Razor Girl (30 page)

“Strange,” the sheriff said to Yancy, “but I never got the whole story about that traffic accident.”

“Meaning how I happened to be driving the Sprinter? It was all in the report—Benny Krill snatched me at gunpoint from outside the Pier House. Coolman, Ampergrodt, the bodyguard, they all back me up on that. Didn't you read their statements?”

“Andrew, I honestly don't want to know how you ended up in the middle of this particular goat fuck. All I care about is that your name was all over the goddamn media. Again.”

“I'm not getting my badge back, am I?”

“This can't possibly come as a shock to you.”

The food arrived, and Sonny Summers tentatively bit into a drumstick.

Yancy flailed onward: “You had a dead tourist, tons of bad press and nobody in custody. Now the homicide's solved, the bad guy's deceased, and the victim's family is sitting there with Matt Lauer thanking you, personally, for closure. Meanwhile your only opponent in the sheriff's race dropped out, which means the election's a done deal. Sonny, you've got the damn job locked for another four years! What do you have to lose by hiring me back on the force?”

The sheriff took a hasty slug of beer and swished it around his mouth.

Yancy waited until he was done. “Sonny, this case got closed because
I
found Benny Krill. It was me on his dumb redneck ass—not your guys.”

“But see, unfortunately, you ended up in the dumb redneck's custody—not the other way around. If it wasn't for Buck Nance, Krill would've shot you dead in the street.”

“Point is, I was ready to take a bullet from that shitbird.” The words came out with an edge of futility that Yancy had hoped to conceal.

Brennan slunk up to the table to ask if they were enjoying their meals. Yancy told him to go away.

The sheriff gave up on lunch saying, “This could be buzzard meat for all I know.”

“Be straight with me, Sonny. Is there something else in play here?”

“The woman driving the other car. The one who hit the Sprinter van.”

“I remember, sure. What about her?”

“The driver's license she gave was a fake. We still don't know her real name.”

Yancy felt an icy twisting in his gut.

“That junker Chrysler she had,” Sonny Summers went on, “it came from a repo yard in Liberty City. The registration in the glove box was forged.”

“Okay, but what's that got to do with me? I was in the vehicle that got smashed, remember? The one that flipped.”

Deep breaths,
Yancy was telling himself.
Stay cool.

“Do you know the other driver, Andrew?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Three of the witnesses at the scene said they saw you kiss her.”

“Oh, that.” Yancy offered a penitent nod. “We're talking about an exceptionally good-looking woman, Sonny. I mean overpoweringly attractive. Still, I get that it wasn't a smart move.”

The sheriff's expression made clear that his doubts about Yancy's fitness for duty had once again been validated. “I assume you got her phone number,” he said dryly.

“Nope. Just a kiss.”

“Hope she was worth it.” Sonny Summers signaled for the lurking Brennan to bring the check.

Yancy asked, “What do I need to do to get another chance?”

“Stay away from trouble, for Christ's sake. It's really not that hard.”

The drive home made Yancy feel better. At every bridge the water seemed a different shade of blue. The winter sky was bright as an egg, and spangled with birds. Yancy loved the evocative roll call of the lower Keys—Big Coppitt, Sugarloaf, Cudjoe, Ramrod, Little Torch. Here was one blessed stretch of the highway that hadn't yet been blighted by fast-food chains, box stores and strip malls. That shit was coming, though. Everybody said so.

When he reached Big Pine he turned down Key Deer Road, and from there to his house he counted one deer and seven damn iguanas. Merry's rental, a new Accord, was parked beside his skiff. She was sunning in a beach chair beside a tall frosty drink. Her tank suit flashed like a chrome streamer from the rail where she'd flung it.

“You're burning your little bumblebee,” Yancy said.

She reached behind her and patted the tattoo. “All yours, mister. As advertised.”

It still flustered him a bit, the “A.Y.” on her butt cheek. He went inside for a beer. When he came out she was sitting up, legs locked yoga-style.

“Can we officially call this place an estate,” she said, “now that you've got all this land?”

“I'm going to pay you back, don't worry. There's a check coming from California.”

“So I can cancel your beat-down? Good. I'll tell my guys.”

He said, “Rosa called today. She's taken up with the butcher's apprentice.”

“Get! Out!”

“It's borderline quaint. Better than a ski instructor, at least.”

Merry wrapped herself in a towel. “You sad? Of course you are, Andrew. Stop pretending you're not.”

Sad he was, though not blindsided. He'd known that Rosa wouldn't come back to Florida, just as he'd known that he could never move somewhere as cold and tame as Oslo. Their conversation had been painful but not shattering. She said the butcher's apprentice was named Ole, rhyming with roly-poly, which conjured an image Yancy could live with.

“Let's go out in the boat,” he said.

“Oh, I know what
that
means—wild rebound sex! Men are so freakin' predictable.”

“It'll be chilly on the water. Where's your fleece, Merry?”

They trailered the skiff to Bahia Honda and set out on the gulf side. The wind was westerly and mild, so Yancy steered for the Horseshoes. He backed off the throttle because he wanted the ride to go on and on.

“Wouldn't it be cool to find a shipwreck?” Merry said.

“You already did.”

“Shut up, Andrew. You're gonna be fine.”

“There's something I've got to ask. Was your plan to kill Benny Krill with that razor blade?”

Merry shook her head. “The plan was to stop him, that's all. It was time for everybody to move on.”

“Will you please tell me your real name?”

“I should kick your sorry ass for asking me that.”

She leaned close, holding on to him with both arms as the skiff bumped through a choppy patch of waves. Her long red hair blew wildly in the breeze, tickling his neck. He could see his own reflection in her sunglasses.

That's how he knew he was smiling.

Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of thirteen previous novels, including the best-sellers
Bad Monkey, Star Island, Nature Girl, Skinny Dip, Sick Puppy
and
Lucky You,
and five best-selling children's books,
Chomp, Hoot, Flush, Scat
and
Skink.
His most recent work of nonfiction is
Dance of the Reptiles,
a collection of his columns from
The Miami Herald.