “What’re you going to do to me?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the tarpon gaff. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he said, “Don’t hurt me.”
“For Christ’s sake.”
“Imeanit!”
“Are you crying?” Stranahan couldn’t believe it-another dumb twit overreacting. “Just tell me about Christina. Her notebooks were still in the room, and so was her purse. Any ideas?”
“ Uuunnngggh.” The pink of Flemm’s tongue showed between his front teeth. It was a cowering, poodle-like expression, amplified by trembling lips and liquid eyes.
“Settle down,” said Stranahan. His head felt like it was full of wet cement. The Darvocets had barely put a ripple in the pain. What a shitty day. He said, “You haven’t seen her?” Violently Reynaldo shook his head no. They heard a door slam-the secretary, making tracks. Stranahan used the gaff to pull the plug in the Roman rub. Wordlessly he watched the soapy water drain, leaving Reynaldo bare and shriveled and flecked with suds. “What’s with the hairdo?” Stranahan asked.
Reynaldo composed himself and said, “For a show.”
Stranahan tossed him a towel. He said, “I know what you’re doing. You’re acing Christina out of the Barletta story. I saw your notes on the table.”
Flemm reddened. It had taken him three hours to come up with ten questions for Dr. Rudy Graveline. Carefully he had printed the questions on a fresh legal pad, the way Christina Marks always did. He had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to memorize them before calling it quits and heading over to Biscayne Baby for some action.
“I don’t care about your show,” Stranahan said, “but I care about Christina.”
“Me, too.”
“It looked like somebody pushed his way into her hotel room. There was a handprint on the door.”
Reynaldo said, “Well, it wasn’t mine.”
“Stand up,” Stranahan told him.
Flemm wrapped himself into the towel as he stood up in the tub. Stranahan measured him with his eyes. “I believe you,” he said. He went back to the living room to wait for Reynaldo to dry off and get dressed.
When Flemm came out, wearing an absurd muscle shirt and tight jeans, Stranahan said, “When are you going to see the doctor?”
“Soon,” Reynaldo replied. Then, blustery: “None of your business.” He felt so much tougher with a shirt on.
Stranahan said, “If you wait, you’ll have a better story.”
Reynaldo rolled his eyes-how many times had he heard that one! “No way,” he said. The snide pomposity had returned to his voice.
“Ray, I’m only going to warn you once. If something’s happened to Christina because of you, or if you do something that brings her any harm, you’re done. And I’m not talking about your precious TV career.”
Flemm said, “You sound pretty tough, long as you’ve got that hook.”
Stranahan tossed the tarpon gaff at Reynaldo and said, “There-see if it works for you, too.”
Reynaldo quickly dropped it on the carpet. As a rule he didn’t fight with crazy people unless cameras were rolling. Otherwise, what was the point?
“I hope you find her,” Reynaldo said.
Stranahan stood to leave. “You better pray that I do.”
At the Gay Bidet, Freddie didn’t even bother to get up from the desk to introduce himself. “I’m gonna tell you the same as I told that Cuban cop, which is nothing. I got a policy not to talk about employees, past or present.”
Stranahan said, “But you know the man I’m asking about.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Ishe here?”
“Ditto,” said Freddie. “Now get the fuck gone.”
“Actually, I’m going to look around.”
“Oh, you are?” Freddie said. “Like hell.” He punched a black buzzer under the desk. The door opened and Stranahan momentarily was drowned by the vocal stylings of the Fabulous Foreskins, performing their opening set. The man who entered Freddie’s office was a short muscular Oriental. He wore a pink Gay Bidet security T-shirt, stretched to the limit.
Freddie said, “Wong, please get this dog turd out of my sight.”
Stranahan waved the tarpon gaff and its sinister glint caused Wong to hesitate. Disdainfully Freddie glowered at the bouncer and said, “What happened to all that kung-fu shit?”
Wong’s chest began to swell.
Stranahan said, “I’ve had a lousy day, and I’m really in no mood. You like having a liquor license?”
Freddie said, “What’re you talkin’ about, do I like it?”
“Because you oughta enjoy it tonight, while you can. If you don’t answer my questions, here’s what happens to you and this toilet bowl of a nightclub: First thing tomorrow, six nasty bastards from Alcohol and Beverage come by and shut your ass down. Why? Because you lied when you got your liquor license, Freddie. You got a felony record in Illinois and Georgia, and you lied about that. Also, you’ve been serving to minors, big time. Also, your bartender just tried to sell me two grams of Peruvian. You want, I can keep going.”