Razor Girl

  The socket blew out with a champagne-cork pop that flattened Zeto, his face forever a mask of puzzlement. A dime-sized burn on his right wrist emitted a tendril of smoke that was dissipating by the time his body got discovered by the landscape attendant, who’d stalked up the driveway to find out why his leaf blower had suddenly crapped out.

  Juan Zeto-Fernández was identified by fingerprints and also by the prison scar encircling his neck, a failed garroting plainly visible on a recent mug shot. A medical examiner would later rule the cause of death to be heart failure caused by electrocution. The report would also note the presence of coronary artery disease and cocaine in the bloodstream, two factors that didn’t improve Zeto’s chances of surviving high voltage. His gold earring was eventually claimed by a cousin who declined to pay for the funeral.

  The Key West policeman who searched the Tesla found a loaded handgun under the driver’s seat. In the rear of the vehicle, among the ripe Wendy’s wrappers and fry cartons, was a wrinkled paper upon which an unusual list had been printed. It was immediately turned over to the office of Sheriff Sonny Summers.

  Detective Rogelio Burton texted a screenshot to Yancy:

  Green Room Rider for MR. BUCK NANCE

  Four 24 oz. cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer on chipped ice

  Two bottles of Jack Daniel’s whiskey

  Six large bags of Fritos original corn chips

  100 M & M’s (green only)

  10 Reese’s peanut butter cups (refrigerated at 46 degrees F)

  Two Bose speakers with Bluetooth

  One 8 oz. wedge of Grand Cru Gruyère Surchoix cheese from Emmi Roth’s in Monroe, Wisconsin

  No fucking veggie platters!

  Yancy texted back: “Your missing shitkicker is a total diva.”

  He arrived at the impound lot still wearing his medical gloves from the Reef Raff condiment probe. No larval intruders had been detected in the mango salsa; the wriggling culprit turned out to be a juvenile ring-necked snake, harmless as a guppy and quite lovely with its coral-colored belly. Still, Yancy had no choice except to write up the bistro for violating section 35-a of the health statutes, an unfairly broad prohibition of animals in food-prep areas. The docile reptile now lay curled inside Yancy’s shirt pocket, for future release.

  The blue exam gloves made Yancy look official, so the watchman at the impound lot let him enter with no questions. Yancy combed the Tesla but didn’t find any other traces of Buck Nance. Afterward he tracked Burton to the Casa Marina where the detective had gone to interview Buck’s manager, a man named Lane Coolman.

  “What did he have to say?” Yancy asked Burton in the lobby.

  “Coolman’s not in his room. Or at the pool. Or the bar.”

  “What about the flash-fried felon?”

  “Nance’s talent agency says they’ve never heard of the late Señor Zeto, and have no idea how the Green Room list ended up in that car.”

  “It takes a special kind of moron to electrocute yourself with a Tesla.”

  “A Darwin finalist,” Burton agreed.

  “I’m done with this case, by the way.”

  “That’s a heartbreaker.”

  As they walked to the parking lot, Yancy noticed that the coconut palms along the driveway were rustling. A fresh breeze had kicked up from the northwest, signaling another cold front. He breathed in the spice of night-blooming jasmine and said, “Who leaves Florida for Sweden in the dead of winter? Somebody who’s dumping a boyfriend, that’s who.”

  “Have some faith,” Burton said.

  “I got a bad feeling, Rog.”

  “When she sends the first picture, what you want is a selfie.”

  “Suggesting she’s alone,” Yancy said.

  “Right. Because if it’s not a selfie, that means somebody else took the photo.”

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  “Her new ski instructor, for example. Six two, long blond hair and a schlong like a cobra.”

  “I’m glad you find this amusing.”

  “Be an optimist for once.”

  “Not me,” said Yancy.

  “A Buick rented to Coolman was found near the Sears. Matter of fact, it was one of two Buicks towed the same night from the same parking lot. Both had been struck from behind by other cars. They found one of those, too, in the same Sears lot—an ’05 Civic with a mashed front end. Paint scrapes match up with Buick number two.”

  “Basically a demolition derby on Roosevelt. Weird.”

  “We’ll sort it all out, don’t worry,” Burton said. “I know you’re a busy man.”

  “Who rented the second Buick?”

  “Guy named Martin Trebeaux. He’s got a condo in Miami Beach. We’re in the process of locating him. Hey, don’t you have a contaminated meat locker somewhere to inspect? A horde of marauding earwigs or whatever?”

  Yancy pulled off each of his gloves with a snap. “Just come out and say it, Rog. You’re gonna miss me.”

  —

  They walked out of the La Concha just as a tow truck rumbled by with the Tesla on the hook. The doors of the car had been sealed with yellow police tape.

  Merry Mansfield said, “Looks like they busted my boy Zeto.”

  “Good! One less psychopath.” Lane Coolman put on his sunglasses.

  “He better not rat me out, swear to God.”

  It was their second day together, and still no leads on Buck Nance. They’d hit all the island’s top hotel bars and pool scenes, Merry’s theory being that Buck would tire of slumming and gravitate back toward high-end accommodations.

  She caught Coolman peeping down her blouse and said, “FYI, the last three guys I went to bed with couldn’t get it up.”

  Her words were like salt on a slug.

  “What’s the matter, Bob?”

  “I’m fine. And it’s Lane, okay?”

  “Some men are intimidated because I expect a marathon performance. But you aren’t scared of me, are you?”

  “That’s very funny,” Coolman said, still shriveling.

  “You’ll get maybe one shot, so make it your best. There’s a strict protocol.”

  “I seriously cannot wait.”

  “Just be ready,” said Merry. “The mood hits me, watch out.”

  She’d come up with a stopper like that every time Coolman thought about driving to the airport and catching the next flight out. He was fairly sure Buck had already fled Key West, but he didn’t want to leave until he screwed Merry, just once. It was ego. It was revenge. It was unhinged carnal curiosity.

  What on earth did she mean by “protocol”?

  They ate lunch at Clippy’s, where Buck Nance had deposited his beard shavings as a garnish. Afterward they tried to reconstruct his route on foot. The farther they walked, the more certain Coolman became that Buck was gone. Wild chickens were roaming all over the streets.

  “Your pal ought to feel right at home,” Merry said.

  “You kidding? He hates the damn things. Says they’re filthy and crawling with lice.”

  “Chickens get lice?”

  “I work hard not to think about it,” said Coolman.

  Midway through the second season of Bayou Brethren, Buck had developed a loathing for the birds his family was supposed to be raising. Nobody knew whether it was triggered by some bad incident, or simply too much time on the cock farm. Krystal said it was the incessant crowing that upset her husband, who, like his brothers, had naively believed roosters vocalize only at dawn. At Coolman’s insistence, the show’s producers had agreed to cut back Buck’s scenes with live fowl, and utilize a green screen whenever possible.

  “Point is,” said Coolman, “he’d never hang around a place like this.”

  Merry kept walking. “But where could Bucky Boy go? Based on his so-called comedy act, Miami’s definitely not his scene. The Hispanic milieu, and all,” she said. “Lauderdale might be more his speed.”

  Coolman shook his head. “Buck’s not a beach person.”

  Merry eyed him over
the rims of her oversized shades. “Of course we’re assuming the best-case scenario—that he hasn’t been murdered and dumped in a ditch somewhere, right? That he’s still alive and making his own decisions, not rotting somewhere with multiple ice-pick wounds to the torso.”

  “Jesus, what a ray of fucking sunshine you are.”

  Back in L.A., Amp had issued a statement on behalf of the Nance family announcing that Buck was in rehab at an undisclosed location. The subject of his alcoholism would be dealt with “frankly and openly” in future installments of Brethren. In the meantime, retail sales of the popular Buck Nance action figure, mud flaps, gun racks, spittoons, rattlesnake vests and other patriarch-related merchandise would be suspended until Buck’s recovery, when he returned to the show. Most of the ugly online tumult was already ebbing, except for a few nutty tweeters obsessed with the rumor that Buck was a Taliban sympathizer. To avert more trouble on that front, Platinum Artists had dispatched a “personal assistant” to move in with the half-cocked Miracle, take her shopping and sabotage her Internet connections.

  Coolman didn’t want to think Buck was a victim of foul play. In the absence of a corpse he remained hopeful that his star client’s disappearance was caused by a drunken binge, a contract-related tantrum, or an exploitable emotional breakdown. In any case there wasn’t much that Coolman could accomplish traipsing the streets of old Key West.

  “Let’s go back to the room,” he said to Merry.

  “And do what?”

  “Watch a movie. Wait for the phone to ring.”

  “I could use a massage,” she said.

  “That’s an outstanding idea.”

  “From a deep-tissue professional, Bob. You may observe, not participate.”

  In the lobby they were cornered by a perspiring crew from TMZ. Coolman acted miffed though he was secretly pleased that the tabloids knew he was Buck Nance’s manager, and had gone to the trouble of tracking him down.

  “No comment,” he chirped, hoping Amp would see the clip on TV and appreciate his coolness under fire.

  Merry covered her face as they elbowed past the cameraman. When Coolman asked her why, she whispered, “Practice, sugar. For when I’m famous.”

  In the hotel suite they drank watery mimosas until the arrival of the masseuse, a matron with bowling-ball shoulders and an Eastern European accent. She unfolded a table and asked Coolman to leave the room. Merry said it was all right if he stayed.

  “Bob just quit the monastery,” she told the masseuse. “We’re easing him into the secular life. What do you say? His poor little pecker looks like a baby sparrow, waiting to fly.”

  “Then of course,” said the masseuse.

  Coolman turned crimson. Merry peeled down to nothing and stretched out on her tummy with her face turned away, her hair tumbling like a waterfall off the edge of the table. She held her long legs straight, tapping the heels of her feet together like Judy Garland in the ruby slippers. The masseuse began kneading Merry’s bottom and hummed a harsh Slavic lullaby that killed Coolman’s lust.

  He went into the bathroom, shut the door and called his divorce attorney, Smegg, who demanded to know why he’d missed the mediation hearing that morning.

  “Shit, I totally forgot about it,” Coolman said. “I’m seriously stuck in Florida.”

  “No biggie. Rachel never showed, either.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s in Tahoe with Drucker,” said Smegg, “fellating him dawn to dusk.”

  “What? I thought that was over.”

  “She friended me on Facebook.”

  “Classic,” said Coolman.

  “It’s all to your ultimate benefit, this licentious taunting. A poor reflection on your wife’s character, most judges would agree. Having said that, I hope you’re getting laid down there in Margaritaville. Discreetly, please.”

  “Yeah, I can hardly walk, my dick’s so sore.”

  Drucker, the priapic toad from William Morris, would be gleefully following the Buck Nance fiasco in the media. Coolman suspected that Drucker was angling to steal Buck away from Platinum, and milking Rachel for intel in the sack. Lately her legal team had been dogging Coolman to produce a roster of his clients and the commissions they’d paid, but so far the deft Smegg had been able to stonewall.

  The mediation session had been reset for the following week. Coolman assured Smegg that he’d be back in L.A. before then.

  When he emerged from the bathroom, Merry Mansfield looked up from the massage table and said, “So, Padre, did you take care of your little bird?”

  “I’ll be down at the tiki bar.”

  Slowly she rolled on her side. “You sure about that, Bob?”

  On her sleek thigh he spied the pink razor knick from the fateful crash on Ramrod Key. His hungering gaze rose to one of her cinnamon-freckled breasts, where in lieu of a standard nipple ring Merry had opted for a bronzed pop-tab from a beer can, or possibly a soft drink.

  “Diet Fresca,” she confirmed. “Don’t give me that look, because you are totally digging it. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Oiling her palms, the masseuse spoke up. “Father, do you still hear confessions?”

  Coolman shook his head vehemently and made for the door. “I’m not a goddamn priest,” he snapped.

  The masseuse, a reconfirmed Catholic, whirled and decked him with a slippery right hook. He awoke sometime later sprawled across one of the king-sized comforters, Merry pressing an ice-filled towel to his jaw.

  “Time to get up, sugar,” she said. “The police are waiting downstairs.”

  “What for?”

  “A man’s been killed on the Conch Train. They need you to look at the body.”

  NINE

  Yancy took Deb’s metal detector and walked the neighborhood collecting bottle caps, loose change and the odd brass bullet jacket. He was thinking about the bumblefuck who’d electrocuted himself with the Tesla. How did Buck Nance’s Green Room demands end up in that car? The list probably belonged to Lane Coolman, Buck’s manager, though Yancy couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Coolman would willingly ride around with a goon like Zeto. Maybe it was he who’d crashed into Coolman’s rented Buick, but then why was there no damage to the Tesla? Only Coolman could fill in the blanks; Yancy hoped he’d be easier to find than Buck.

  There remained the additional mystery of Martin Trebeaux, the driver of the second crunched Buick—where did he fit into this rolling clusterfuck?

  Back at the house Yancy tried to FaceTime Rosa so she could share the sunset over his shoulder. Then he remembered she was still airborne, and unreachable.

  The cold front had chased away the bugs and energized the little Key deer; two does and a buck friskily crossed the empty lot next door. Yancy went indoors, put on some Stevie Ray and lit a fat one. When Deb and her boyfriend appeared on the front steps, he flung open the door and spread his arms.

  “Back the fuck off!” yeeped the lawyer, his muskrat eyes darting fearfully to Yancy’s Remington, at rest in the corner.

  “Relax, counselor. Who wants a hit?”

  “I’m here to tell you—order you—to leave my fiancée alone.”

  “My heart crumbles,” said Yancy. Then, spinning toward Deb: “So, then, it’s over?”

  “Real funny,” she said.

  He hung his head. “You’re one lucky bastard, Brandon. Among her myriad charms, she can suck the husk off a coconut.”

  Yancy dodged Brock Richardson’s right cross and dropped him with a knee. Deb called Yancy a prick, though instead of tending to her whimpering spouse-to-be she took a long smokeless toke from her e-cig. Richardson wobbled upright like a newborn calf while Yancy re-fired his joint.

  The lawyer panted, “For that I’m gonna sue your ass.”

  “If only you could find the courthouse.”

  “I know all about you, Yancy, everything—like why you’re not a detective anymore. My people have a file this thick”—thrusting a liberally spaced thumb and forefinger—“about your
felony arrest.” For Deb’s benefit he added: “For assaulting a highly respected doctor whose wife you were screwing.”

  “Not my finest moment. However, I thought he was hurting her.”

  “I’ve seen the police report,” Richardson sneered. “You used a goddamn—”

  “Handheld appliance. It’s true.” Yancy turned to Deb. “Which reminds me, darling. Do you want your metal detector back?”

  “Wait—what?” said Richardson.

  Yancy’s eyebrows danced. “She’s a kinky one, Brad.”

  “Oh shut up,” Deb snapped. “This little visit wasn’t my idea.”

  “Well, it’s a good time to clear the air. Sit down,” Yancy said to the lawyer. “Or don’t. You should be aware that your attractive though hard-edged future bride approached me, not the other way around. She managed to lose her expensive engagement ring somewhere on your property, and enlisted my help to find it.”

  Richardson seemed to teeter on his heels.

  Yancy went on: “She offered a reward, which I declined. A substantial reward.”

  He winked, prompting this from Deb: “I hate your guts.”

  It wasn’t easy to pity a woman who wore Lilly Pulitzer on Big Pine Key. “Wait here,” Yancy instructed the twosome, “and try not to dismember each other.”

  Carefully he navigated to the carport and returned with the metal detector and a plastic bait bucket, which he placed on the floor for Richardson’s inspection. “Here’s all I found so far. Bottle caps, ammo, but no diamond, sad to say.” Yancy had earlier pocketed the coins.

  Richardson was aghast. “You lost the fucking ring and didn’t tell me?” he screaked at Deb. “And now you’re trusting this sociopath to give it back if he finds it? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Seriously, am I engaged to a mental defective?”