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though a point-blank nostril shot did seem extreme. Even though Stranahan was cleared, he obviously could no longer be employed by the State Attorney’s Office. Pressure for his dismissal came most intensely from other crooked judges, several of whom stated that they were afraid to have Mr. Stranahan testifying in their courtrooms.
    On June 7, 1988, Mick Stranahan resigned from the prosecutor’s staff. The press release called it early retirement, and disclosed that Stranahan would be receiving full disability compensation as a result of injuries suffered in the Goomer shooting. Stranahan wasn’t disabled at all, but his family connection with a notorious personal-injury lawyer was sufficient to terrify the county into paying him off. When Stranahan said he didn’t want the money, the county promptly doubled its offer and threw in a motorized wheelchair. Stranahan gave up.
    Not long afterward, he moved out to Stiltsville and made friends with the fish.
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    A marine patrol boat pulled up to Mick Stranahan’s place at half-past noon. Stranahan was on the top deck, dropping a line for mangrove snappers down below.
    â€œGot a second?” asked the marine patrol officer, a sharp young Cuban named Luis Córdova. Stranahan liked him all right.
    â€œCome on up,” he said.
    Stranahan reeled in his bait and put the fishing rod down. He dumped four dead snappers out of the bucket and gutted them one at a time, tossing their creamy innards in the water.
    Córdova was talking about the body that had washed up on Cape Florida.
    â€œRangers found it yesterday evening,” he said. “Lemon shark got the left foot.”
    â€œThat happens,” Stranahan said, skinning one of the fish filets.
    â€œThe M.E. says it was one hell of a stab wound.”
    â€œI’m gonna fry these up for sandwiches,” Stranahan said. “You interested in lunch?”
    Córdova shook his head. “No, Mick, there’s some jerks poaching lobster down at Boca Chita, so I gotta be on my way. Metro asked me to poke around out here, see if somebody saw anything. And since you’re the only one out here . . .”
    Stranahan glanced up from the fish-cleaning. “I don’t remember much going on yesterday,” he said. “Weather was piss-poor, that I know.”
    He tossed the fish skeletons, heads still attached, over the rail.
    â€œWell, Metro’s not all that excited,” Córdova said.
    â€œHow come? Who’s the stiff?”
    â€œName of Tony Traviola, wise guy. Jersey state police got a fat jacket on him. Tony the Eel, loan-collector type. Not a very nice man, from what I understand.”
    Stranahan said, “They think it’s a mob hit?”
    â€œI don’t know what they think.”
    Stranahan carried the filets into the house and ran them under the tap. He was careful with the water, since the tanks were low. Córdova accepted a glass of iced tea and stood next to Stranahan in the kitchen, watching him roll the filets in egg yolk and bread crumbs. Normally Stranahan preferred to be left alone when he cooked, but he didn’t want Luis Córdova to go just yet.
    â€œThey found the guy’s boat, too,” the marine patrolman went on. “It was a rental out of Haulover. White Seacraft.”
    Stranahan said he hadn’t seen one of those lately.
    â€œFew specks of blood was all they found,” Córdova said. “Somebody cleaned it pretty good.”
    Stranahan laid the snapper filets in a half inch of oil in a frying pan. The stove didn’t seem to be working, so he got on his knees and checked the pilot light—dead, as usual. He put a match to it and, before long, the fish started to sizzle.
    Córdova sat down on one of the wicker barstools.
    â€œSo why don’t they think it was the mob?” Stranahan asked.
    â€œI didn’t say they didn’t, Mick.”
    Stranahan smiled and opened a bottle of