Strip Tease (31 page)

At noon the TV news reported the discovery of two bodies inside the wreck of the Princess Pia. Captain Abe Cochran refused to talk with reporters, and emphasized his reluctance by hoisting a scuba tank to bludgeon a Channel 7 cameraman. Kate Esposito’s boyfriend was more voluble. In a live dockside interview, he graphically recounted Kate’s discovery of the dead lawyer in the new Lincoln. Sgt. Al Garcia, who had a television in his office, immediately phoned a friend at the Broward Medical Examiner’s Office and asked permission to sit in on the autopsy. The doctor said sure—there wouldn’t be much of a crowd, considering the unpleasantly advanced condition of the deceased.

Garcia, who stopped first at Mordecai’s bank, was the last to arrive at the coroner’s office in Hollywood. The luckless contingent assigned to the postmortem included two forensic pathologists, three Broward sheriff’s detectives and a pair of first-year medical students from the University of Miami. The Florida Bar had declined to send a representative.

Before entering the autopsy room, Garcia stubbed out his cigar and sprinkled the traditional Old Spice cologne inside his disposable surgical mask. The body bag containing Mordecai was the first to be unzipped, and the crabs had been thorough. The skull was practically picked clean, making it easier for pathologists to track the three small-caliber bullet holes. The Broward detectives made notes, and pointed here and there with yellow No. 2 pencils. No one glanced up when the nauseated medical students bolted out the door.

The doctors labored to cut away the dead lawyer’s sodden pinstriped suit. Garcia edged up to the table and asked if he could check the pockets. The doctors shrugged and kept cutting.

Garcia held his breath while he pretended to search Mordecai’s suit. One of the Broward detectives grumpily asked what the hell he was looking for.

“This,” said Al Garcia. He held up a small key. Malcolm J. Moldowsky missed the noon news on TV because he was having lunch with two jittery state senators and an overconfident New York bond underwriter. Moldy also missed the six o’clock news; this time he was in the bathroom, grooming himself for an important dinner with the governor. Lately the state of Florida had been pestering operators of phosphate mines about dumping their radioactive sludge into the public groundwater. The phosphate industry regarded as subversive the idea of cleansing its own waste and burying it safely. Malcolm Moldowsky had been hired at a six-figure fee to plead the cause with his old pal, the governor, so that the regulatory climate at the mines might return to normal.

Moldy always dressed by meticulous routine, beginning with his socks. Then came the underwear, shirt, cuff links, necktie, pants and finally the shoes. It was not uncommon for him to spend twenty minutes working a Windsor knot to perfection, and it was at this critical stage that someone knocked on the front door. Moldowsky was irritated, and puzzled, by the interruption; the guard in the lobby was supposed to buzz when a visitor arrived. Moldy strode barelegged to the door, where he was met by a stocky Cuban with a thick mustache, a damp cigar and a cellular phone under one arm.

“Yes?” Moldowsky made it a demand. Al Garcia flashed his badge and strolled in. He grinned at the portrait of John Mitchell. “Either you got a great sense of humor,” he said to Moldy, “or you’re one of the sickest fuckers I ever met.”

Moldowsky said, “I didn’t catch the name.” Garcia told him.

Moldy felt himself pucker. “And you’re with?”

“Metro homicide.”

“Is there trouble in the building?”

“I’m sure there is,” Garcia said, “but that’s not why I’m here. How about putting on some pants?”

Malcolm J. Moldowsky nodded coldly, disappeared into the bedroom and robotically finished dressing. He came out brushing the lint from his wool-blend jacket. His mind swarmed with a hundred possibilities, none of them good. He had gambled too recklessly, leaning on the county commissioner; putting the heat on Sgt. Al Garcia had backfired.

Moldowsky said, “I’m meeting the governor for dinner, so I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Me, too,” said Garcia. “I’m going bowling with Ivana Trump.”

The detective’s mocking stare was too much. Moldy found a chair. He told himself to shut up, be careful, pay attention! Garcia said, “You know a lawyer named Mordecai?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He got murdered. Hey, I know what you’re thinking and you might be right. Maybe it was a public service. Maybe we should give the killer a medal. A dead lawyer is a dead lawyer, right?”

Moldowsky said nothing. His throat felt like he’d been swallowing razor blades.

“Without going into gory details,” Garcia said, “here’s the scenario. In the dead lawyer’s pocket they find a key to a safe-deposit box up in Lauderdale. And in the safe box they find a Rolodex card with your name and phone number—”

“That’s impossible,” said Moldowsky, thinking: You sneaky prick. “Sergeant, I never met this man.”

“I think you’re lying, Malcolm, but that’s for another day. Don’t you want to hear what else they found in the bank box?”

“It doesn’t concern me.” Moldy didn’t recognize his own voice.

“They found a Kodak slide.” Al Garcia paused to measure Moldowsky’s reaction, a flurry of blinks. Garcia said, “The picture was taken at a nude dance club. Features a certain well-known congressman.”

Moldowsky stoically pretended to know nothing about it. He was afraid to look in the wall mirror; he suspected that his upper lip was moist and curling.

Garcia took out a notebook and uncapped a Bic pen. “This dead lawyer, you sure he didn’t try to blackmail you? He and a woman named Joyce Mizner.”

Moldy stood up and shot his cuffs. “Sergeant, I’m running very late. Come by the office tomorrow.”

The detective, fishing merrily, cast out a name that Erin had picked up from the congressman: “You know a guy named Erb Crandall?”

“Of course,” Moldowsky said. His facial muscles were cramping, from trying to appear calm.

“Where do you know him from?” the detective asked.

“From politics. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“You bet.” Garcia slapped the notebook shut and crammed it crookedly into his coat. He took out a piece of paper and ran his finger down a column of numbers. Then he picked up his cellular phone and dialed.

The telephone on Malcolm Moldowsky’s desk began to ring. He stared at it rigidly, hatefully.

Al Garcia said, “Answer it.”

Moldy didn’t move. “I’m not fond of games.”

The phone kept ringing.

“It’s for you,” Garcia said. “What’s your point?”

Garcia turned the cellular off. Moldowsky’s phone fell silent.

Garcia smiled; he felt like Columbo. “You got a non-pub number,” he said.

“Of course I do,” said Moldy. “But you’re a police officer. All you need to do is call Southern Bell.”

“That’s not how I got it.” Garcia showed the paper to Moldowsky. It was a copy of the itemized bill from the Holiday Inn in Missoula, where the killers had stayed after they dumped the late Jerry Killian into the Clark Fork River.

Garcia said, “Somebody in Room 212 called here that night. Talked for quite a while.”

“I recall no such conversation.” Moldy’s cheeks were on fire. He had assumed the Jamaicans had dialed on a credit card, not direct from the room. Direct!

“Maybe you want to contact your lawyer,” Garcia said.

Moldowsky laughed harshly and said don’t be ridiculous.

“Your choice,” said the detective. “One more question, chico. Where can I find David Dilbeck tonight?”

Moldowsky said he had no idea. “Really? I’m told he doesn’t wipe his ass without your permission.”

Moldy’s composure finally shattered. He bellowed and stomped around the apartment and pounded on the credenza and vowed that Al Garcia would be writing parking tickets for the rest of his miserable career.

“So,” Garcia said, “you’re a man of some influence.”

“Goddamn right.”

“And I’ve insulted you?”

“Worse than that, Sergeant.”

“Then please accept my sincere apology.” Garcia rose. “I’ll find the congressman on my own.”

He straightened Moldowsky’s necktie and told him he looked like a million bucks. “But that cologne of yours could gag a maggot,” he said. “Personally, I go for the domestic stuff.”

The moment the detective was gone, Malcolm Moldowsky lurched to the desk and seized the phone—the tool of all his genius, the instrument of his betrayal. He was comforted by its feel, the familiar way it fit in his palm, but he was uncertain of his next play. Whom could he call to fix this terrible trouble? Who would have the power to cover it up?

Nobody, Moldy decided gravely. The lawyer’s body had been found, and so had the dreaded photograph from the Eager Beaver. The bank box had been opened, emptied, then opened again and salted with evidence—the Rolodex card was a cute touch. At least this prick Garcia had a sense of irony…

Moldowsky’s gaze fell on the portrait of the great one, John Newton Mitchell—the hooded eyes, the jowly arrogant smirk. What would he do, the canny old toad? Stonewall the bastards. Naturally. Admit nothing, deny everything. It would have worked, too. Watergate would have dried up and blown away like a chicken turd, if only… if only Nixon, that paranoid gnome, had listened.

Sweet Jesus, thought Moldowsky. I’ve got to find David before that goddamn Cuban does.

He dialed the congressman’s private line. It rang twice before the machine picked up. Moldy left a curt message but gave no instructions, as it would only confuse David Dilbeck. Next Moldy tried to locate Erb Crandall in Atlantic City, but none of the big hotels showed him on the register. Either Erb was staying in a dive, or lying about his destination.

Moldowsky felt a cold, crushing weight on his heart. He hung up the telephone and groped for his car keys.

When was Dilbeck meeting the stripper? Was tonight the night?

“Sorry about the other night,” Erin said. “Darrell is Darrell. It’s a hopeless situation.”

Monique Sr. liked the blouse. She buttoned it over a Day-Glo dance bra. “Oh, Erin, it’s beautiful.”

“That’s not for work. That’s for somebody special.”

“Special? I wish.”

She twirled in front of the mirror, first one way, then another. “Guess who’s ringside at the pit? Garrick Utley.”

Erin said, “You can’t wrestle. Not with your hand cut up.”

“I’m wearing pink evening gloves till it’s healed. Mr. Orly says I look like Mamie Van Doren.” Monique Sr. told Erin about Urbana Sprawl’s dispiriting encounter with the Ling brothers.

Erin said, “Pitiful. I always heard they were gropers.” There was more unsettling gossip from the dressing room. Once more, Orly surreptitiously had lowered the thermostat to sixty-eight degrees, to promote nipple erections on stage. Also, the multi-wigged Sabrina had been offered three thousand dollars to make a porn film on South Beach. “She’s gonna do it,” Monique Sr. said.

“Where is she?”

“The cage.” Monique Sr. took off the blouse and put it on a hanger. “You’re too dressed,” she said to Erin. “I’ll go out and tell her you’re here.”

Sabrina was her usual sweet-tempered self. She felt a kinship with Erin because both of them had smallish breasts and felonious ex-husbands.

Erin said, “Tell me about this so-called movie.”

“They said I’ve got to screw two guys in a hot tub and that’s all.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Sabrina seemed puzzled by the question. “They’re paying me,” she said.

“You need money, I’ll give it to you.”

The dancer’s eyes widened in amusement. “Three grand? Come on.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Erin, you don’t understand. I can’t take any more of this wrestling shit. The pasta is just as gross as the creamed corn.”

“But once you do porn—”

“Hey, you don’t know what it’s like up there. Drunks trying to cram cold niblets up your crack—Jesus, you ought to try it some time.” It was one of the few times Erin had seen Sabrina angry.

“I’ll talk to Orly. We’ll put a stop to it.”

“Look, the movie can’t be worse than wrestling.”

“You ever seen one?”

Sabrina admitted that she hadn’t.

“Well, I have,” Erin said. “When I worked at the FBI, they seized a truckload of tapes at the airport. The agents had a private screening one night in the basement.”

Sabrina’s curiosity was earnest. “What’s it like? Are they really so bad?”

“You know what a cum shot is?”

Sabrina said she did not. Erin explained.

“Yukky.” Sabrina reddened. “The director didn’t tell me.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t.”

“Let me think about this.”

“Take your time,” Erin said.

Sabrina freshened her lipstick and returned to the lounge. Urbana Sprawl came to the dressing room and showed Erin her broken fingernails. She said, “Men are the scum of the earth.”

“As a general rule,” Erin agreed.

“I think you like that Cuban cop.”

“He’s solidly married.”

“Another heartbreaker.”

“His wife’s taking care of my daughter,” Erin said. “She’s terrific, too.”

“And here you sit on a Saturday night.”

“Oh, I’ve got big plans,” Erin said. “Tonight I dance for the congressman.”

“Mercy,” said Urbana. “Just answer me why.”

Erin yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “Because it’s my civic duty.”

Rita patiently cleansed her brother’s wound.

“I can’t do much with this fracture,” she declared.

“Don’t even try.”

“What’s the goo on your shirt?”

“Mozzarella,” Darrell Grant said. “Don’t ask.”

Rita created a splint for his broken left arm. She used an Ace bandage, hurricane tape and Alberto Alonso’s nine-iron. The blade of the golf club stuck out the same end as Darrell Grant’s fingers.

“All set,” Rita told him, biting off the last piece of tape. “Now get a move on before Alberto comes home.”

Darrell’s skin was the color of oatmeal, and his breathing was rapid. “I could use some morphine,” he said.

“We don’t have no morphine. How’s about Nuprin?”

“Lord Christ.”

“They say it’s better than Tylenols.”

“Rita, I swear to God—”

“All right, how’s about this? I got some special pills for Lupa. The vet gave me a bottle for when she had the puppies.”

Darrell Grant looked hopeful. “Dog morphine?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

She found the bottle and tried to decipher the name of the drug. Neither she nor her brother had heard of it.

“It says two capsules every six hours.”

“That’s if you’re a fucking poodle,” Darrell said. “Gimme four and a cold Busch.”

Afterward he vomited for twenty-five minutes. Rita kept daubing his chin and telling him to hurry—Alberto was on the way home from the nuclear plant. Darrell said he was in no shape to travel. Rita assisted him down the front steps and showed him where to hide, in the crawl space under the mobile home.

“Where’d you park the Pontiac?” she asked. “In case Mrs. Gomez puts her glasses on.”

“Down behind the Circle K.” Darrell Grant shimmied beneath the doublewide. He dragged the splinted arm like a chunk of lumber; the blade of the nine-iron made a groove in the dirt.

Rita said, “I’ll bring a blanket.”

“What about the damn wolves?”

“Don’t you worry. They den on the lee side, strictly.”

“Rita, I can’t stay down here!”

A car rolled into the driveway. Rita put her fingers to her lips, then she was gone.

Darrell Grant heard Alberto Alonso’s voice, the crunch of gravel under his work boots, the screen door slamming…

Trapped! Darrell thought. He turned his head slowly, left then right, to assess conditions in the bunker. He wondered about the chances of Rita’s trailer falling off the foundation and crushing him like a bug. Unlikely, he decided; the thing was practically brand-new, replacing the one that Rita and Alberto had lost to the hurricane. Darrell Grant pressed his good arm against the aluminum—it seemed as sturdy as a mobile home could be. Yet he felt edgy in his underground refuge. The air was as cool as a tomb and smelled sharply of rodents. Still, it was better than spending another night in a dumpster behind the Pizza Hut.

The pain in his mangled arm was piercing and unremittant; chills wracked his other limbs. His whole life, Rita always told him how smart and handsome and fortunate he was. “You can do anything you want in this world,” she’d say. “You got the looks and the vocabulary.” In retrospect, Darrell Grant realized that marrying Erin had been the high point, the main window of opportunity. If ever he was going to turn things around, she was his big chance. Hell, he’d struggled to please her, too. He’d tried the conventional life: sobriety, monogamy, a day job, the whole ball of wax. It simply wasn’t meant to be. He was chronically ill-suited for the responsibilities that come with lawful behavior. Erin didn’t even try to understand. When the marriage broke up, Rita was disappointed. Darrell explained: “I need a girl that’s more of a short-range thinker. Like myself.”

Now, in the short range, Darrell Grant focused on a pair of problems: stopping the flaming agony in his arm, and snatching Angie away from his ex-wife.

After supper, Rita came out and peeked under the trailer. She was ready for an outing with the wolf-dogs—catcher’s mask, logger’s mitts, the frayed housedress. Darrell noticed that she’d added plastic shin guards to the uniform.

“I brought some fried chicken,” Rita said. “Extra crispy.”

She placed a cold drumstick in his mouth. Darrell tore off a huge bite and spit the bone. He said, “Is it Mrs. Gomez that’s got the cancer?”

“No, her husband. He passed in August.”

“I bet she’s still got his pills.”

“Darrell, no!”

“In the bathroom cabinet, I’ll bet.” He lifted his head. “Rita, I’m damn near crazy from the pain. Please?”

“You already stole the poor woman’s car.”

“But her husband’s croaked, right? So what’s the sense of letting good medicine go to waste. Tell me, Rita.”

“I dunno what all to look for.”

“Demerol, Dilaudids, codeine—shit, bring me everything with the old man’s name on it.”

“But then you gotta go,” Rita persisted, “before the damn cops come by again.”

“That’s a promise,” said Darrell Grant.

There was something else he needed, but he couldn’t ask his sister because she’d never agree. Never in a month of Sundays.

But that’s all right, Darrell thought, because I know where it is. I know exactly where Alberto keeps it—the same place as every other macho meathead in Miami.

In the glove box of his car. Fully loaded.

Canceling the dinner engagement was easy. In fact, a less distracted Malcolm J. Moldowsky would have noticed the edge of relief in the governor’s voice. Stomach problems? he’d said. That’s too bad, Malcolm. Give me a ring when you’re feeling better. When he hung up, the governor had turned to an aide and said: “Let’s pray it’s a tumor.”

As he drove toward the towers of Turnberry Isle, Moldowsky’s mind was preoccupied with thoughts contrived to stave off panic. The cop had nothing, really, but a Kodak slide and a motel bill.

The phone call from Missoula could be explained. Moldy would claim he had houseguests that night. Lots of long distance calls in and out. It wouldn’t be difficult to find someone who would say (for a price): Yes, come to think of it, so-and-so’s boyfriend’s foster uncle called from Montana. Drunk as a skunk, yakking his fool head off… what was his name again?!

The photograph from the tittie bar was something else.

Clearly, that goddamn Garcia knew the story behind it. Malcolm Moldowsky gripped the steering wheel ferociously, zigzagging through the traffic. A ghastly scene played over and over in his head…

The congressman, wearing only cowboy boots and boxer shorts, downcast and bleary on the bow of the yacht.

The Cuban cop, puffing maliciously on his cigar, circling like a starved panther, waving the Kodak slide, firing brutal questions faster than David Lane Dilbeck could possibly invent credible answers.

Dilbeck—tremulous, wilting, caving in. Yes, Sergeant, that’s me in the picture. Me with the champagne bottle. Please understand, I’m not well. I need help controlling my animal urges. Ask the lady, go ahead. I never meant to harm a soul…

Moldy drove faster. For consolation he clutched at the fact that Dilbeck had no knowledge of what had happened to the blackmailers, Killian and the lawyer. The congressman didn’t know what drastic steps had been taken to shield him from scandal. This prick Garcia could interrogate him all day long and come up empty. There were many crimes to which a badgered David Dilbeck might legitimately confess, but murder wasn’t one of them.

Traffic came to a stop at the Golden Glades cloverleaf, where a truck hauling limerock had jackknifed on a ramp. Moldowsky cursed, snarled, raked his polished fingernails on the dashboard. He couldn’t understand Garcia’s interest in a drowned fisherman and a murdered lawyer. The cases belonged in Broward County, not Dade. What did he want? What was he after? The way the crazy bastard had come at him, with no pretense of respect or civility. Taunting him, fucking with him—like it was personal.

The cars inched along in maddening spurts. As therapy, Moldowsky jammed both fists on the horn. In the station wagon ahead of him, a frizzy-haired young woman flipped him the finger. The man on the passenger side held a MAC-10 out the window as a hint for Moldy to be patient and shut the fuck up.

For diversion Moldowsky tried the radio, and found a call-in program where the guest happened to be Eloy Flickman, Dilbeck’s Republican opponent in the congressional race. Moldy was soothed by what he heard. Flickman now was advocating mandatory tubal ligations for all single mothers applying for food stamps. To another caller, Flickman submitted that Cuba’s nascent tourist industry was luring too many European visitors away from Miami, and that only a direct nuclear strike on Havana would remove the burgeoning economic threat. Moldy thought: Wonderful! The man’s a certifiable loon. Dilbeck’s a lock to win reelection, as long as nothing breaks loose in the headlines.

The traffic jam slowly started to unclog. Malcolm Moldowsky switched to a classical music station, and tried to relax. Tonight’s mission was uncomplicated: remove the congressman from the Rojos’ yacht, and far away from all naked women.

If the detective got there first, well… Maybe a bribe was in order. Maybe that’s all Garcia wanted.

Moldy hoped so; it would make life so much easier.

When darkness fell, Darrell Grant snatched the gun from Alberto’s car and crawled back under the mobile home. Later Rita showed up with three prescription bottles belonging to the late Rogelio Gomez. Darrell Grant poured the pills into the palm of his good hand, and ate three of everything. An hour later, the whole world was a blur, but Darrell felt marvelous. The pain in his arm was gone, along with much of his short-term memory. Rita had to remind him where he’d hidden the stolen Pontiac.