Skin Tight by Carl Hiaasen

frowned. “What’s it got to do with Vicky Barletta?”
    Reynaldo Flemm shook his head. “In due time, Mr. Stranahan. When we’re ready to do the interview.”
    Stranahan said, “I’m ready to do the interview now.”
    Flemm smiled in a superior way. “Sorry.”
    Stranahan slipped the tarpon gaff between Reynaldo Flemm’s legs and gave a little jerk. The tip of the blade not only poked through Reynaldo Flemm’s Banana Republic trousers, but also through his thirty-dollar thong underpants (flamenco red), which he had purchased at a boutique in Coconut Grove. The cold point of the gaff came to rest on Reynaldo Flemm’s scrotum, and at this frightful instant the air rushed from his intestinal tract with a sharp noise that seemed to punctuate Mick Stranahan’s request.
    â€œThe interview,” he said again to Flemm, who nodded energetically.
    But words escaped the television celebrity. Try as he might, Flemm could only burble in clipped phrases. Fear, and the absence of cue cards, had robbed him of cogent conversation.
    The young woman in blue jeans stepped forward from the cabin of the boat and said, “Please, Mr. Stranahan, we didn’t mean to intrude.”
    â€œOf course you did.”
    â€œMy name is Christina Marks. I’m the producer of this segment.”
    â€œSegment of what?” Stranahan asked.
    â€œOf the Reynaldo Flemm show. In Your Face. You must have seen it.”
    â€œNever.”
    For Reynaldo, Stranahan knew, this was worse than a gaff in the balls.
    â€œCome on,” Christina Marks said.
    â€œHonest,” Stranahan said. “You see a TV dish over on my house?”
    â€œWell, no.”
    â€œThere you go. Now, what’s this all about? And hurry it up, your man here looks like his legs are cramping.”
    Indeed, Reynaldo Flemm was shaking on his tiptoes. Stranahan eased the gaff down just a notch or two.
    Christina Marks said: “Do you know a nurse named Maggie Gonzalez?”
    â€œNope,” Stranahan said.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œGive me a hint.”
    â€œShe worked at the Durkos Medical Center.”
    â€œOkay, now I remember.” He had taken her statement the day after Victoria Barletta had vanished. Timmy Gavigan had done the doctor, while Stranahan had taken the nurse. He had scanned the affidavits in the State Attorney’s file that morning.
    â€œYou sure about the last name?” Stranahan asked.
    â€œSorry—Gonzalez is her married name. Back then it was Orestes.”
    â€œSo let’s have the rest.”
    â€œAbout a month ago, in New York, she came to us.”
    â€œTo me,” croaked Reynaldo Flemm.
    â€œShut up,” said Stranahan.
    Christina Marks went on: “She said she had some important information about the Barletta case. She indicated she was willing to talk on camera.”
    â€œTo me,” Flemm said, before Stranahan tweaked him once more with the tarpon gaff.
    â€œBut first,” Christina Marks said, “she said she had to speak to you, Mr. Stranahan.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œAll she said was that she needed to talk to you first, because you could do something about it. And don’t ask me about what, because I don’t know. We gave her six hundred bucks, put her on a plane to Florida, and never saw her again. She was supposed to be back two weeks ago last Monday.” Christina Marks put her hands in her pockets. “That’s all there is. We came down here to look for Maggie Gonzalez, and you’re the best lead we had.”
    Stranahan removed the gaff from Reynaldo Flemm’s crotch and tossed it into the bow of his skiff. Almost instantly, Flemm leapt from the stern and bolted for the cabin. “Get tape of that fucker,” he cried at the cameraman, “so we can prosecute his fat ass!”
    â€œRay, knock it off,” said Christina Marks.
    Stranahan liked the way she talked down to