Skin Tight Read Online Free Page B

Chita, as Luis had said he would. He was also pleased that the young officer had not asked him about the blue marlin head on the living-room wall, about why the sword was mended together with fresh hurricane tape.
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TIMMY Gavigan had looked like death for most of his adult life. Now he had an excuse.
    His coppery hair had fallen out in thickets, revealing patches of pale freckled scalp. His face, once round and florid, looked like somebody had let the air out.
    From his hospital bed Timmy Gavigan said, “Mick, can you believe this fucking food?” He picked up a chunk of gray meat off the tray and held it up with two fingers, like an important piece of evidence. “This is your government in action, Mick. Same fuckers that want to put lasers in outer space can’t fry a Salisbury steak.”
    Stranahan said, “I’ll go get us some takeout.”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œYou’re not hungry?”
    â€œI got about five gallons of poison in my bloodstream, Mick. Some new formula, experimental super juice. I told ’em to go ahead, why the hell not? If it kills just one of those goddamn cells, then I’m for it.”
    Stranahan smiled and sat down.
    â€œA man came out to see me the other day. He was using your name, Tim.”
    Gavigan’s laugh rattled. “Not too bright. Didn’t he know we was friends?”
    â€œYeah, that’s what I mean. He was telling people he was you, trying to find out where my house was.”
    â€œBut he didn’t tell you he was me?”
    â€œNo,” Stranahan said.
    Gavigan’s blue eyes seemed to light up. “Did he find your place?”
    â€œUnfortunately.”
    â€œAnd?”
    Stranahan thought about how to handle it.
    â€œHey, Mick, I haven’t got loads of time, okay? I mean, I could check out of this life any second now, so don’t make me choke the goddamn story out of you.”
    Stranahan said, “It turns out he was a bad guy from back East. Killer for the mob.”
    â€œWas?” Gavigan grinned. “So that’s it. And here I thought you’d come by just to see how your old pal was hanging in.”
    â€œThat, too,” Stranahan said.
    â€œBut first you want me to help you figure it out, how this pasta-breath tied us together.”
    â€œI don’t like the fact he was using your name.”
    â€œHow d’you think I feel?” Gavigan handed Stranahan the dinner tray and told him to set it on the floor. He folded his papery hands on his lap, over the thin woolen blanket. “How would he know we was friends, Mick? You never call, never send candy. Missed my birthday three years in a row.”
    â€œThat’s not true, Timmy. Two years ago I sent a strip-o-gram.”
    â€œYou sent that broad? I thought she just showed up lonely at the station and picked out the handsomest cop. Hell, Mick, I took her to Grand Bahama for a week, damn near married her.”
    Stranahan was feeling better; Timmy knew something. Stranahan could tell from the eyes. It had come back to him.
    Gavigan said, “Mick, that girl had the finest nipples I ever saw. I meant to thank you.”
    â€œAnytime.”
    â€œLike Susan B. Anthony dollars, that’s how big they were. Same shape, too. Octagonal.” Gavigan winked. “You remember the Barletta thing?”
    â€œSure.” A missing-person’s case that had turned into a possible kidnap. The victim was a twenty-two-year-old University of Miami student. Victoria Barletta: brown eyes, black hair, five eight, one hundred and thirty pounds. Disappeared on a rainy March afternoon.
    Still unsolved.
    â€œWe had our names in the paper,” Gavigan said. “I still got the clipping.”
    Stranahan remembered. There was a press conference. Victoria’s parents offered a $10,000 reward. Timmy was there from Homicide, Stranahan from the State Attorney’s Office. Both of them were quoted in the story, which