Skinny Dip

by Carl Hiaasen

  “That’s a park ranger,” Joey whispered.

  They watched the truck make a slow pass through the marina area. When it was gone, Tool said, “Where’s that damn canoe? This is takin’ way too long.”

  “Well, the two boys have lots to talk about.”

  Tool patted the front pockets of his overalls. “Damn,” he said. “My cell phone. Be right back.”

  He stomped down the docks and disappeared inside a dark houseboat. When he returned, he was swearing at the portable phone in his hand.

  “I can’t get no signal down here,” he complained.

  “Who’re you calling?” Joey asked.

  “None a your bidness.”

  “Who’s paying you, anyway? Not Chaz Perrone, I know.”

  Tool snatched the front of her jersey and yanked her face close to his. “Stop with the goddamn questions, y’hear?”

  His breath smelled oniony and a sickly damp heat rose from his skin. “I don’t feel right,” he said.

  “Maybe it’s the medicine. How about I grab you a Coke?”

  “How ’bout if you shut up?”

  “Okeydoke,” Joey said.

  Tool sat on the fender of the car, which sagged under his heft. For ten minutes he poked angrily at the keypad of his cell phone while Joey leaned against a piling and watched a school of electric-blue baitfish race in and out of the shadows. She thought of the little canoe somewhere out in the darkness and wondered if Mick was sticking to the script, or if he’d blown a fuse and done something unforgettable to her husband.

  “Fuck it. I give up,” Tool said at last, shoving the phone into his pocket.

  “May I speak now?” Joey asked archly.

  “Sing and dance if you want.”

  “You ever been married?”

  “Yeah. Common-law,” said Tool. “Six years. No, seven.”

  “What happened?”

  “She went home to Valdosta for a funeral and never come back. I heard later she run off with the boy from the undertaker’s.”

  Joey said, “Did you know that Mr. Perrone pushed his wife off an ocean liner?”

  “I figgered it must be somethin’ like that.”

  “Could you imagine ever doing that to somebody?”

  “All depends,” Tool said. “I hurt my share a people, but never no women unless they lit after me first. Maybe she started it, his old lady. Maybe the guy was self-defendin’ hisself.”

  “Does he ever talk about her?”

  “Not hardly. When I ast him, he said she was pretty and smart and all. But he didn’t say what happened, only that she’s dead. The rest ain’t none a my bidness.”

  “He didn’t tell you why he did it?”

  “You don’t lissen worth a damn, know that?” Tool hoisted himself off the fender, as if he were going to grab her again.

  She took a step backward. Pretty and smart and all. That’s what Chaz was saying about her now that she was gone. “I wonder if he loved her,” she said quietly.

  It made Tool laugh. “You say ‘love’?”

  “The whole thing bothers me, I can’t help it.” Joey sensed that Tool was telling the truth about how little he knew.

  “What I seen,” he said, “the man loves hisself more’n anything on this earth. He sure ain’t one to cry and mope around and such.”

  Wait until Chaz hears what Mick Stranahan has to say, Joey thought, then you’ll see some moping.

  She said, “You think he did it, too. I can tell you do.”

  “Makes no difference in my pay either way.”

  “Your line of work, you can probably look once in somebody’s eyes and know right off if they’re lying. Mr. Perrone didn’t fool you for a second, I bet.”

  Tool seemed immune to female flattery, a rare trait among men, in Joey’s experience. She tried a different approach.

  “How long have you been a bodyguard?”

  “This here’s my first crack at it.”

  “No wonder you’re jumpy,” Joey said. “Don’t worry, Chaz will get back safe and sound, as long as he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

  “He’s capable,” said Tool. “What I’m trying to figger out is how your boyfriend fits into the program, how he come to—whatchacallit?—mastermine the blackmail.”

  “He was in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

  “Is he the same one broke into my man’s house last night? ’Cause he got some payback due if it is. Middle-aged guy? Real tan? Looked sorta like him in the canoe, but I couldn’t see so good from that houseboat. Damn windows all grimed up with salt.”

  “He’s the one,” Joey said. Tool would find out anyway as soon as Mick returned with Chaz.

  “He’s old enough to be your pa, ain’t he?”

  “Not hardly,” she said defensively.

  “Well, he’s a strong sumbitch, I’ll give him that. He hurt me good.” Tool probed thoughtfully at his Adam’s apple.

  “He gets around all right for a geezer,” Joey agreed. “Say, what was your wife’s name?”

  “Jean. Jeannie Suzanne is what we callt her.”

  “You miss her?” Joey asked.

  “Not no more. Time heals is what they say.”

  “Do you think Mr. Perrone misses his wife?”

  Tool said, “You tell me. He took all her pitchers down—every pitcher in the house, gone.”

  “But he told you she was pretty.”

  “That’s what he said, but she coulda been a hog snapper for all I know.” Tool shrugged. “I don’t get paid to figger this shit out.”

  Joey said, “I’ve got to be going now. Thanks for the chat.”

  Tool seemed disappointed. “You can’t hang around for when they come back?”

  She shook her head. “Better not. I’ve got my orders.”

  “Me, too,” Tool said with weary frustration.

  It was by far the worst night of Charles Perrone’s life.

  “You done?” the blackmailer asked.

  Chaz wiped off his lips and spit hard over the side, trying to purge the pukey taste from his mouth. He had no clue how the man had found out about Red Hammernut. It was the second piece of disastrous news that Chaz received in the canoe, the first being that the blackmailer had in fact witnessed Joey’s murder.

  “You’re surprised that I’ve done my homework,” the man said. “So was Ricca.”

  He knows about Ricca, too? Chaz thought miserably. What a nightmare.

  He boxed at his head, trying to vanquish the unbearable chorus of mosquitoes. The damn things seemed to have drilled through his eardrums into the meat of his brain. Other disturbing sounds rose from the darkness of the bay; loud violent splashes, piercing cries of birds.

  This is hell, Chaz told himself. That’s where I am.

  “Your buddy Hammernut owns some serious farmland south of the big lake,” the man said. “I’m guessing you fake the water tests to make it look clean. Saves him a fortune, too. How much is he paying you? Besides the new Hummer, I mean.”

  Chaz turned away, anticipating another blast from the flashlight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted hoarsely.

  “Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about. So do you.”

  Chaz couldn’t make out the blackmailer’s expression, but the white crescent of a smile was visible.

  “And here’s another bulletin for you, Chazzie boy: Karl Rolvaag isn’t in on this deal. I’ve never met the guy in my life, and you’d better pray that I don’t.”

  Chaz fought back a fresh impulse to gag. He lowered his head and waited for the sensation to pass.

  “What about the fake will?” he mumbled to his kneecaps.

  “What will?” the man said.

  “Oh Jesus.”

  “If you barf in this canoe, you’re swimming home.”

  Chaz said, “I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute.”

  It dawned on him that he wouldn’t even know which way to swim. The sky had cleared but the glittering cons
tellations offered no navigational guidance, Dr. Charles Perrone being as ignorant of astronomy as he was of the terrestrial sciences.

  “Whose will?” the blackmailer asked again. “Your wife’s?”

  “Never mind.”

  So, it was real, Chaz thought, the document that Rolvaag had shown him. Thirteen million dollars with my name on it, and all I’ve got to do is avoid Death Row.

  “Let’s say I scrape up the money,” he said.

  “Yes, let’s say.” The blackmailer laughed. “Bring it in a suitcase. Now for the questions.”

  “Oh, come on,” Chaz said.

  “I’ve only got two. First, why did you marry her?”

  Swell, thought Chaz. I’m being shaken down by Montel Williams.

  “Because I really liked her,” he said impatiently. “She was fun and good-looking and sharp. I thought I was ready to settle down.”

  Without warning, the blackmailer clobbered him with the paddle, the flat side landing squarely on the crown of Chaz’s head. He saw it coming even in the dimness, an arcing downward blur. On impact he let out a moan and pitched forward. The canoe rocked but did not flip.

  “All you wanted,” the man said, “was a hot girl on your arm, Chazzie. A girl your buddies would notice and talk about—the female equivalent of a new Rolex. You weren’t getting married, you were accessorizing.”

  Chaz slowly pushed himself up from the bottom of the canoe and repositioned on his knees. He touched his scalp and felt a rising knot. Meanwhile the blackmailer had resumed paddling, as if nothing had happened. He looked tan and solidly built, but he was so much older that Chaz had been completely surprised by the sudden blow. It was the sort of thing a young hothead might do.

  “And the fact she was rich didn’t hurt, did it?” the man said.

  “I never asked for a dime,” Chaz protested.

  “Which leads to my second question: Why’d you throw her into the ocean?”

  Chaz swallowed in a way that sounded like a dying bullfrog. He had no intention of admitting the crime.

  “I guess you want to spend the night out here,” the blackmailer said, “alone.”

  “Anything happens to me, you don’t get paid.”

  The man’s laughter made Chaz shudder. “Try to understand, junior, it’s not just the money. I’m pissed.”

  “But you didn’t even know her!”

  “Funny, though, I feel like I do.” Calmly the man swung the paddle out of the water and batted Chaz in the face; not hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough to crimp his nose.

  “Goddamn!” Chaz cried, a warm trickle running down his fingers.

  The blackmailer said, “As you can tell, I’m taking this whole thing very personally. Tell me why you did it and I’ll row you back to the docks.”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Chazzie, you know that I know exactly what happened. All I’m asking you is why.”

  The guy had a point. He already knew everything, and Chaz wasn’t keen on getting smacked again.

  “What if you’re wearing a wire?” Chaz was pinching his nostrils, trying to stanch the bleeding. Now he sounded like a cartoon duck.

  Again the blackmailer’s grin gleamed in the starlight. “You’re priceless,” he said, peeling off his T-shirt. Then he held the flashlight at arm’s length and aimed it back toward his bare chest, which was quickly darkening with mosquitoes.

  “See? No hidden microphones,” he said to Chaz. “Feel better now?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then answer the question, please.”

  “I thought Joey had busted me,” Chaz heard himself say. “I thought she’d figured out the water scam.”

  “And for that you heaved her overboard? In the middle of the fucking Gulf Stream?”

  “You don’t understand,” Chaz said. “If she ever blew the whistle on me and Mr. Hammernut . . . you can’t possibly understand the implications. The thing is, I was out of options. If only she . . .”

  “What, Chaz?”

  If only she’d given me a reason not to do it, Chaz thought. Like showing me the new will.

  “Never mind,” he said.

  The blackmailer began paddling with more purpose, and Chaz marveled at how briskly they were gliding across the water. Being averse to exercise, he’d never been a fan of canoes; a ski boat powered by a two-hundred-horse Mercury was Chaz’s idea of a dream ride.

  “How’s the shnoz?” the blackmailer asked him.

  “It hurts.” Chaz’s nose had swollen to the size of a bell pepper.

  Soon they came to the long canal through which they’d entered the bay, and Chaz was immensely relieved. The blackmailer was taking him back to Flamingo.

  Suddenly the man stopped rowing and leaned back. Chaz could see the shine of his sweat and hear the ravenous buzz of insects on his face and chest. “Want some bug spray?” Chaz asked.

  The man chuckled. “No thanks.” He extended the paddle to Chaz and said, “Your turn, killer.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I’m whipped.”

  Chaz took the paddle and examined it as if it were an intricately engineered device.

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve never rowed a canoe,” the blackmailer said.

  “Of course I have.”

  Chaz tried to remember the last time—way back in grad school, on some scummy lake in North Carolina. He and another student were helping a professor trace the dissolution of muskrat feces in bottom sediment. Chaz had ended the day with oozing blisters on the palms of both hands. He couldn’t swing a golf club for a month.

  “Hurry up, Chazzie, we’re drifting back to Whitewater.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not up for this. My head’s killing me.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “But I’m still bleeding, for God’s sake.”

  “Did you ever see Deliverance?” the blackmailer said. “Remember what happened to the chubby guy?”

  Chaz Perrone started paddling.

  Twenty

  Being labeled a crook was a new experience for Karl Rolvaag, and it kept him awake much of the night. He was more intrigued than indignant, for it was impossible to feel insulted by someone like Charles Perrone. The blackmail accusation was so boggling that the detective viewed it as a critical twist in the case, a clue no less important than the fingernails in that soggy bale of weed.

  Rolvaag stood in his ritual cold shower for nearly twenty minutes, replaying in his head the odd conversation with Joey Perrone’s husband. He didn’t doubt that the man was being extorted, but by whom? And with what sort of information?

  Perrone had snidely referred to a “bogus eyewitness,” which raised in Rolvaag’s mind the tantalizing possibility of a real one. Yet such a scenario would require that the witness be nearly as venal and ice-blooded as Perrone himself; someone capable of watching a woman murdered and not trying to stop it; someone who, instead of rushing to the police, would go directly to the killer with a demand for hush money.

  Given the pestilential abundance of lowlifes in South Florida, it was surely possible that Perrone’s crime had been randomly observed by someone equally degenerate. Still, Rolvaag thought it more likely that the blackmailer wasn’t a fellow cruise passenger but, rather, some enterprising scammer who’d read about Joey Perrone’s disappearance in the newspapers. In any event, the detective was not displeased that the threat had driven Perrone into such paranoid agitation that he’d accuse a police detective of masterminding the plot. Criminals in such a ragged state of mind often made reckless mistakes, and it was Rolvaag’s hope that the remorseless widower would continue on a path of self-sabotage.

  Most tantalizing was the link between Perrone and Samuel Johnson Hammernut. Rolvaag had found nothing to substantiate Perrone’s flimsy story that the sixty-thousand-dollar Humvee had been a gift from his wife, with Hammernut acting innocently as a middleman. Rolvaag believed that the farm tycoon had intended the Hummer—and one could only imagine what else—as payola
for Chaz. It had been Rolvaag’s observation that men like Red Hammernut were not spontaneously generous, and usually demanded something valuable in return.

  What would a lazy, unscholarly biologist such as Perrone have to offer? The detective had a hunch.

  Then there was the remarkable Last Will and Testament of Joey Perrone, which had excited even the laconic Captain Gallo. If the will proved to be bogus, the forger was most likely the blackmailer. What better way to turn up the heat on Perrone than to chum up the cops with a $13 million motive for murder?

  However, if the will was genuine . . .

  The detective turned off the water and stood there, dripping and thinking. He wasn’t sure if the damn thing was legit or not. One handwriting expert said the signature looked authentic; another thought it was a fake. The trust officers in charge of Joey Perrone’s fortune had a signed will in their files, but they had balked at providing a copy in the absence of a death certificate.

  Whether or not the document delivered anonymously to Rolvaag proved genuine, he intended to do everything in his power to prevent Mr. Perrone from collecting a nickel from Mrs. Perrone’s estate. The surest way to accomplish that, in the detective’s view, was to lock Mr. Perrone away for the rest of his natural life. That mission had come to occupy Karl Rolvaag so exclusively that he had temporarily postponed the chore of boxing his belongings for the move to Minnesota.

  He toweled off and pulled on a pair of jeans. On his way to the kitchen he noticed that another sheet of paper had been slipped under his door, presumably by Mrs. Shulman or one of her operatives. The repeat intrusion was enough to make the detective consider a blocking measure, such as shag carpeting, but he’d be vacating the apartment soon enough.

  Rolvaag picked up the paper. It was a flyer featuring a color photograph of a frail-looking, rheumy-eyed dog:

  LOST!!!

  Pinchot, 11-year old male Pomeranian (neutered)

  Cataracts, diverticulitis, gout

  If found, please do not approach or attempt to handle!

  Please contact Bert or Addie Miller at Sawgrass Grove 9-L

  $250 Reward!!!

  Rolvaag was heartsick. Even though the condominium board had warned the Millers about letting their senescent pooch off the leash, the detective felt personally responsible for the fate of little Pinchot—hobbled, half-blind and easy pickings for a prowling python. Rolvaag resolved to spend the remainder of his Saturday searching the property for his escaped pets, one of which doubtlessly would be slowed by a telltale Pomeranian-sized lump. Of course the Millers would be consoled and fully compensated.