Freddie said, “Don’t bother.” He instructed Wong to get lost. When they were alone again, he said to Stranahan, “That rap in Atlanta was no good.”
“So you’re not a pimp. Excellent. The beverage guys will be very impressed, Freddie. Be sure to tell them you’re not a pimp, no matter what the FBI computer says.”
“What the fuck is it you want?”
“Just tell me where I can find my tall, cool friend. The one with the face.”
Freddie said, “Truth is, I don’t know. He took off a couple days ago. Picked up his paycheck and quit. Tried to give me back the T-shirt, the dumb fuck-like somebody else would wear the damn thing. I told him to keep it for a souvenir.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Stranahan asked.
“Nope. He had two broads with him, you figure it out.” Freddie flashed a mouthful of nubby yellow teeth. “Creature from the Black Lagoon, and still he gets more poon than me.”
“What did the women look like?’ Stranahan asked.
“One, I couldn’t tell. Her face was all busted up, cuts and bruises and Band-Aids. He must’ve beat the hell out of her for something. The other was a brunette, good-looking, on the thin side. Not humongous titties but nice pointy ones.”
Stranahan couldn’t decide whether it was Freddie or the music that was aggravating his headache. “The thin one-was she wearing blue jeans?”
Freddie said he didn’t remember.
“Did they say anything?”
“Nope, not a word.”
“Did he have a gun?”
Freddie laughed again. “Man, he doesn’t need a gun. He has that whirly thing on his arm.” Freddie told Stranahan what the thing was and how the man known as Chemo would use it.
“You’re kidding.”
“Like hell,” said Freddie. “Guy was the best goddamn bouncer I ever had.”
Stranahan handed the club owner a fifty-dollar bill and the phone number of the bait shop at the marina. “This is in case he comes back. You call me before you call the cops.”
Freddie pocketed the money. Reflectively he said: “Freak like that with two broads, man, it just proves there’s no God.”
“We’ll see,” said Stranahan.
28
Chemo’s first instinct was to haul ass with the doctor’s cash, which was more than he would see in a couple of Amish lifetimes. Forget about the Stranahan hit, just blow town. Maggie Gonzalez told him, don’t be such a small-timer, remember what we’ve got here: A surgeon on the hook. A money machine, for God’s sake. Maggie assured him that a million, even two million, was do-able. There wasn’t anything that Rudy Graveline wouldn’t give to save his medical license.
Goosing the Bonneville along Biscayne Boulevard, Chemo said, “What I’ve got now, I could get my face patched and still have enough for a year in Barbados. Maybe even get some real hair-those plug deals they stick in your scalp. I read where that’s what they did to Elton John.”
“Sure,” Maggie said. “I know some doctors who do hair.” She was trying to play Chemo the way she played all her men, but it wasn’t easy. Beyond his desire for a clear complexion, she had yet to discover what motivated him. While Chemo appreciated money, he hardly displayed the proper lust for it. As for sex, he expressed no interest whatsoever. Maggie chose to believe that he was deterred by her bruises and bandages; once the facelift had healed, her powers of seduction would return.
Then the only obstacle would be a logistical one: What would you do with the Weed Whacker under the sheets?
As Chemo pulled up to the Holiday Inn at 125th Street, Maggie said, “If it would make you feel better, we could move to a nicer hotel.”
“What would make me feel better,” Chemo said, “is for you to give me the keys to the suitcase.” He turned off the ignition and held out his right hand.
Maggie said, “You think I’m dumb enough to try and rip you off?”
“Yes,” said Chemo, reaching for her purse. “Plenty dumb enough.”
Christina Marks heard the door open and prayed it was the maid. It wasn’t.
The lights came on and Chemo loomed incuriously over the bed. He checked the knots at Christina’s wrists and ankles, while Maggie stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
After Chemo removed the towel from her mouth, Christina said, “What’s the matter with her?”
“She thinks I don’t trust her. She’s right.”
“For what it’s worth,” Christina said, “she already conned my boss out of a bundle.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Chemo sat on the corner of the bed, counting the cash that he had taken from Dr. Rudy Graveline’s pockets. Counting wasn’t easy with only one hand. Christina watched inquisitively. After he was finished, Chemo put five thousand in the suitcase with the rest of the haul; forty-two hundred went down the heels of his boots. He slid the suitcase under the bed.
“How original,” Christina said.
“Shut up.”
“Could you untie me, please? I have to pee.”
“J esus H. Christ.”
“You want me to wet the bed?” she said. “Ruin all your cash?”
Chemo got Maggie out of the bathroom and made her help undo the knots. They had bound Christina to the bed frame with nylon clothesline. Once freed, she rubbed her wrists and sat up stiffly.
“ Go doyourbusiness,” Chemo said. Then, toMaggie: “Stay with her.”
Christina said, “I can’t pee with somebody watching.”
“What?”
“She’s right,” Maggie said. “I’m the same way. I’ll just wait outside the door.”
“No, do what I told you,” Chemo said.
“There’s no window in there,” Christina said. “What’m I going to do, escape down the toilet?”
When she came out of the bathroom, Chemo was standing by the door. He led her back to the bed, made her lie down, then tied her again-another tedious chore, one-handed.
“No gag this time,” Christina requested. “I promise not to scream.”
“But you’ll talk,” said Chemo. “That’s even worse.”
Since the morning he had kidnapped her from the hotel on Key Bjscayne, Chemo had said practically nothing to Christina Marks. Nor had he menaced or abused her in any sense-it was as if he knew that the mere sight of him, close up, was daunting enough. Christina had spied the butt of a revolver in Chemo’s baggy pants pocket, but he had never pulled it; this was a big improvement over the two previous encounters, when he had nearly shot her.
She said, “I just want to know why you’re doing this, what exactly you want.”
He acted as if he never heard her. Maggie handed Christina a small cup of Pepsi.
“Don’t let her drink too much,” Chemo cautioned. “She’ll be going to the head all night.”
He turned on the television set and grimaced: pro basketball-the Lakers and the Pistons. Chemo hated basketball. At six foot nine, he had spent his entire adulthood explaining to rude strangers that no, he didn’t play pro basketball. Once a myopic Celtics fan had mistaken him for Kevin McHale and demanded an autograph; Chemo had savagely bitten the man on the shoulder, like a horse.
He began switching channels until he found an old Miami Vice. He turned up the volume and scooted his chair closer to the tube. He envied Don Johnson’s three-day stubble; it looked rugged and manly. Chemo himself had not shaved, for obvious reasons, since the electrolysis accident.
He turned to Maggie and asked, “Can they do hair plugs on your chin, too?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she said, though in fact she had never heard of such a procedure.
Pinned to the bed like a butterfly, Christina said, “Before long, somebody’s going to be looking for me.”
Chemo snorted. “That’s the general idea.” Didn’t these women ever shut up? Didn’t they appreciate his potential for violence?
Maggie sat next to Christina and said, “We need to get a message to your boyfriend.”
“Who-Stranahan? He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Still, I doubt if he wants to see you get hurt.”
Christina appraised herself-strapped to a bed, squirming in her underwear-and imagined what Reynaldo Flemm would say if he came crashing through the door. For once she’d be happy to see the stupid sonofabitch, but she knew there was no possibility of such a rescue. If Mick couldn’t find her, Ray didn’t have a prayer.