Razor Girl

  Trebeaux chuckled. “At the pool?”

  “No, on the seawall. Chewin’ a mango!” She placed a hand at knee-level to dramatize the creature’s height.

  Big Noogie looked doubtful. “Even Bronx rats ain’t that big.” Trebeaux said it was probably an opossum.

  Juveline said, “I know what I saw. Both a you’s can kiss my ass.”

  Trebeaux was covertly checking out her enormous bare feet, pink as boiled hams. Juveline appraised him over the rims of Gucci shades.

  “When you leavin’ for Havana?” Big Noogie asked.

  “Soon as they okay my visa. I’ll need some cash for expenses.” Trebeaux didn’t expect Big Noogie to say yes, but there was no harm in trying.

  “Pay your own damn way. You’ll get it back when the deal’s done.” Big Noogie handed a fritter to Juveline, who tore into it like a hyena.

  Trebeaux thanked Big Noogie for sending his guys to rough up Brock Richardson’s neighbor about the missing diamond ring. “Too bad they didn’t find it,” Trebeaux said.

  “Yeah. Too bad.”

  “Can you believe that asshole won’t sell his house? The neighbor I’m talking about. The ex-cop. Even after your guys totally trash his place, he tells my lawyer friend to fuck off, it’s not for sale.”

  “Some balls,” said Big Noogie.

  Obviously the mobster didn’t give a shit one way or the other, so Trebeaux dropped the subject. After lunch Juveline headed back to the seawall with a mission to photograph the mutant rat. Big Noogie was going deep-sea fishing though he extended no invitation. Trebeaux told him that Hemingway’s marlin boat, the Pilar, was a popular tourist attraction in Cuba.

  “You ain’t a tourist. You’re on business,” Big Noogie reminded him, and went to change into sportsman garb he’d purchased online from Bass Pro.

  An hour later, somebody knocked on the door of Trebeaux’s hotel room. It was Juveline, wearing white short-shorts and a stressed tangerine halter. She asked Trebeaux if he was in the mood to be fucked into a coma. He said totally. She kicked off her sandals and began riding him so violently that he feared his hip sockets would crack. During the tumult a wooden slat succumbed beneath the box spring, yet somehow the bed frame remained intact. The sand man never lost consciousness and clearly heard Juveline say, before departing:

  “Baby, you kiss like a blowfish on batteries.”

  For a long time he lay there sticky and sore, contemplating the foolishness of what he’d done. On the Death Wish scale of one-to-ten, screwing a Mafia capo’s girlfriend was like a seventeen. That the capo also happened to be your new business partner further magnified the risk. On a positive note, Trebeaux sensed it wasn’t Juveline’s first foray to a stranger’s bed, which meant she was experienced at deceiving Big Noogie. If she weren’t a skilled cheater, Trebeaux reasoned, she would already be dead.

  Later he showered, shaved and walked to a restaurant called Clippy’s, glowingly recommended by the hotel’s rooftop bartender. While waiting to be seated, Trebeaux saw a man emerge from the women’s restroom carrying an aluminum pole with a rubber snatch-noose attached to one end. The maître d’ said there was a clogged pipe, which Trebeaux found amusing due to the indigo stitching on the so-called plumber’s shirt: Monroe County Animal Control.

  For wine Trebeaux selected a French Chardonnay, and for an entrée he chose poached yellowtail on a bed of quinoa. The server stopped by the table no less than a half-dozen times to ask if everything was all right.

  —

  It was Blister’s first ride in a limousine. Giddily he lunged for the minibar.

  Buck Nance used Lane Coolman’s phone to call Krystal. “Baby, I’m coming home soon,” he said.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Aw, don’t be like that.”

  “Wait…now I remember,” said his wife. “You’re the scumbag husband who keeps a whore on the side.”

  “She’s just another stalker. I swear to Christ.”

  “Is Miracle her real name, or is that what her pimp tagged her with?”

  “She’s a total psycho, Krystal. You can’t believe a word she—”

  The line went dead. Buck tossed the phone back to his manager. His life was a war zone—first his mistress and now the entire family had turned against him. Krystal was the only one who had a legitimate cause for being mad. To Miracle he’d made no promises; she knew the score. It was the disloyalty of his three brothers that was so galling; Buck had been the steering force of their careers, from Grand Funk Romberg to the Brawlers to the Brethren. Without his guidance, those ungrateful jerkoffs would still be dragging their accordions to dairy festivals, opening for the bull-semen auction. Buck vowed to use his homecoming sermon at the Chickapaw Tabernacle to address in an evangelical context the betrayal by Junior, Buddy and Clee Roy. He told Lane Coolman to put a writer on the project ASAP.

  The gun on Blister’s lap reminded Buck that technically he was still a captive. Blister was finishing his second Jack-and-water, and he would have gulped a third had the drive to the airport not been so short. Blister fit the gun in the front of his waistband before they stepped out of the limo. The butt of the weapon was hidden by the white guayabera that Coolman had bought for Blister so he wouldn’t look like some vagrant meth head loitering on the tarmac.

  Buck got suspicious when he saw the plane taxi to a stop. It wasn’t the jade-striped Gulfstream that Platinum Artists usually sent; this jet was somewhat smaller, and flat gray in color. Blister, however, was impressed. He tried to snap a picture with his phone but the battery had croaked.

  The person who walked off of the aircraft was not Jon David Ampergrodt, another unsettling surprise for Buck. Coolman introduced the traveler as Cree Windsor, a senior vice president of Platinum.

  “This is Spiro Nance,” Coolman said to Cree Windsor.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Spiro. I’ve heard good things.” Cree Windsor held out his right hand, which Blister eyed as if it were a steaming cowpie.

  “So you ain’t the main man?”

  “Mr. Ampergrodt really wanted to come, but unfortunately a personal matter came up at the last minute. He sent me instead, with his regrets. I brought the latest draft of the terms we’ll be presenting to the network.” Cree Windsor brandished an oxblood briefcase as evidence of his authority.

  “What kinda personal matter?” Blister asked. “Death in the family?”

  Cree Windsor glanced at Coolman for backup and said, “Well, yes, sadly.”

  “Was it his momma or daddy that passed?”

  “Um…I believe it was an aunt.”

  Blister said, “That ain’t good enough. He oughta be here, goddammit.”

  “Mr. Ampergrodt and his aunt were extremely close.”

  “You mean they was, like, doin’ it?”

  “What? No!”

  Short, trim and soft-shouldered, Cree Windsor was preternaturally pale due to an exotic melanin imbalance that defied all tanning sprays. Often he had a hard time convincing clients that he lived in southern California.

  Coolman assured Blister that Mr. Windsor was a major player at the agency, Amp’s second-in-command. Blister stomped around in a huff but nobody heard what he was muttering because a 737 was rolling down the main runway.

  When it was quiet again, Buck Nance asked Cree Windsor to show them the paperwork Amp had sent.

  “Is your lawyer here to review it?” Cree Windsor asked.

  “Not yet,” Coolman interjected. “I’ll do the first pass.”

  Blister fidgeted. “But this dude ain’t even the top man!”

  Cree Windsor balanced the briefcase on one knee and took out a three-page letter, which he handed to Coolman.

  “What’s the story with your hair?” Blister demanded.

  Cree Windsor was rattled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “It don’t move.”

  Buck saw the situation disintegrating fast. “Okay, let’s chill out. The guy flew all the way across the country to get
this thing done.”

  “Windy as hell,” Blister fumed, “and not one fuckin’ hair on his head moves.”

  Plaintively from Cree Windsor: “It’s just product, man.”

  “Product? Is that the same as jizz?”

  Coolman said, “Why don’t we go sit in the limo where it’s quiet? Have a drink while I look over these deal points.”

  Buck said, “Liquor sounds like a damn fine idea.”

  “I got a better one,” Blister sneered, raising his guayabera so that Cree Windsor could see the butt of the pistol. “Get back on that motherfuckin’ airplane and go tell your boss I ain’t doin’ bidness with nobody but him. Tell him hurry up and plant his dead auntie and get his ass down to Key West.”

  Buck felt like grabbing the gun and plugging the moron. What held him back was the fear of blowing his lucrative new network contract; until the ink dried, Blister was Buck’s negotiating leverage, his ace-in-the-hole. Where would Buck find another phony lost twin on short notice?

  “Now, boys, this is gettin’ a little craaaaazy,” Lane Coolman said. “Let’s not forget we’re all on the same team.” His dedication to the agency stopped short of stepping into the potential line of fire between Blister and the shaking Cree Windsor.

  “I ain’t crazy. All I want is respect.” Blister plucked the letter from Coolman’s hand, dropped his pants and wiped himself with the pages, which he then returned to Cree Windsor’s briefcase.

  “What the fuck?” said Buck Nance, clutching his head.

  Cree Windsor kicked the briefcase away and loped toward the jet.

  “Tell Amp we’ll be waiting!” Coolman shouted after him.

  None of this nonsense was witnessed by Andrew Yancy and Merry Mansfield because Yancy’s car had been pulled over on White Street for running a red light, which Yancy agreed had been necessary to keep sight of the Cadillac limousine. Merry showed the cop one of her many driver’s licenses, and he let her off with a warning and a wink. Yancy guessed that the limo had been heading to the airport, and he was correct. Unfortunately, by the time Merry pulled up to the private-aviation terminal, the big black stretch was already departing. Its tinted windows prevented Yancy from seeing that the passengers were still inside.

  He and Merry stood at the chain-link fence watching a gray business jet take off and assuming that Buck Nance, Lane Coolman and Benny the Blister were on board. Yancy entered the terminal, where his roach-patrol laminate failed to impress the attractive silver-haired woman behind the desk. She pleasantly declined to tell him who owned the aircraft, or where it was going.

  When they were back in Yancy’s car, Merry said, “Let’s you and me go celebrate.”

  “What would be the occasion?”

  “Our last night together.”

  “Dinner’s on me,” said Yancy.

  They stopped on Duval so Merry could buy some radical cutoffs that offered a crescent glimpse of her bumblebee tat. Yancy put on the Panama hat that he’d saved from the wreck of the Wet Nurse. They were walking hand-in-hand to Clippy’s when Rogelio Burton finally called back. Yancy gave him the tail numbers of the gray jet. Having a real detective badge, Burton would have no problem obtaining the passenger list. Wherever the plane landed, cops would be waiting for Benjamin Krill.

  Case closed, thought Yancy. Back to the vermin beat for me.

  At the restaurant they were personally seated by Irv Clipowski, who thanked Yancy for allowing him and the mayor to reopen. They had decided not to sue Buck Nance over the beard clippings because his talent agency had spontaneously donated twenty-five thousand dollars to Neil and Clippy’s butterfly preserve in Belize.

  “Straight from the heart,” said Yancy. “What’s the pouchie situation?”

  Clippy said there had been no new sightings of the Gambian goliaths on the premises. “Not one turd, Andrew!”

  Yancy detected a tense hitch in the pronouncement. He ordered Barbancourt-and-Coke. Merry had a vodka tonic. At another table sat a light-haired, fleshy, fish-lipped fellow who was dining alone. Yancy noticed him eyeing Merry, though not in the way most men did.

  “I know that guy,” she said, and rolled a fingertip wave. “Hey, Martin!”

  The fleshy patron turned away and called to get a server’s attention.

  “What’s his story?” Yancy asked Merry.

  “My last job. Obviously they didn’t break his kneecaps, which is huge. The people who hired me, I mean. They were heavy dudes. Poor little Marty was slow to catch on.”

  “So that’s the driver of the second Buick you bashed.”

  “He told me he deals beach sand, Andrew. He said you can call him up, order a whole freaking beach, and he delivers it on a great big boat. Who ever heard of a gig like that?”

  Yancy said, “It’s like printing money. I’m serious.”

  They watched the man named Martin pay his bill and scurry out of the restaurant. He didn’t wave or say hello.

  NINETEEN

  Rick’s career track to nightclub bouncer included Purdue University’s football team, the Cleveland Browns, the Oakland Raiders and finally the Miami Dolphins. He was cut for the last time at age thirty-one, and decided he preferred the climate of South Beach to that of Pontiac, his hometown. It had been a similar path for his friend Rod—University of Iowa, the San Diego Chargers, the Dolphins, the Atlanta Falcons and then back to the Dolphins before blowing out a knee. Like Rick, Rod found no reason to leave Florida after his football days.

  Both men ended up working at a club on Collins Avenue, where they connected with a wealthy weekend customer named Brock, who said he was a lawyer. The bouncers’ first freelance assignment was to terrorize a landscape architect that Brock suspected of teaching Tantric techniques to his fiancée. Rick and Rod visisted the man, who soon afterward shut down his nursery, moved to Clearwater and took a job sculpting hedges for the Church of Scientology. The next time Brock contacted Rick and Rod, he asked them to go chat with the manager of a Hialeah impound lot, where one of Brock’s pristine Porsches had been towed. The vehicle was released after a meeting that lasted barely long enough for Rick to demonstrate the versatility of a common crowbar.

  A scenic drive to Big Pine Key would be the highlight of their third and final mission for the lawyer, a tune-up job for which they’d each been promised a grand. The bouncers had been sent to persuade some hardheaded fool to sell his house to Brock. They were unaware that the recalcitrant homeowner was an ex-cop, or that he might be reckless enough to take on two ex-NFL linemen whose combined weight was five hundred and twenty-five pounds. Through no fault of their own, Rick and Rod arrived unprepared for resistance.

  Brock had supplied a for-sale sign to plant in the homeowner’s front yard, which they did. Brock had explained that the sign was meant to galvanize the man’s decision-making, which made sense to Rick and Rod. Visual aids were often helpful. They were seated on the man’s comfortable new sofa when a car dropped him off and sped away. The man didn’t come inside right away, which should have tipped off the bouncers to trouble. In their defense, it was extremely rare for anyone—even the drunkest jerks at the club—to do anything but wilt when facing Rick and Rod in tandem. As a result, their reflexes were rusty.

  The man they’d been sent to rough up sneaked into his house through a rear door, sprinted yowling into the living room and whacked Rod from behind with the for-sale sign. The wood placard loudly broke apart, leaving Rod slumped unconscious and the attacker holding the sign’s sturdy metal stems, one in each fist. Rick was struggling to elevate his heft from the sofa cushions when he received the first blow. Numerous others followed. He awoke sometime later on the floor, his thick wrists Zip-tied to those of his torpid partner. Their shiny South Beach trousers had been removed and knotted around their ankles.

  Rick noticed that the man who’d overpowered them was tall though not very muscle-bound. He wondered how such a routine dude could have hit them so hard. Possibly the man was high on crystal meth or bath salts. That’s what Ri
ck intended to tell his friends at the gym, when they asked what the fuck had happened to his face.

  The man, wearing a brimmed straw hat, said he was sick and tired of people breaking into his home. “By the way, that diamond ring you’re looking for? It’s gone,” he said. “The first set of assholes took it.”

  “What diamond ring?” Rick asked. “What assholes?”

  “Wiseguys from up North. They were pros, not like you. Ask Brad about ’em,” the man said, “when you call him from jail.”

  “You mean Brock?”

  “Tell him my house isn’t for sale and he needs to get over it.”

  Rod awoke to the wail of approaching sirens and lifted his blood-caked head. “You called the law?”

  “Paramedics, too.”

  Rick said, “What for? Shit, we’re not hurt.” Then: “You didn’t hurt us. No way.”

  “Your friend is bleeding from the ears.”

  “One ear. Big fuckin’ deal.”

  The sheriff’s cars got there first, followed by a pair of ambulances. Rick and Rod were examined, EKG’d, bandaged, cuffed, questioned and gang-hoisted onto stretchers. As they were being lugged out of the house, a Subaru sedan squealed to a stop out front. The driver was a tall breezy redhead in short, short jeans.

  “Andrew!” she cried, running toward the man who’d just tuned up Rick and Rod. The man’s shirt was unbuttoned, and he was peeling a funky wrap of bandages from his midsection. The redhead kissed him so hard that she knocked off his hat.

  “Wow,” she said. “I thought you were dinner, but you were the show!”

  The woman stood on her toes, exposing a vivid bug tattoo beneath her cutoffs, on the creamy curve of her ass. Rick fantasized about it all the way to the hospital, where he faded warmly into darkness following a jumbo dose of Demerol. Rod was already laid out inside an MRI tube, dozing through a scan of his jolted brain. Eight hours later both men were wide awake and eating breakfast, the only inmates in the medical wing of the Stock Island Detention Center. Together they invented an exculpatory version of the night’s events to tell Brock. The other topic of discussion was their NFL retirement package—specifically, whether or not the league’s insurance plan covered injuries sustained while committing a felony.