Free Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen

removed all stolen property from the garage and took a job selling rustproofing at a Chrysler dealership. He was a new man, for about a month. One Thursday, Erin returned home from work and found Darrell in the living room, chiseling the serial numbers off a pediatric wheelchair. Confronted, he broke into a rage and slapped Erin twice across the face. The amusement ended abruptly when Erin punched him in the larynx, pushed him to the floor and whacked him in the testicles with a mop handle. It was Darrell’s first glimpse of his wife’s temper, and it made an impression. From then on he never laid a finger on her; instead, he vented his feelings by destroying things that she valued—artworks, furniture, photo albums, her favorite clothes. By the time Angela was born, the marriage was irretrievably pulverized.
    Erin didn’t torment herself with remorse. She’d gotten conned, and learned a lesson. Now it was time to concentrate on getting Angela back.

    Waiting in the car with Shad, Erin outlined the latest plan.
    “So it’s a trap,” he said.
    “Exactly.”
    “He won’t be bringing no wheelchairs for the poor.”
    “No,” said Erin, “he’ll be looking to steal some.”
    Shad spit something out the window. “And you were married to this asswipe?”
    “We all make mistakes.”
    “Don’t you hate it,” Shad said, “when love turns around and bites you like a damn rattlesnake? It happens, by God. Happens every day.”
    Erin showed him the photographs of the mangled dolls in Angie’s bedroom. “Christ almighty,” he said.
    “My daughter is the one I’m concerned about. That’s what this is all about.”
    Shad said nothing for several minutes. Then he asked Erin if she was satisfied with her lawyer. “I’m not so sure about mine,” he added. “He needs some firing up.”
    Erin said, “My lawyer’s all right. It’s the system that’s so frustrating.”
    “Tell me about it.” Shad was glad to chat with Erin about these matters; he felt they were warriors on the same battlefield. “If there’s such a thing as true justice,” he said, “you’ll get your little girl, and I’ll get rich off my dead roach.”
    “That would be nice,” Erin said quietly.
    The car was in the farthest, darkest corner of a parking lot attached to a strip shopping mall in Oakland Park. The address Erin had given Darrell Grant belonged to a bankrupt video store, located at the other end of the plaza. A few movie posters remained in the window; from the car, Erin could make out the blown-up likeness of Arnold Schwarzenegger in sunglasses.
    Shad said, “How do you know he’s coming tonight?”
    “Because I told him they ship the wheelchairs every Wednesday morning. He’ll be looking to load up on inventory.”
    “Any particular model?”
    “He favors Everest-and-Jennings,” Erin said. “Rolls and Theradynes are good, too.”
    Shad was intrigued. He’d assumed all wheelchairs were pretty much the same. “Rolls as in Royce?”
    Erin said no, it was a different company. Shad asked why her ex-husband didn’t steal cars like everybody else.
    “Because he couldn’t hotwire a goddamn toaster,” said Erin. “Cars are too complicated for Darrell Grant.”
    Shad spit out the window again. He seemed to be aiming at a particular curbstone. “You want me to—do what exactly? When he gets here, I mean.”
    Erin said, “Let’s play it by ear.”
    “I could break something. Maybe start with a finger.” Shad wiggled one of his pinkies. “Depends how serious you are.”
    “I just want to talk with the man.” Erin leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. She thought about the young bachelor beaten senseless on stage at the Eager Beaver—was he still in the hospital? She remembered the rabid expression on the face of his attacker, the wheezy primal grunts as he swung the champagne bottle.
    Erin thought: Is it me? Do I bring that out in men?
    Then here’s Orly, now Shad, offering to maim her ex-husband. A