“Maybe you should’ve bought me my own rock, you cheap sonofabitch, instead of giving me your fat ex-girlfriend’s!”
The shouting went on for a while. Yancy was grateful to be stoned. He picked up the twelve-gauge and reclined on the sofa, trying to maintain focus. Using his phone he clicked the stereo to his Mudcrutch playlist.
When the couple in his living room ran dry of taunts, he said, “Listen up, Brick. The diamond ring? It can be found.”
“It’s Brock. And guess what, they’re set to clear the damn lot in two days.”
“Then never mind. Once the bulldozers get here, ha, it’s over. The slab gets poured, you’ll never see that stone again. How much did it set you back? Two hundred grand’s the number Deb mentioned. And no insurance, for some reason.” Yancy yawned. “Now refresh my memory. Who’s the mental defective?”
When the lawyer took a step toward him, Yancy raised the shotgun barrel to waist level. Richardson wore a crocodile belt befitting a class-action ace. Deb grabbed his arm warning, “Just stay cool. He’s crazy.”
“You told him how much the ring cost? Seriously?” Richardson hissed. “Unfuckingbelievable! You don’t think he’s gonna run straight to a pawnshop if he finds it?” He glowered at Yancy. “I bet he already did.”
Yancy clicked his teeth. “Deborah, my little spitfire, you never told me your beloved was a high-stakes gambler.”
Richardson raised his palms. “I’m just sayin’—”
“No, no, by all means, summon your contractor and tell him to crank up the heavy equipment pronto. Clear your precious lot and pour the concrete, you really think I’ve got the ring. Oh, and good fucking luck getting a warrant to search my house. You do recall from law school what a warrant requires? Probable cause, which you don’t have. But go ahead and roll the dice—or, as an alternative…”
“What now? What’s the alternative?” Deb said dully.
“Don’t let your crew disturb so much as a twig on that land. We’ll keep on searching for your overpriced jewel night and day until we recover it.” When Yancy stood up with the Remington, Richardson crow-hopped backwards a step.
“Fine. Brilliant. Now would you please tell him,” Deb said, “that we never had sex.”
“That’s true, sir. Not even a covert grope.” Yancy spoke solemnly.
The lawyer said, “I don’t trust a goddamn word you say.”
“Of course not. You’d have to be a fool.”
“God, what’s in your shirt?” Deb was staring at Yancy’s breast pocket, which had begun to twitch.
He’d forgotten about the ring-necked snake he had rescued from the mango salsa at the Reef Raff. He took out the little reptile to show his visitors, who hastily departed without a civil goodbye. The Porsche was a cherry speck by the time Yancy emerged to release the squirming snake in his front yard. The text from Rogelio Burton arrived soon thereafter. Yancy was too baked to drive so he cabbed it back to town.
Burton was waiting at the crime scene.
—
Abdul-Halim Shamoon had been born in Syria and raised in Brooklyn Heights, where he still resided. He owned a prosperous discount electronics shop in midtown Manhattan, half of a taxi medallion and a dozen refrigerated freight units near LaGuardia. Twice a year he treated himself to a cruise, always alone, because his children were grown and his wife of three decades got seasick. Abdul-Halim looked forward to these solitary trips. He was free to do whatever he wished, and no one tried to steer him away from the fun. The ship that brought him from Miami to Key West was called the Carib Vagabond, and it would continue on to San Juan, St. Thomas and Nassau. Unfortunately, Abdul-Halim never got to explore those scenic ports of call.
After debarking with twenty-three hundred other passengers, Abdul-Halim stopped at a kiosk in Mallory Square where he purchased a ceramic seahorse and a smallish watercolor of a blue-faced parrotfish. Then he went to Captain Tony’s and ordered a rum-and-Coke because it looked like straight Coke, in case a more devout Muslim might see him drinking. He nearly fell off his barstool trying to count all the bras stapled to the ceiling; some were so astoundingly large that they conjured shameful parachute fantasies. After downing another drink (it was Key West), Abdul-Halim walked outside and actually shivered in the wind. Florida wasn’t supposed to get so cold. With guidebook in hand he trekked down Duval Street to the Southernmost Point. There he took a cheerful selfie and sent it to his wife, who texted back: “Have fun. The downstairs toilet is backed up.”
Thirty-three minutes later Abdul-Halim boarded one of the mustard-yellow Conch Trains, which were actually jointed trams that puttered through the island’s quainter streets. Abdul-Halim wasn’t wearing his kufi or any traditional garb that would have advertised his Arab heritage. The other passengers said he was approached by a shirtless, middle-aged white man wearing a banded Panama hat. There were differing accounts of what happened next. A couple from England told the police that Abdul-Halim jumped from the moving tram car when the white man began shrieking at him. Another passenger said there was a struggle first. Still another said the shirtless rider cold-bloodedly shoved Abdul-Halim off the Conch Train.
In any event, the accosted man sacrificed himself to protect his souvenirs, locking both arms around his shopping bags. Having no way to break his own fall, he smacked the pavement facedown at full force. The impact drove the pointy snout of the ceramic seahorse into the soft cleft beneath his sternum, where it snapped off, puncturing his aorta. Blood spurts ruined the pretty parrotfish painting, as well.
“God Almighty,” said Yancy when he looked at the body.
Burton motioned for him to lower the tarp. “You smell like cheap weed, by the way.”
“Oh, it’s not cheap.” Yancy had pulled on a pair of medical gloves but somehow he couldn’t fit his left pinkie into the proper finger holder. “Who is this poor guy?”
“A tourist. The suspect would be our missing shitkicker.” The detective summarized what the other Conch Train riders had said.
“Motive, Rog?”
“The victim was a Muslim. Nance hates Muslims.”
“And we know that…how?”
“I’ll show you,” said Burton.
Yancy followed him to his car, where he took out an iPad and opened an amateur video of Buck preaching to a small congregation at a church called the First Chickapaw Tabernacle of Hope and Holiness.
“This went up on YouTube for about seven seconds,” said the detective, “which apparently was long enough.”
“Brothers and sisters, let’s stop kiddin’ ourselves. The Muslim ain’t our friend. He ain’t our comrade. The Muslim, deep down they all want the same thing Al Katie wants—”
“He means al Qaeda,” Burton translated.
“—which is the total destruction of white Christianity. The Muslim, now, you might actually know one or two of ’em personally. You might even think, ‘Oh, he seems friendly enough. I like that wife of his, too.’ And maybe their kids are on the same soccer team as yours, and every Saturday you see this happy Muslim family out at the county fairgrounds, cheerin’ and handin’ out grape Gatorades and so forth. And you might think, ‘Well, they’re decent folks. Nuthin’ t’all like those cold-blooded heathens who hijacked our airplanes and flew ’em into the World Trade headquarters or whatever.’
“But I’m here to tell you, the Muslim can’t never be trusted, no matter how kindly and normal he acts. They ain’t no true peace or love in his soul because his religion decrees his sworn enemy to be Jesus Christ, our Lord ’n’ Savior. Also the United States of America, which will fall only when white Christianity succumbs. So, brothers and sisters, all I’m sayin’ is don’t let your guard down. Stay vigilant and suspicious, and we will prevail. To be weak and softhearted is to be doomed. Oh, and all these things I’m warnin’ you about? Same goes for the homosexual crowd and the Negroes.
“Now, lay your right hand on your neighbor’s knee, and let us pray…”
“Possibly the lamest Cajun a
ccent ever,” Yancy said.
Burton agreed. “More hillbilly than swamp rat.”
“The hand on the knee is a clever touch.”
“Yeah, literally. He makes ’em sit boy-girl-boy-girl.”
The detective put away his iPad and locked the car. He and Yancy made their way through the rubberneckers, ducked under the perimeter ribbon and returned to the lake of blood surrounding Abdul-Halim Shamoon. A crime-scene tech was enumerating the fragments of the lethal seahorse figurine.
Yancy said he was mystified about why Buck Nance had begun assaulting strangers—first the artist in the courtyard, now a cruise-ship passenger.
“People do come unglued,” Burton said.
“Was he wearing a hat?”
“One of those Panama jobs. How’d you know?”
“What else you got?”
“Ink,” Burton said. “Our witnesses saw a fresh tat on his back, right across the shoulder blades. Know what it says?”
“Hit me, Rog.”
“ ‘HAIL CAPTAIN COCK.’ Roman script, all capital letters.”
“Gotta love the spirit,” said Yancy. “I’m putting myself back on the case, by the way.”
“Uh, no, you’re not.”
“He killed a guy, which changes everything. You wouldn’t have called if you didn’t want my help.”
Burton said, “Don’t get carried away. This is strictly under the radar.”
“Where I do my best work.”
“Andrew, we’re not having this conversation.”
“Of course not. And we’re not standing next to a body tarp, either.”
They stepped back to make way for the coroner’s crew.
—
It was Lane Coolman’s first ride in a squad car since college. Merry Mansfield sat in the caged backseat and downed two eight-hour energy drinks. The cop kept checking her out in the rearview; she still wore a sexy sheen from the massage oil.
“How’s your jaw?” she asked Coolman.
“I’m fine,” he said, though speaking was painful.
When the cop asked what had happened, Merry cut in, “I clocked him, okay? I’ve got jealousy issues, he’s got fidelity issues. You know that tune. Truth? He’s lucky I didn’t chop off his pecker and feed it to the pelicans.”
“Don’t say anything more,” the officer said, “or I’ll have to arrest you.”
“Oh, he won’t press charges.”
“Under state law it doesn’t matter. So do us all a favor and hit the Mute button.”
Coolman piped angrily: “She didn’t lay a hand on me! I don’t know why she’d say such a sick thing. Swear on the Bible, she never touched me.”
Merry tapped a cardinal fingernail on the steel grid separating the cop from his passengers. “See how he’s trying to protect me, officer? That’s more than loyalty. It’s true love.”
“I barely know this chick,” Coolman protested through clamped teeth.
The cop’s slack expression established that he didn’t give a shit. His job was to drive them to a corpse, period.
Frances Street had been blocked off on each side of the parked Conch Train. There were five open trolley-style cars hooked to a tractor dolled up like an old-time locomotive. The restless passengers were being interviewed by Key West city detectives, one of whom peeled off to greet Coolman and Merry. As they were led toward the bright yellow body tarp, Coolman’s stomach clenched and he tasted sherry-doused chowder on the rebound from lunch.
He felt sure he was going to see the body of Buck Nance, which was sad and shocking, yes, but also it pissed him off. Self-destruction was acceptable in show business when your career was tanking, but not while you’re starring in America’s hottest cable show. Bayou Brethren was still a monster hit, generating monster revenues. The other Nance brothers would carry on for a season or two, but without Buck’s crusty presence the ratings would slide and the network would lose enthusiasm. Meanwhile, facing the dark freeze of agent purgatory at Platinum Artists, Coolman would be forced to dredge, poach and beg for a new top-name client.
“You folks ready?” asked the Key West detective.
Coolman said, “Yeah, let’s do this.” Like he’d viewed a hundred stiffs.
The tarp was tugged aside, and there lay a slightly built Mideastern-looking man with a wispy coal-black beard. His open eyes were glazed, his shirt front was drenched with blood—and he was a complete stranger.
Coolman made no effort to conceal his relief. He tried to high-five Merry, who backed away muttering, “Jesus, Bob, dial it down.”
“That’s not him!” Coolman whooped to the detective.
“Who?”
“Buck Nance!”
“We know that, sir. We believe Mr. Nance was the assailant.”
Coolman was stunned. “You think Buck did this? That’s insane.”
“Do you know the victim? Or maybe your client knew him.” The detective pointed with the toe of his shoe.
“I’ve never ever seen the guy before. You can’t be serious.” Coolman wished somebody would close the dead man’s eyes.
The city detective asked him to please notify the department as soon as he heard from Mr. Nance. Coolman was then passed along to a different detective—Burton was his name—on special assignment from the sheriff.
“Buck did not murder anybody,” Coolman repeated.
Burton nodded agreeably. “It’s a manslaughter all the way. Argument turns to punches or maybe just a shove, and poor Mr. Shamoon tumbles off the Conch Train. All that blood you saw? The unlucky bastard impaled himself on some knick-knack he bought for like nine bucks. So, you’re right, it’s definitely not murder. They’ll file it as manslaughter one but they’ll let him plead to a lesser. Anyway, you and I need to talk.”
Coolman said he had to make a phone call right away.
“He’s quite the big shot,” Merry said to Burton. “A mover and shaker. Can’t you tell?”
“What’s your connection here, ma’am? Are you with the same talent agency as Mr. Coolman? Do you know Mr. Nance?”
Merry laughed and laughed. “No, no, I’ve never even watched that stupid rooster show. Mr. Coolman and I just recently met. He bought me a swimsuit and a so-so lunch, which he thinks entitles him to a courtesy fuck. It does not.”
“Don’t forget the massage,” Coolman added acidly.
“You men!”
“Go make your phone call,” Burton said to Coolman. “I’ll expect you back here in five minutes.”
For privacy Coolman hustled halfway down the block. He tried Amp’s super-secret cell number, but there was no answer. Coolman left a long message relating what he knew about the death on the Conch Train, adding: “Buck’s in the deepest of shit, dude. He’s gonna need a lawyer, so call me back ASAP.”
Burton was huddling with his Key West counterparts, so Coolman went looking for Merry. He found her speaking to a tall, lean man with a baked-in Florida tan.
“Say hello to Inspector Yancy,” Merry said.
Except for the blue hospital gloves, Yancy was dressed more like a bartender than a detective. And he smelled like grass.
“Are you in Homicide?” Coolman asked doubtfully.
“No, I’m on loan from another agency.”
“Buck Nance didn’t kill anyone, okay? The whole idea is ludicrous. You’ve seen his TV show, right?”
“Indeed I have.”
“Well, then, you know,” said Coolman, “he couldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Still it doesn’t look good. Let’s be honest.” Yancy swung a saddish gaze toward the body tarp. “Mr. Nance doesn’t have a reputation for cultural tolerance. I watched one of the videos from the Parched Pirate. Talk about making a poor impression.”
“Andrew wants to take us to dinner,” Merry said. “He knows an oyster bar we can walk to from here.”
So it’s Andrew already? thought Coolman. Jesus, she doesn’t waste any time.
He told Yancy he didn’t do shellfish because he was hyper-all
ergic.
Merry sighed. “Then order a freaking cheeseburger, Bob. Let’s just get out of here, okay?”
Yancy looked amused. “ ‘Bob’? I thought your name was Lane.”
“Inside joke,” Coolman growled.
“Tell me what happened to that car you rented. The silver Buick—the one they towed from the Sears lot.”
“What? Oh.” Coolman glanced anxiously at Merry, who was unfazed and in his opinion standing too close to Yancy. “I, uh, backed into a tree.”
“At about forty miles an hour, from the looks of it.”
“I don’t…who do you work for, Inspector?”
Coolman was saved from Yancy by Detective Burton, who led him to a quiet area and asked too many questions. He tried to hide his surprise when Burton brought up Zeto’s name, and he asserted he’d never met the man. Likewise he played dumb when the detective mentioned Buck’s Green Room manifesto. Coolman guessed it had fallen from his pocket during the kidnapping, but to Burton he feigned bafflement.
When the subject of the damaged rental car arose, Coolman stuck with the lie about hitting a tree. He didn’t wish to complicate his mission, which was to find Buck and bring him back to Los Angeles. Burton undoubtedly would have been entertained by a truthful account of the crash, especially Merry Mansfield’s razor antics, but with lust on his mind Coolman decided to shield her from the authorities. Later he could have kicked himself for being such a sucker.
Because after the detective finished interviewing him, Coolman went looking for his redheaded companion—and she was gone. She’d waltzed off to dine with her new friend, Inspector Yancy.
Just the two of them, of course.
TEN
On the fourteenth of February, unseasonably hot and calm, Martin Trebeaux and Dominick “Big Noogie” Aeola boarded a New York–bound flight at Miami International. Trebeaux was dragged down the concourse by an inbred Irish setter wearing a blaze-orange vest stamped: “Working Service Dog.” The setter had no special training whatsoever; in fact, it barely responded to its own name, which was “John.” Trebeaux had purchased the official-looking vest for thirty-four dollars online, no documentation required. A shrink who lived in Trebeaux’s building had composed a letter for the airlines saying Trebeaux was emotionally unfit to travel unless accompanied by a “comfort animal,” specifically John.