Strip Tease

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Joyce and Mordecai!” It was so twisted that Beverly almost hoped it was true. Joyce was an avaricious bitch, always angling for the big score. Maybe she’d romanced Mordecai into the swindle. No man was immune to seduction, but Mordecai (who hadn’t dated in years) was exceptionally vulnerable. Beverly imagined the two cousins entwined, and it made her shiver.

  The man from the Florida Bar said: “Joyce’s fiancé doesn’t think much of the theory but, I must tell you, stranger things have happened.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a love affair,” Beverly said. “Maybe it was a straight business deal.”

  The man from the Bar folded his hands across his chest. “What would he need her for? Mordecai alone had access to the trust account. He didn’t require an accomplice.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “In many of these cases, these sudden disappearances, the lawyer brings a woman along on the adventure. Frequently, it’s his own secretary.”

  “Well, I’m still here,” Beverly said sourly. “And he owes me two weeks’ pay.”

  “Could be worse. You could be one of those clients.”

  “Is that who called you? Was it a client?” The investigator’s arrival at the law office had surprised Beverly. The Florida Bar was not renowned for swift and aggressive pursuit of errant members.

  The man said, “We received a tip. That’s all I can say.” He gave her a business card with an 800 number in Orlando. “If you should hear from him, please encourage him to return swiftly and make restitution. The longer he’s gone, the worse it will be.”

  Beverly felt more abandoned than ever. “What do I tell everyone about the office being closed? What should I put on the door?”

  The man from the Florida Bar shut his briefcase and crisply snapped the brass locks. “We recommend ‘Death in the family.’ Most clients won’t press the issue.”

  They moved from the lounge to Orly’s office: Orly, Al García, Shad and Erin. Angela was in the dressing room with one of the fully-clothed Moniques.

  García had Orly in a sweat. “I want to know more about the phone calls.”

  “Me, too,” said Erin.

  “Some guy, I don’t know.” Orly was slurping a Dr. Pepper. “He’s asking about a certain customer—”

  “Jerry Killian.”

  “Yeah, so big deal. There was a fight on stage and this Killian is in the audience, like I give two shits. Man calls and I tell him what he wants—”

  “How’d you know Killian’s name?”

  “Credit card slips,” Orly said. “Anyway, this guy who calls, he says to keep him posted if the customer shows up again.”

  Al García said, “Why’d you agree?”

  “Becanse I got a license to consider, and this guy says he can give me problems. Says he works for a congressman. So … a few nights later, Killian shows up again. This time he’s outside, hanging around Erin’s car. You remember?”

  Shad and Erin nodded together.

  “See,” Orly continued, “I can’t have customers hassling my dancers. The guy on the phone says he’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. That’s it. End of story. I don’t hear from him anymore, until today.”

  García had a notebook in his hand, but he wasn’t writing much. “Why won’t you tell me the man’s name?”

  “Because you don’t understand. The nature of my business, I don’t need any grief. I got a liquor license to protect.”

  Erin told Orly that Jerry Killian had been murdered.

  “Shit,” Orly said, sucking air. He looked at García. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “What a sharpie you are. Now give me the damn name.”

  Orly looked cornered. “Maybe I should check with my lawyer. Maybe you should come back tomorrow.”

  García said, “If I have to come back tomorrow, I’m bringing beverage agents. You follow? We’ll board the place up, chico.”

  “Screw you.” Orly was feeling worn out and reckless.

  Shad stirred. “Mr. Orly, you better listen. This is no bullshit.”

  Al García tapped a ballpoint pen on his knee. “The deal is, Erin’s life is in danger. I’ve advised her to get out of town, but there’s a complication.”

  The new judge had forbidden Erin from taking Angela out of Florida. “As long as I’m stuck here, I might as well work,” she said, “considering I’m broke.”

  Orly’s puzzlement deepened. “Who’d want to kill you? I mean, besides your ex.”

  Someone knocked sharply on the door. Before Orly could respond, Sabrina burst in. She wore a thin sleeveless T-shirt and pink bikini bottoms. She was splattered with yellowy goop that Erin despondently recognized as creamed corn. Random kernels dotted Sabrina’s platinum wig, which she clutched in one fist.

  “I can’t do this!” she cried.

  “Later,” Orly said. “We got a meeting here.”

  “But it got up my nose—”

  “Later, I said.”

  The dancer ran out. A brief silence followed. Finally Orly said, “Erin’s the best of the bunch.”

  “So you wouldn’t want anything to happen to her,” García said.

  “No, I sure wouldn’t.”

  Erin said she was deeply touched. Orly scratched at a scab on his arm. “Plus your little girl. That’s a factor.”

  “You’re all heart,” the detective said.

  “The guy’s name is Moldowsky. And don’t ask me to spell it. Melvin or some damn thing.”

  García said, “Excellent. What did he want today?”

  Orly jerked a thumb toward Erin. “He asked about her. What kind of person she is. Has she got a drug problem. Is there a boyfriend.”

  Erin felt a bolt of fear. She’d never heard of this person.

  “Another thing,” said Orly. “He knows about the kid. Knows there’s a problem with your ex-husband. The guy, he knows lots.”

  “He mentioned Angie?” Erin’s voice cracked. She sat forward, balling her fists. “What did you say?”

  “Not a damn thing,” he said. “I swear, I told him zippo.” Erin’s glare was scalding. Orly angrily jabbed a finger in the air. “You tell her, Shad. Tell her how I handled it.”

  Shad backed up Orly’s version. “I was there when the asshole called. Mr. Orly didn’t give him shit.”

  “Okay,” Erin said, leaning back. “I’m sorry.”

  “He’s a heavy hitter,” said Orly. “He dropped a few names to get my attention. Otherwise I’d say fuck off.” His piggy eyes narrowed on García. “I lose my license and there’s hell to pay. Bottom line, there’s some serious people I answer to.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Orly. You cooperate and everything’ll turn out just beautiful.”

  “Cooperate?” Orly sprayed the word. “Sweet Christ Almighty, what more you want? I gave up the goddamn name.”

  “Yeah, you did,” García said. “If only there was a phone number to go with it.”

  Orly adopted the impatient pose of a man with better things to do. “Yeah, Moldowsky left a number. I got it here somewheres.” He pawed halfheartedly at the clutter on his desk.

  The detective said, “Excellent. I want you to call him.”

  Orly frowned. “What the hell for? I’m not callin’ nobody.”

  “Come on,” said Al García. “Let’s find that number.”

  Shad winked at Erin, as if to say: This part might be fun.

  García stayed at the club until closing time. He waited in the parking lot until Erin came out with Angie. The detective tried to make friends, but the little girl was tired and cranky. She climbed in the backseat of the Fairlane and lay down. García said it was a lousy arrangement, letting Angie stay at the club.

  Erin said, “Sorry you disapprove.” She was in no mood for a male lecture. “The other girls are terrific with her. And, no, she’s not allowed in the dance lounge to see what her bimbo mom does for a living.”

  “Easy now,” García said. “I’m not talking about the atmosphere, I’m talking about th
e child’s safety.”

  He held the door while Erin got in the car. She turned the key and revved the engine noisily. “I want her near me at all times,” she said, “as long as Darrell’s out there.”

  From the backseat: “Momma, can we go home now?”

  García lowered his voice to a whisper. “Think about it. If someone’s after you, where’s the first place they’re gonna come? Right here. Say the shit hits the fan—you want that little girl asleep in the dressing room?”

  “Fine,” Erin said. “Then you find me a kindergarten that’s open at three in the morning.” She slipped the car in gear. “Besides, what’s there to worry about? We got you and Shad to protect us.”

  Erin drove away fast, burning rubber on the corner. Very childish, she thought, but wonderful therapy. She gunned it all the way home.

  When Al García arrived at the town house, twenty minutes later, Erin and Angela were still sitting in the Fairlane. Erin’s face was taut as she stared at the front of the apartment. When the detective approached the car, he saw a small pistol on the dash. In the backseat, Angela was as still as a porcelain doll.

  García asked Erin to put the gun away. She pointed at the second-story window and said, “The bedroom light’s on.”

  “You didn’t leave it that way?”

  “No lights,” Erin said. She’d shut off everything before leaving for work. It was an old habit; the electric bills were murder.

  They watched the window for signs of a shadow. Nothing moved behind the half-drawn drapes.

  “Give me the key,” García said.

  “It’s probably open.”

  “And the gun, please.”

  Erin gave him the keys and the .32. “The safety’s on,” she said.

  “Thanks. If things break loose, lean on the horn.”

  The front door was locked. The detective opened it softly and went inside. For several interminable moments, nothing happened; it was as if Al García had been swallowed up in the darkness. Erin scanned the windows and braced for the sound of a muffled gunshot, but all she heard was Angela’s gentle breathing in the backseat. Eventually the other windows lit up, one by one, as García moved from room to room. When he reappeared at the front door, he waved for Erin to come in. The place looked untouched. The detective accompanied her and Angela through the kitchen, the living room, up the stairs to the bedrooms. Nothing seemed to be missing.

  So I made a mistake, Erin thought. I left the damn light on.

  “This is all your stuff?” García asked.

  “Angie and I travel light.” It felt strange to have the detective in her bedroom. Erin caught him smiling at the rock posters on the wall.

  She said, “Im saving for a Van Gogh.”

  “No, I like it.”

  Angela ran down the hall and returned with a crayon drawing. “I drew this myself,” she said, thrusting it at García.

  “What a pretty dog.”

  “No, that’s a wolf. Aunt Rita’s.” Angela traced the outline with a finger. “See the bushy tail? And here’s the baby wolves under the tree.”

  “Right,” said the detective. “Wolves.”

  Erin took the drawing from his hands. She said, “That’s Darrell’s side of the family. I need some aspirin.”

  The bathroom was the last place she expected to find signs of an intruder. At first she didn’t notice. She got a bottle of Advils from the medicine chest and swallowed three. Standing at the sink, looking in the mirror, Erin sensed something was out of place. She turned and saw what it was.

  “God,” she said. A prickle went down the back of her neck. García walked in. Erin told him to look at the shower curtain, which was pulled open along the length of the bathtub.

  “You didn’t leave it that way?”

  “Never,” Erin said.

  Angie squeezed between the grown-ups’ legs and said: “Because of mildew.”

  “That’s right,” said her mother. “It mildews if you leave it bunched up that way.”

  García smiled. “Every day I learn something new.”

  Erin gave Angie a glass of chocolate milk and put her to bed. Then she and the detective went through the medicine chest, the cabinets, the vanity. They found nothing missing or even disturbed, yet Erin was sure that someone had been there.

  Inside her house.

  Not Darrell Grant, either. He wouldn’t have come and gone without leaving tracks. His ego couldn’t abide an anonymous entry No, Darrell would’ve mangled something intimate and left it on display.

  Erin sat on the edge of the tub and fingered the shower curtain, as if it held the clue.

  “Weird,” García said. “Not your average burglar.”

  “I can’t afford to pack up and move again. I just can’t.”

  García leaned against the bathroom sink. He was dying for a cigar. “I wonder what he wanted,” he said.

  Erin said she was too tired to keep looking.

  “One more try,” the detective said. “I got an idea that might help. Tell me everything you do to get ready for work.”

  “Please,” said Erin.

  “I’m serious. Everybody’s got a routine when they get up in the morning. Tell me yours.”

  “I’d say the high point is flossing my teeth.”

  “Whatever. Walk me through it.”

  Erin agreed, out of pure exhaustion. “Well, first I shower, do my hair, shave my legs. Then I touch up my nails … Wait a second.” She was looking at the window sill where she kept her bath articles.

  “God, this is sick. Now I know what’s missing.” She stood up, shaking. “Angela can’t stay here,” she said, “not another single night!”

  The detective put an arm around her. “Tell me what they took.”

  “You won’t believe it,” Erin whispered. “I don’t believe it.”

  21

  The congressman lay flat on the bed. He wore a black cowboy hat, a white towel around his waist and a pair of green lizardskin boots. The surgical scar on his breastbone pulsed like a worm in the ultraviolet light.

  Erb Crandall said: “What’ve you done here?”

  “Created a mood.” David Dilbeck opened his eyes. “Did you get what I wanted?”

  “Yeah, I got it. Where’s the wife?”

  “Ethiopia, courtesy of UNICEF. Then Paris and probably Milan. Do you like the black lights?”

  “Brings back memories.”

  “Pierre found them at a head shop in the Grove. Let me see what you’ve got, Erb.”

  Crandall stepped tentatively through the purple glow. He said, “Geez, look at you.”

  Using handkerchiefs, the congressman had tied one arm and both feet to the bedposts. Above the boots, his pale shins gleamed, as if shellacked.

  “Vaseline,” Dilbeck explained. “First I warmed it in the microwave—it’s best to use the sauce setting.” Erb Crandall’s disgusted expression prompted Dilbeck to add: “This is what happens when you won’t let me go out and play.”

  “David,” Crandall said, “tell me you’ve been drinking.”

  “Not a drop, my friend.”

  So he was insane, Crandall thought; downhill from downhill. He wondered what the chairman of the Florida Democratic Party would say if he could see the senior congressman at this moment.

  Dilbeck thrust out his free arm. “Come on. I’ve been waiting all night.”

  Crandall dropped it—the thing he had stolen from the stripper’s apartment—in Dilbeck’s open palm. The congressman squirmed on the bed as he examined the illicit treasure: a pink disposable razor.

  “Now, this is the genuine article?”

  “From her very bathroom,” Crandall said, listlessly.

  Dilbeck twirled it between his fingers. With an edge of excitement, he said, “I bet she used it this morning.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I can see the little hairs!”

  “Be careful, Davey.” With any luck, the dumb shit would slice his own wrists.

 
Dilbeck’s chest rose and fell heavily. “Erb, do you like Garth Brooks?”

  “Is that who you’re supposed to be?”

  Dilbeck smiled dreamily. “My boots are full of Vaseline.”

  Well, thought Crandall, enough’s enough. He took one of the burglar tools from his pocket—a small screwdriver—and put the blade to Dilbeck’s neck. The congressman seemed surprised, but not particularly afraid.

  Crandall pressed firmly and said, “I’d be doing us both a tremendous favor.”

  “Erb, please. This is harmless sport.”

  “You’re a sick puppy.”

  Dilbeck said, “Stop that right now.”

  “This isn’t why I went into politics, David—to pimp and steal for a perverted old fuck like you. Believe it or not, I once had ideals.”

  Crandall was romanticizing; he was not a man of ideals so much as a man of instinct. He had been drawn to politics by the sweet scent of opportunity. The bitter backlash from Watergate had guaranteed a landslide for the Democrats, so that’s when Crandall invested his loyalty. The choice was not between good and evil, but between winning and losing. Occasionally Erb Crandall was compelled to question the wisdom of his allegiance, but never had it been so tested as it was now.

  “Know what?” he said to the prone and bound congressman. “Even that jizzbag Nixon wouldn’t have pulled something like this.”

  “Maybe he’d have been a better President if he had.” Dilbeck arched his silvery eyebrows. “Ever think of that?”

  Dispiritedly, Crandall put the screwdriver away.

  “That’s a good boy,” David Dilbeck said.

  “Moldy’s coming in an hour. If I killed you, there wouldn’t be time to clean up the mess.”

  Dilbeck studied the plastic razor from all angles, as if it were a rare gem. “What’s her name?”

  “Erin,” Crandall said.

  “That’s beautiful. Irish, obviously. Erin what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Come on, Erb. I won’t try to find her, I promise.”

  Crandall walked to the door. “I need a drink. By the way, you look absolutely fucking ridiculous.”

  The congressman paid no attention. “Erb, one more small favor.”

  “Let me guess. You want me to tie your other arm to the bed.”