Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen Page A

about the other part?”
    Moldowsky eyed him. “Forget the money?”
    “Sure. I was just busting your balls.” Killian gave a hearty laugh. He signaled a waiter for two more beers.
    Moldowsky said, “Just so I’ve got this clear: You don’t want any money. Not a dime.”
    Killian removed his thick eyeglasses and held them to the sunlight, inspecting for smudges. He said, “For a guy who dresses so sharp, you’re thick as a brick. No, Mr. Personal Representative, I don’t want money. All I want him to do is fix a simple court case.”
    “Keep your voice down.”
    “Grant versus Grant.”
    “Yes, I got it the first time,” Moldowsky said. “A custody matter. What’s your interest in the case?”
    “None of your business,” Killian replied. “And if you pursue that line of inquiry, I will go instantly to the police and report what I saw at the Eager Beaver. Headlines are certain to follow.”
    Finally the drawbridge opened to let the Jungle Queen pass, and the tourists broke into silly tourist applause. A waiter appeared with beers. Moldowsky and Killian drank in silence until the merriment subsided on deck.
    “This is a great boat ride,” Killian said brightly. “They’ve got one like this down in Miami, right?”
    “In Biscayne Bay. A tour of celebrity homes.” Moldowsky remained polite even though he’d decided that Jerry Killian was a flake. Flakes could still cause trouble.
    “Like who? Which celebrities?” Killian asked.
    “The Bee Gees.”
    “Which Bee Gees?”
    “The whole damn bunch. They’ve all got mansions on the water.”
    “Is Madonna’s house on the tour?”
    “Undoubtedly,” Moldowsky said, with a sigh. He steered the conversation back to blackmail. “What makes you think Congressman Dilbeck can influence a local divorce judge? I mean, even if he wanted to.”
    “Easy. The divorce judge is sick of being a divorce judge. He wants to move up in the world, namely a seat on the federal bench. For that he needs political connections.”
    Moldowsky frowned. “But it’s the Senate that confirms—”
    “I know that!” Killian angrily gripped the edge of the table. “I know, you pompous fuck. I know it’s the Senate that confirms. But a letter from a congressman would be helpful, would it not? It might carry weight with certain senators on the Judiciary Committee, correct?”
    “Sure,” Moldowsky said. “You’re right.” His eyes were on Killian’s ratty necktie, which was soaking in his beer mug.
    Killian noticed and removed it quickly. If he was embarrassed, he didn’t let it show.
    “The judge would be impressed to hear from a United States congressperson. That’s the point, that’s what we’re talking about, Mr. Personal Representative—not influence so much as the appearance thereof. Who cares if this hayseed ever makes it to the federal bench? We want him to think he can. We want him to think Dilbeck has the clout to make or break. And I’ve got a feeling you’re just the sneaky little maggot to deliver that message.”
    Sometimes Malcolm Moldowsky regretted his own coolness. After so many years as a political fixer, he’d lost the capacity to be personally insulted; virtually nothing provoked him. In his line of work, emotions were risky. They distorted the senses, led to grave miscalculations and foolhardy impulses. Naturally it would’ve been fun to punch Jerry Killian so hard that he puked up blood, but it also would’ve been counterproductive. The man was motivated by forces deeper and more urgent than greed, and that made him dangerous indeed.
    So Moldowsky said: “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “I thought you would.”
    “In the meantime, you can’t go back to that strip club.” Moldowsky closed his notebook and capped his pen. “If you show your face in the place, the deal’s off. Got it?”
    “Fair enough,” Killian said. “I can handle that.” But his heart ached at the thought.

    Suing a synagogue was challenging under the best of