Skin Tight by Carl Hiaasen

Author:Carl Hiaasen [Hiaasen, Carl]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-05-24T14:00:00+00:00

MICK Stranahan stood on the curb outside La Guardia Airport and watched Reynaldo Flemm climb into a long black limousine. The limo driver, holding the door, eyed Reynaldo’s new hair and looked to Christina Marks for a clue. She said something quietly to the driver, then waved good-bye to Reynaldo in the backseat. Through the smoked gray window Stranahan thought he saw Flemm shoot him a bitter look as the limo pulled away.

“I don’t like this place,” Stranahan muttered, his breath frosty.

“What places do you like?” Christina asked.

“Old Rhodes Key. That’s one place you won’t see frozen spit on the sidewalk. Fact, you won’t even see a sidewalk.”

“You old curmudgeon.” Christina said it much too sarcastically for Stranahan. “Come on, let’s get a cab.”

Her apartment was off 72nd Street on the Upper East Side. Third floor, one bedroom with a small kitchen and a garden patio scarcely big enough for a Norway rat. The furniture was low and modern: glass, chrome, and sharp angles. One of those sofas you put together like a jigsaw puzzle. Potted plants occupied three of the four corners in the living room. On the main wall hung a vast and frenetic abstract painting.

Stranahan took a step back and studied it. “Boy, I don’t know,” he said.

From the bedroom came Christina’s voice. “You like it?”

“Not really,” Stranahan said.

When Christina walked out, he saw that she had changed to blue jeans and a navy pullover sweater. She stood next to him in front of the painting and said, “It’s supposed to be springtime. Spring in the city.”

“Looks like an Amoco station on fire.”

“Thank you,” Christina said. “Such a sensitive man.”

Stranahan shrugged. “Let’s go. I gotta check in.”

“Why don’t you stay here?” She gave it a beat. “On the sectional.”

“The sectional? I don’t think so.”

“It’s safer than a hotel, Mick.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Christina said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“It’s not me I was thinking of. Believe it or not.”

“Sorry. Please stay.”

“The Great Reynaldo will not be pleased.”

“All the more reason,” Christina said.

They ate a late lunch at a small Italian restaurant three blocks from Christina’s apartment. She ordered a pasta salad and Perrier, while Stranahan had spaghetti and meatballs and two beers. Then they took a taxi to the Plaza Hotel.

“She’s here?” Christina asked, once in the lobby and again in the elevator.

Stranahan knocked repeatedly on the door to Maggie Gonzalez’s room, but no one answered. Maggie was in bed, coasting through a codeine dreamland with a brand-new face that she had not yet seen. The sound of Mick Stranahan’s knocking was but a muffled drumbeat in her delicious pharmaceutical fog, and Maggie paid it no attention. It would be hours before the drumming returned, and by then she would be conscious enough to stumble toward the door.

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