Free Skin Tight by Carl Hiaasen Page A

club down on South Beach. I’m a greeter.” Again with the smile.
    â€œA greeter,” said Rudy. “Well, well.”
    â€œI keep out the scum,” Chemo explained.
    Rudy asked about the pay. Chemo said he got six bucks an hour, not including tips.
    â€œNot bad,” Rudy said, “but still . . .” He scribbled some figures on a pad, then took a calculator out of his desk and punched on it for a while. All very dramatic.
    Chemo stretched his neck to look. “What’s the damage?”
    â€œI figure twenty-four visits, that’s a minimum,” Rudy said. “Say we do one square inch every session.”
    â€œShit, just do it all at once.”
    â€œCan’t,” Rudy lied, “not with dermabrasion. Say twenty-four visits at two ten each, that’s—”
    â€œFive thousand and forty dollars,” Chemo muttered. “Jesus H. Christ.”
    Dr. Graveline said: “I don’t need it all at once. Give me half to start.”
    â€œJesus H. Christ.”
    Rudy put the calculator away.
    â€œI just started at the club a week ago,” Chemo said. “I gotta buy groceries.”
    Rudy came around the desk and sat down on the edge. In a fatherly tone he asked: “You have Blue Cross?”
    â€œThe fuck, I’m a fugitive, remember?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Rudy shook his head and mused. It was all so sad, that a great country like ours couldn’t provide minimal health care to all its citizens.
    â€œSo I’m screwed,” Chemo said.
    â€œNot necessarily,” Dr. Graveline rubbed his chin. “I’ve got an idea.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œIt’s a job I need done.”
    If Chemo had had eyebrows, they would have arched.
    â€œIf you could do this job,” Rudy went on, “I think we could work a deal.”
    â€œA discount?”
    â€œI don’t see why not.”
    Idly, Chemo fingered the scales on his cheeks. “What’s the job?”
    â€œI need you to kill somebody,” Rudy said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œA man that could cause me some trouble.”
    â€œWhat kind of trouble?”
    â€œCould shut down Whispering Palms. Take away my medical license. And that’s for starters.”
    Chemo ran a bloodless tongue across his lips. “Who is this man?”
    â€œHis name is Mick Stranahan.”
    â€œWhere do I find him?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” Rudy said. “He’s here in Miami somewhere.”
    Chemo said that wasn’t much of a lead. “I figure a murder is worth at least five grand,” he said.
    â€œCome on, he’s not a cop or anything. He’s just a regular guy. Three thousand, tops.” Rudy was a bear when it got down to money.
    Chemo folded his huge bony hands. “Twenty treatments, that’s my final offer.”
    Rudy worked it out in his head. “That’s forty-two hundred dollars!”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œYou sure drive a hard bargain,” Rudy said.
    Chemo grinned triumphantly. “So when can you start on my face?”
    â€œSoon as this chore is done.”
    Chemo stood up. “I suppose you’ll want proof.”
    Rudy Graveline hadn’t really thought about it. He said, “A newspaper clipping would do.”
    â€œSure you don’t want me to bring you something?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œA finger,” Chemo said, “maybe one of his nuts.”
    â€œThat won’t be necessary,” said Dr. Graveline, “really it won’t.”

CHAPTER 6
    STRANAHAN got Maggie Orestes Gonzalez’s home address from a friend of his who worked for the state nursing board in Jacksonville. Although Maggie’s license was paid up to date, no current place of employment was listed on the file.
    The address was a duplex apartment in a quiet old neighborhood off Coral Way, in the Little Havana section of Miami. There was a chain-link fence around a sparse brown yard, a