Razor Girl (6 page)

“What the fuck, Amp?”

“They've asked for a DNA sample.”

“Who?” demanded Clee Roy.

“The sheriff down in the Keys. Standard procedure, guys. They want some of Buck's DNA just in case, God forbid.”

For several moments no faux Cajun voices came from the phone speaker on Amp's desk, and he wondered if he'd upset the three brothers.

Then either Buddy or Junior piped up: “I got somethin' of Buck's, but they need to send somebody with a bag. I ain't touchin' the damn thing.”

Merry Mansfield and Zeto weren't interested in Martin Trebeaux's grandiose plan to barge beach sand from Cuba across the Gulf Stream to Florida. Merry scoffed when he offered them a piece of the action in exchange for his freedom. Zeto's response was an elbow to the larynx, which caused Martin Trebeaux to black out choking. He awoke gagged and bound on the bare floor of a bare house, where he overheard someone's future being discussed.

It was his future, and the outlook was poor.

The house was almost dark when Dominick “Big Noogie” Aeola arrived with a shorter man who stood at his side mouthing an ivory toothpick. Big Noogie paid Zeto with cash, and Zeto paid Merry, who counted the bills by the light of her iPhone.

“What about the other guy you grabbed? The first guy?” Big Noogie asked.

Zeto looked tightly at Merry.

“The mistake,” Big Noogie elaborated.

“Oh, him. He's gone,” Merry said.

“So that's all took care of?”

“Like it never happened.”

“Good,” said Big Noogie. “You two can go now.”

They did.

The moment the duct tape was removed from Trebeaux's Trump-ish lips he blurted the story about the redheaded crash driver and her sexy shaving ploy. “It's fucking brilliant!” the swindler gushed to Big Noogie. “Was that your idea?”

Big Noogie said, “No,
this
is my idea.”

He took out a pair of ten-inch surgical hemostats, which he clamped onto the crotch of Martin Trebeaux's linen pants.

“Not my nut sack!” wailed the sand man.

“What'd you expect?” said Big Noogie.

The Tesla was still in the alley beside the house, but Merry didn't hear any of Trebeaux's screams because Zeto was blasting Pit Bull on the radio. When she asked Zeto for a lift back to Miami, he said the car didn't have enough juice for the trip. The charging station in Key West was still under construction, so he drove down Simonton until he found a house with hurricane shutters on the windows. After backing into the driveway, he hopped out and plugged the Tesla's cord into a socket on the outside wall.

“How long will this take?” Merry asked.

“I'm gonna get a room at the La Concha. Two beds.”

“No, thank you.”

“Then you're on your own, babe.”

Merry was too tired to deal with Zeto sneaking his hairy ass between the sheets in the middle of the night. She had a strict rule against cuddling with potential co-defendants.

“What do you think's going to happen to Martin?”

“Ever see
The Godfather
?” Zeto asked.

“Nope.”

“You're shitting me. Not even Part One? Okay, then Tony Soprano.”

“Who?” said Merry.

“Do you live in a cave on Mars, or what?”

“Don't be a dick. I know about the Mafia. All I asked you is what're they going to do to Martin, since you're the expert on everything.”

“Go rent the movie,” Zeto said, and walked away.

While Merry waited to cross the street, three tow trucks rumbled past one after the other. The first two were hauling the same type of cars, late-model, silverish Buicks with rear-end damage. The third truck was hauling a Honda Civic with a mangled front fender. Merry smiled at her handiwork.

She walked back to the bread-and-breakfast on Catherine Street where she'd booked a room. The place was packed with milky-limbed Austrians who innocently plodded around town in black nylon socks and sandals. Merry found it endearing, for the twenty-first century. She had the same reaction to Mennonites, who made no wardrobe concessions despite Florida's heartless humidity.

The next morning she checked out and headed toward Truman Avenue with the thought of hitching a ride, thereby avoiding four hours in a car with Zeto. Yielding to a procession of Duval-bound tourists she spotted a familiar face.

“Yo, Bob!” she called out.

Lane Coolman leaped sideways, landing with both shoes in the road. Merry yanked him clear of an oncoming moped and told him to chill, for God's sake.

“Have you been following me?” he asked shakily.

“Don't flatter yourself. It's a small island.”

“I'm going straight to the police!”

She said, “Cool, I'll come with you. Let's see whose story they believe. You want to hear mine? All the perverted stuff you made me do after you tricked me into getting in your car? The ropes, the hot glue, the roller blades.”

“Know what? You're a terrible human being. I mean a total sociopath.”

“And you'd be dead if it wasn't for me, don't forget. What are you still doing here is the question.”

“Where's your thug boyfriend?” Coolman glanced in both directions, then over his shoulder.

“I took care of all that,” said Merry. “The mob guys think you're at the bottom of the sea, and Zeto doesn't give a shit either way. So let's go grab a bite.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Here you are, all showered and peppy. I approve this new look.”

Self-consciously Coolman reappraised the orchid print shirt and cantaloupe-colored Bermuda shorts that he'd paid for with the money that Amp had wired him.

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” he said to Merry Mansfield.

“Don't you want your phone back? I've still got it.”

“Then give it here!”

When Coolman reached for her handbag, she grabbed his arm and twisted it behind him, spinning him on the sidewalk. The tourists, unfazed, trudged past like zombies.

“Let's get a basket of conch fritters,” said Merry. “I want to hear what you're up to—a day in the life of a big-time Hollywood talent manager, whatever.”

She let go of his arm. Coolman tried to act like it was nothing, like they were just fooling around, but he was shaken by how tough and ballsy she was. Dropping his voice: “Just let me have my phone, please. I've gotta find Buck Nance.”

“Want some help?”

“No!”

“Oh yes you do, Bob.”

She took his hand, nudged him with her hip, and that was that.

A
n artist friend met Yancy for lunch at Clippy's and, working from photographs, penciled a sketch of what a clean-shaven Buck Nance might look like. Clippy said the face on the napkin resembled Keith Urban twenty years down the road, while Neil the mayor said no, the chin was totally David Duchovny.

Neither Clippy nor Neil admitted to watching
Bayou Brethren,
but Yancy's straight artist friend said it was his second-favorite reality show after
Mud-Wrestling Supermodels: Cancún.
Buck's celebrity status didn't impress Neil and Clippy, who vowed to prosecute him for shearing his gnarly growth into their acclaimed quinoa, if the DNA test proved positive. They also hinted at the possibility of a civil lawsuit, citing “mental anguish.”

Yancy stopped by the city police department, where a detective who'd once helped him catch an albino ATM robber told him that all the road officers were on the lookout for Buck Nance. Sheriff Sonny Summers had made a call to the chief. Yancy skimmed the latest incident reports to see if Buck had committed any more crimes against hygiene. Most of the night log was routine Key West turpitude—drunken fistfights, inept dope deals, a handful of auto burglaries, one halfhearted domestic assault (the husband was struck with a bag of frozen snapper chum) and seven unsolved cases of public urination.

A spate of shopliftings caught Yancy's attention because of their exceptional pettiness—an $11 tee-shirt filched from a store on Simonton, a pair of black board shorts taken from a dive shop off of Caroline Street and a Panama-style hat snatched from a window mannequin at Fastbuck Freddie's. In each instance the theft had been witnessed by other customers who described the shoplifter as a white middle-aged male with a choppy facial burr.

If Buck Nance was the perpetrator, such smallish crimes indicated he was roaming the streets dead broke. A second thumbing of the police reports turned up a break-in at a motel room where the only articles stolen were a pair of size 12 flip-flops, a score that would pretty much complete Captain Cock's island wardrobe.

Yancy spent the rest of the afternoon walking around Old Town. He spied several crisp Panama hats though none of the noggins belonged to Buck Nance. At an upscale guesthouse Yancy interviewed one of the shoplifting witnesses, a soft-spoken widow from Philadelphia. She addressed him as “detective,” making him pine for the days when he carried a real badge. The widow said the napkin sketch “sort of” resembled the person she'd seen swiping the surf shorts except there were dark bags under the thief's eyes. “He looked more homeless,” she said.

It mystified Yancy why Buck hadn't already fled the Keys. Possibly he'd lost a screw and turned paranoid after the uprising at the Parched Pirate. Nor could a drunken jag be ruled out, though it wouldn't explain the shoplifting spree. Another possibility was that Buck's “disappearance” had been a manufactured drama, a fake breakdown meant to mitigate his controversial performance at the bar. TV psychiatrists would be happy to theorize that poor Buck had cracked under the pressure of starring in a hit show, that his self-destructive outburst was the proverbial cry for help. Later he would be found in calculated dishevelment, a squinting haggard figure hustled away by family members in a cortege of anthracite SUVs. A hushed period of rehab would be followed by a weepy public contrition, always a ratings booster.

It was all speculation because, at this point, Yancy knew nothing about the man's motives or his state of mind. Over beers at Pepe's, Rogelio Burton informed him that Buck's real name was Matthew Romberg.

“Fantastic!” Yancy exclaimed. “I love it.”

“He and the brethren are from Wisconsin, of all places. They had an accordion band, I swear to God. Nobody's supposed to know. There were some videos on the Internet but they all got yanked, once the boys signed their TV contract.”

“But I watched the show. They all talk Cajun, sort of.”

“Big deal. You should hear my Ringo Starr, and I've never set foot in Liverpool.”

Yancy told Burton about the string of lame shopliftings, and the witnesses' description of the suspect.

“That could be half the bums on the island,” the detective remarked.

The waitress brought an order of fried plantains. While eating, Burton delivered a mild lecture about Yancy firing a twelve-gauge shotgun in front of civilians.

“Hey, it's perfectly legal,” Yancy asserted. “Guy down the street from me has a pistol range in his backyard! All I did was murder a few beer bottles.”

“Sonny found out. He's not thrilled.”

“Who the hell told him?” Yancy feared that the Stella massacre would be added to the file of perceived fuckups that the sheriff unsheathed whenever Yancy came pleading for reinstatement.

Burton said, “One of the dudes you scared shitless is a lawyer from Miami named Brock Richardson. He's got ads all over TV, which doesn't mean anything except that Sonny's heard of him.”

“He bought the lot next door. Wants to build a McMansion for his girlfriend who, by the way, offered me a BJ.”

Burton nodded. “I get that all the time.”

“No, she really did. You'll be proud to know I declined.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to stay faithful to Rosa,” said Yancy.

“No, asshole, I meant why did this total stranger offer you sex?”

“Who knows. Maybe it's just her way of being neighborly.”

“A carrot cake is neighborly,” Burton said. “A blowjob is a plan.”

Yancy didn't tell his friend that Deb wanted him to help find her lost diamond, which happened to be hidden inside his refrigerator. He knew that, like Rosa, Burton would advise him to return the ring as soon as possible.

“Tell me about this ace attorney,” Yancy said.

“He's way too important to dial 911, so he calls up Sonny's office direct, screaming that some crazy bastard's shootin' up Big Pine Key.”

“How did this jackoff pass the bar if he doesn't even know the firearms statutes?”

“As usual, you're missing the point.”

“Well, guess what? This is Florida, the land of batshit, trigger-happy motherfuckers. Love it or leave it is what I say.”

“Dial it down, Andrew, if you want your badge back. That's the takeaway.” Burton ate the last plantain, pushed the plate to the side and ordered a cup of coffee.

Yancy said, “Does he really want to live next door to a whack job like me? That's what this guy ought to be asking himself.”

“Or he could just go to a gun show and buy a bigger cannon than yours. It
is
Florida, like you say.” Burton smiled.

He was a good cop and a solid guy, still married to his college sweetheart. They had three kids, all soccer players, and drove them all over the state for tournaments. Rogelio didn't screw around on his wife, never stayed out late with the hard chargers. His was a life conducted with clear boundaries and deep commitments. Yancy envied his steadiness. If Burton had been mad at Yancy for getting booted from the detective bureau, he'd kept it to himself. Throughout their friendship he'd always been the grownup.

“Rog, I think Rosa's leaving me.”

Burton sat back and slapped his hands on the tabletop. “What the fuck did you do now?”

“I've got no idea, but she quit her job and she's off to Europe for a couple of weeks. We've all seen that movie. Weeks turn into months, and months turn into forever.”

“For Christ's sake, Andrew, you always assume the worst.”

“That's my motto. Put it on my tombstone: ‘Assume the worst.' ”

“What tombstone? You said you're getting cremated. You said you want your ashes scattered at high tide in Pearl Basin. See? I remember all this shit. The rum talking.”

“Fine, then write it on my urn:
Assume the fucking worst.
” Yancy paid the tab and followed his friend out the door.

Burton was meeting a source, a call girl who lived on Olivia down by the cemetery. He asked Yancy to tag along. Smart cops never went alone to interview prostitutes, because that's how rumors and occasionally true drama got started.

“Sonny's all over me to shake some trees, so I'd appreciate a little support,” Burton said. “Other words, let me do the talkin', okay?”

“So you think Buck Nance got waylaid by a hooker.”

“Probably not Giselle, but it's possible she's heard something.”

“ ‘Giselle,' is it? My goodness, Rog.”

“Try to control yourself.”

Giselle had a neat wooden house with canary-yellow shutters and a spice garden in the front yard. She was getting ready for a date, hurrying between the bathroom and bedroom wearing dark hose, black panties and a matching bra. It looked like her closet had detonated, clothes flung all over the place. Burton and Yancy weren't sure where to sit down, so they didn't. Out of habit Yancy scanned the baseboards for rodent scat, but he saw nothing.

After Giselle finally picked out a dress to wear, she was shown the napkin sketch of Buck Nance, along with a photograph of him fully bearded. She stated without pause that she'd never laid eyes on the man.

Burton explained that Buck and his brothers had a popular cable television show. “Any of your girlfriends say anything about hookin' up with a famous john?”

Giselle smiled as she put on her lipstick in front of the hallway mirror. “That's what we're all waiting for, right? The Brad Pitt call.”

“So the answer's no?”

“I'll ask around,” she said. “Are we done? Because I gotta run.”

Burton laid a fifty-dollar bill on the kitchen counter (which, Yancy noted, was cleaner than some of the restaurants on his beat) and signaled that they should leave.

“Hang on,” Yancy said.

Next to the bagel toaster was an empty silver money clip. He picked it up and showed Burton the ornate engraving:
Captain Cock.

“Isn't that the nickname of our missing shitkicker?” he said.

Giselle turned from the mirror. “No offense, tiger, but who the hell are you? Rog, is this nosy prick your new partner?”

“He works for the state. Officially it's Inspector Yancy—but everyone calls him Andrew.”

“Inspecting what—thongs?”

It wasn't Yancy's fault. The furniture was strewn with lingerie that Giselle had tried on and rejected.

“The dude who gave me that silver clip isn't the one you're looking for,” she said. “I took it 'cause he only had seventy-three bucks in his pocket and my price is one-fifty. He tried to give me a hard time but I said, ‘Listen, Captain Cockhead, you play, you pay.' I told him he's got three business days to bring me the rest of the cash he owes, otherwise I'm totally pawning that thing.”

Burton said, “You're positive that it's not the person in the sketch or photograph?”

Giselle cackled. “Not unless he fell asleep on a tanning bed for about six months.”

“Your gentleman acquaintance was of dark complexion?”

“Very much so. He said he found the money clip just layin' in the dirt under one of those big trees on Whitehead, which I'm so sure.”

“Ever seen him before?” Yancy asked.

“He buses tables at the Bull. Name's Winchell.”

Yancy slipped the silver clip into his pocket. “Police evidence,” he said to Giselle. “Sorry.”

“Yo, wait—how do you even know it's the same Captain Cock?” She glared indignantly at Burton, who laid down another fifty.

“If Winchell comes back,” he said, “tell him I need to speak with him right away. Give him my cell number.”

“Oh right, he'll be so chatty.” Giselle stooped to put on a pair of nosebleed heels. She glanced up at Yancy and said, “Quit starin' at my tits, Inspector.”

“I'm not staring.” And he wasn't, either. He was practically a hundred percent certain.

“Make him stop,” Giselle said to Burton, who laughed.

“Don't you be flirtin' with my boy. He's got enough problems.”

Back in the car Burton told Yancy to give him the money clip.

“Don't worry, Rog, I'm not gonna lose it.”

“Hand it over. I need something to show the sheriff.”

“So he'll think you're hot on the trail, right?”

“Just give me the damn thing,” Burton said.

Yancy reached over and attached the silver piece to the driver's-side visor so that the inscription was visible.

“What if winsome Giselle is right?”

Burton, who was wrestling a balky seat belt, said, “You mean if there's more than one Captain Cock?”

“It's Key West, Rog. There might be a franchise.”

“I'm gonna drop by Sonny's office and fill him in on what we've got. What
I've
got.”

“Good old Sonny,” Yancy said. “It'll be nice to see him.”

“You're not coming.”

“What could it hurt? Just a quick hello.”

Burton cut the wheel hard and pulled away from the curb in a manner that ended the conversation.

“Then drop me on Duval,” said Yancy. “Now that Rosa's bid farewell, Buck Nance is my new obsession.”

“Why don't you go home and lie around feeling sorry for yourself until she comes back? Tell Lombardo you can't work because you caught hantavirus from breathing all those rat hairs. Drink heavily. Smoke too much dope. Sleep late and don't bathe. I'll swing by to check your pulse every few days.”

“The human bloodhound is what they call me.”

“A pain in the sphincter is what they call you. Please don't screw up my case.”

Yancy stepped out of the car at the corner. “You'll be the first to know when I track down this character,” he said to Burton. “Keep your ringer on, amigo.”

Winchell wasn't working at the Bull that night, but the barmaid gave Yancy an address in Bahama Village. It was Winchell's wife who answered the door. In a clamorous scrum behind her Yancy counted four small kids. Winchell emerged from a back room wearing a towel and a frown. He looked much older than his wife and stood at least six-two, though his arms were thin and his gut was flabby.