—
Benjamin Krill grew up in Palatka, on the St. Johns River in northern Florida. His mother attributed his lawless misbehavior to breathing fumes from the local pulp mills, though Benny’s siblings had inhaled the same rancid air and grown up to be productive citizens with legitimate jobs. In fact, his brother worked deep inside the plant that manufactured scented maxi-pads, and he was healthy as a boar hog. Benny’s sister owned a bridal boutique and was a prodigy at pinochle. Benny, the eldest, was incarcerated regularly and upon being freed would promptly resume stealing until he got caught again. This had gone on for twenty-seven years in jurisdictions stretching from Jacksonville to Naples. Benny had been tagged with the nickname “Blister” after backing into a pot of hot chowder while burglarizing the kitchen of a homeless shelter in New Smyrna. His parboiled, abscessed buttocks had drawn raucous and mostly unwelcome attention in the showers at the Volusia County lockup, and from then on “Blister” was listed as a primary AKA on his rap sheet. The judge in the New Smyrna case, unmoved by the defendant’s second-degree disfigurement, slapped him with eighteen months.
Like many career criminals, Benny Krill suffered from a deficiency of ambition that left him content in midlife to be slim-jimming cars and looting mobile homes. That is, until the night he went to see Buck Nance’s show at the Parched Pirate.
When his idol bolted in panic from the bar that night, Blister’s only thought was to rescue Buck and comfort him. It had turned into a kidnapping only after Buck acted surly and unappreciative. His claim that he and his brothers were actually accordion players from Wisconsin was so lame that Blister felt insulted. He and Captain Cock were plainly cut from the same Deep Southern cloth—why would the man deny it? And why the hell would he hide his Cajun accent? What was he ashamed of?
Equally upsetting was Buck’s apathetic response to Blister’s tribute tattoos and treasured collection of Nance-feathered trout flies. The disavowing attitude displayed by the leader of the Nances disappointed Blister, and gave rise to the boldest criminal scheme ever to spring from his stunted imagination: He would trade his two high-value hostages, Buck and Buck’s manager, for a role on Bayou Brethren as a newfound Nance brother named Spiro.
For all its daring, the plan was also laughably, fatally absurd. Later his mother would tell reporters that it proved she was right about living downwind from the paper mills—all those toxic vapors obviously stewed poor Benny’s brain cells. A goddamn squirrel had more sense.
“This is a cool-ass ride,” Blister commented, lounging in the back of the Cadillac limousine.
Buck Nance said, “You shouldn’t have chased off Mr. Windsor. That wasn’t too bright.”
“Is that how you talk to the man with the gun?”
“That’s how I talk to the man that just wiped his ass with my future.”
Lane Coolman told them both to chill. “I left a message for Amp telling him to get here as soon as possible. Long as we stick together, we’ll nail this deal. But if you guys keep stomping each other’s nuts, it’s game over. Amp will tell you the same thing. These network people can smell weakness.”
“Know what I smell?” Buck said. “I smell that fuckin’ briefcase in the trunk.”
Not even Coolman had volunteered to wipe the shit off Cree Windsor’s letter so they could review the terms of the contract proposal.
Blister said, “Don’t you boys forget—I’m the only one here ever killed a ISIS.”
Coolman advised him to never again mention what happened on the Conch Train.
“We need a new ride,” Buck said grimly.
The black stretch Cadillac was drawing stares at every intersection. Blister seemed to be enjoying the attention. Coolman was glued to his cell re-reading a text from Smegg, his divorce lawyer. Rachel’s team had told the judge that her husband skipped town; she was demanding a contempt order and an arrest warrant.
“I’m in deep shit back home,” Coolman fretted to no one in particular.
Blister cackled as he snatched another Jack Daniel’s miniature from the limo’s minibar, illuminated by an inset string of violet LEDs. “This car’s a total pussy magnet,” he said. “Let’s just drive ’round and see what happens.”
Buck stared at this degenerate ambassador for his own popularity wondering how many other Brethren fans were homicidal nut-job stalkers. Maybe it’s time to quit the show and go fishin’, he thought for the first time since Blister had removed his handcuffs. Dump the family. Move into the condo with Miracle. He wasn’t sure how much money he had in the bank—five, six million bucks? Krystal would grab half, but so be it. An unhurried, unexamined existence looked pretty sweet to Buck. A life free from soggy collard greens, rooster shit and all those fucking TV cameras in his face.
He heard Blister Krill tell the limo driver to stop the car. “I gotta piss.”
The driver, a Cuban man with salt-and-pepper hair, began looking for a gas station.
“No, man, pull over now,” Blister told him. “I can’t hold it no more.”
They ended up on a narrow street, the limo pulling over in front of a plain one-story house with Bahama shutters. From the outside they could see the wall of one room pulsing with colors from a massive flat-screen.
Blister stepped out of the Cadillac. He leaned against a fender to balance himself while he urinated, holding the gun in one hand and his pecker in the other. Inside the limo, Buck elbowed Lane Coolman, testing his interest in making a run for it. Coolman didn’t respond; he was busy trading texts with Smegg.
Buck slid himself up the long bench seat until he was right behind the driver.
“Let’s go,” he whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“Take off. Hurry.”
“But, sir—”
“It’s all right. Go!” Buck said.
The evening stillness was broken by a flame-blue flash and an ear-splitting pop. Buck dove to the floor of the car. Coolman landed beside him, shielding his head with both arms and squeaking like a hamster.
The car door flew open and Blister Krill dove inside. He ordered the driver to hit the gas.
Buck sat up beet-faced and ranting.
Blister said, “Chill out, bro. I shot the damn mailbox is all.”
“Why in the name of fuck would you do that?”
“To see what it’s like. Pullin’ a live trigger.”
Buck stared incredulously. “This is the first time you ever fired a gun? And you live in Florida?”
Coolman scooted to the opposite end of the limo, as far as possible from the pistol in Blister’s hand. Framed in the rearview mirror was the stoic Cuban driver, assessing his disorderly passengers. The driver’s lips moved and Blister yelled, “What’d you say, Pablo?”
“Están grandes pendejos,” the driver repeated cordially.
“What? Talk American, goddammit.”
The driver, who of course spoke perfect English, said, “Where to now, gentlemen?”
—
Rogelio Burton hung around until the other cops were gone. “The truth, please,” he said wearily to Yancy. “For old times’ sake.”
“Like I said, it was a random home invasion.”
The detective gestured at the splintered remnants of the for-sale sign. “You were attacked by marauding realtors?”
Yancy shrugged. “It’s a cutthroat business, Rog.”
“You’re full of shit. They’re bouncers from South Beach.”
“I knew it! Pinheads,” said Merry Mansfield.
“And where were you when mild-mannered Mr. Yancy flipped out?” Burton asked her.
“Soon as we pulled up to the house, Andrew spotted somebody inside. He told me to drop him off, wait ten minutes and dial 911. I only waited five.”
Burton went to the kitchen and came back with a beer. “One for the road,” he said. “I’m going home to work on my memo for the sheriff.”
Yancy said, “Okay, Rog, you win. Sonny doesn’t need to know about this.”
“Th
en keep talking.”
“That slimy TV lawyer who bought the land next door—name’s Richardson—now he wants me to sell him my house, and I said no way. Apparently the Calusas had a dental clinic on his property five thousand years ago. There’s sacred Indian teeth all over the place, so now Richardson can’t build on the lot. What are the odds, huh?”
Burton said, “Your neighbors always have the worst luck.”
“Seems that way.”
“So you think this lawyer hired those two fuckwits who broke in tonight.”
“They didn’t deny it. I intend to press charges, too.”
“That would make my year,” Burton said.
“I sure don’t want a guy like Richardson living next to me.”
“You don’t want anybody living next to you, Andrew, except lizards and land crabs.”
“I like the deer on the island.”
Merry said, “That’s true. He’s very fond of the deer.”
Burton opened the beer. “Did you rip your stitches whaling on those bozos?”
Yancy pointed at his shirt. “You see any blood? I’m doing just fine.”
Burton turned to Merry. “It’s probably good that you’re here.”
“Well, I’m leaving tomorrow. Andrew won’t sleep with me.”
“He’s not being noble. That’s just an act.”
“About tonight,” Yancy said to Burton, “what do you plan to tell our excitable sheriff?”
“As little as possible. He’s got a big fundraiser tomorrow at the San Carlos.”
“Put me down for a dollar.”
After Burton left, Yancy hitched the boat trailer to his car. When he handed Merry’s fleece to her, she said, “Wait. We’re seriously going fishing in the dark?”
“Not fishing.”
Yancy drove to the Old Wooden Bridge lodge and put the skiff in the water. He’d brought the handheld spotlight though he didn’t need it; a bright half-moon hung in a clear deep sky. He steered with one hand and rested the other on the throttle. Merry’s hair was flying everywhere so she pulled it into a ponytail. It occurred to Yancy that, in the time they’d known each other, he hadn’t once seen her look at her cell phone. She never texted, tweeted, Facebooked, Instagrammed, or posted a single picture when they were together. He found this behavior alluring.
The breeze was light but cool, the tide rising. No other boat was in sight. After a short ride he staked the skiff in the shallows at Porpoise Key, a place he’d never taken Rosa. A honey glaze from the sodium lights of Miami rimmed the northern horizon.
Merry said the sky was amazing. “Where are we, Andrew?”
“Church. That’s how it feels to me.”
“Then we need music.” Finally she appraised her phone, scrolling through the playlists. “I vote for Charlie Parker.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Yancy said. “Come sit here.”
“What, you don’t like Bird?”
“Bird’s the best. Come here, please.”
Merry settled beside him on the poling platform. Due east a stream of cars and trucks flickered on the long bridge at Bahia Honda. When Yancy was buzzed, the headlights looked like regimental fireflies, but tonight he was dead sober, adrenalized from his run-in with the bouncers.
“You miss Rosa. That’s allowed,” Merry said.
“Yet here I am alone with you.”
“Hey, I’ve been missed by guys, too. Trust me—I’ve broken the hardest of hearts, dudes way tougher and hotter than you. Though I will say this: You’re a good kisser even when you’re not cooperating.”
“Tell me why you got that tattoo.”
“The ‘A.Y.’ is what’s got you worried, I bet. Well, guess what. It doesn’t really stand for Andrew Yancy. It stands for ‘All Yours.’ For when I meet the right man.”
She stood up to take off the fleece. Next to vanish was her blouse and then the cutoffs. Yancy found himself eye-to-eye with the perky bumblebee.
“Hello cutie,” he said.
She turned and lowered gently onto his lap until their faces were inches apart, and she slipped both arms around him. “How’s the boo-boo on your tummy?”
“Cured. This is better than a trip to Lourdes.”
“Wait, I don’t want to poke you.” She unfastened some sort of ring from one of her nipples and flicked it overboard.
Yancy said, “This is the first time those pelicans ever heard a jazz saxophone.” He recognized the tune as “Dexterity,” manic and carefree.
“What pelicans, Andrew?”
“They’re roosting up in the mangroves. I can show you with the spotlight.”
“No, let ’em sleep. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Nothing. Except I haven’t heard a word from her in four days.”
“I know,” said Merry. “I go through your phone at night while you’re in the shower.”
Yancy was annoyed at himself for not being more annoyed. He realized he was about to do the very thing that Merry had been predicting since the day she’d turned up at his house. It was tempting to blame Charlie Parker and the starry moment, but Yancy couldn’t cut himself any slack. The romantic boat ride had been his idea, not Merry’s. Nor could he pretend to be shocked that she’d wiggled out of her clothes. In his love life Yancy specialized in devising scenarios that could lead only to unwise decisions.
It was hard to picture an even-keeled relationship with a person who took her last name from a dead movie star and crashed automobiles half-naked for a living. Yancy himself was no paragon of dependability, as he was keenly aware. Ninety-six hours of radio silence from a faraway girlfriend wasn’t a green light to stray, yet his hands felt perfectly at home cupping another woman’s bare ass. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was a hopelessly shallow horndog.
Merry said, “I predict Rosa calls tomorrow. She’s probably just skiing—the cell service is suck-y in the mountains.”
“You’ve been to Norway, have you?”
“Sugarbush. Same difference.” She shifted in a significant way on his lap.
“That feels nice,” he said.
“No, a puppy licking your toes feels ‘nice.’ What you’re experiencing, mister, is transcendental contact.”
A goner, he kissed her on the mouth. “Now you can say you told me so.”
Merry laughed softly. “Men. I swear.”
“You want me to stop?”
“What do you want to do, Andrew?”
“Rock the boat.”
“Then hang on,” she said.
TWENTY
The sex lasted a long time.
Forty-three minutes, according to Deb’s Fitbit. Forty-three minutes and 167 calories.
Afterward she hit the nail salon, Starbucks and Whole Foods. When she returned home, she was surprised to see Brock Richardson’s newest Carerra still parked in the driveway. He was supposed to be at the office taping a new Pitrolux litigation commercial.
Deb carried the grocery bags into the kitchen, where she found him wearing a long-sleeved shirt, cross-striped necktie and no pants. With clenched buttocks he stood in front of a blood-pressure monitor, the portable type sold at drugstores. He had placed his cock inside the compression cuff, which was emitting a deep hum.
“Wow,” said Deb, “this is new.”
“Something’s wrong down there. It’s still hard as a rock and I can’t make it go away.”
“So, you aren’t actually boning the…”
“God, no! I just want to make sure I’m not having a damn heart attack.” He showed her the flashing numerals on the machine. “One-thirty over eighty. That means everything’s okay.”
“Listen to me, Brock. If you’re taking your blood pressure with your wiener, you are the opposite of okay.”
He unfastened the Velcro strap and carefully withdrew from the inflated sleeve. Deb put him under a cold shower for ten minutes, yet his erection failed to flag. Next she made him dunk his junk in a bucket of ice cubes, with the same result.
/> She said, “For God’s sake, how much of that crap did you use?”
“Same as always.” Richardson’s teeth were chattering.
“Tell the truth.”
“It’s all for you, babe. I did it for you.”
Deb refilled her e-cig with nicotine syrup and took a drag. After the humiliating accident she’d switched to a brand of vaporizer that was advertised as fireproof. Meanwhile Richardson had contacted a lawyer pal and gotten her name added to a brewing class-action against the manufacturer of the first device. As a gesture of devotion he’d offered to waive his usual percentage of the settlement.
“You’re not going to the office with a stiffy,” Deb said. She suspected he was cheating on her with one and probably both of his brunette assistants.
“I’ll wear bicycle shorts under my pants. Maybe it’ll all fit.”
“Don’t be gross.” She grabbed a bath towel and tossed it across his groin, where it waggled like a crippled kite. She proposed a trip to the emergency room.
“Has it been four hours?” Richardson checked his watch. “Four hours is when they say to panic.”
“Then we’ll wait here together.” Deb opened a book and vaped on her plastic ciggie. If not for her own clandestine escapades—the kayak instructor, the Tantric landscaper, her stepsister’s podiatrist, and so on—she would have pressed more aggressively the issue of her fiancé’s infidelity.
“Swear to Christ, I’m gonna quit cold turkey,” Richardson vowed, referring to the Pitrolux. “This is getting freaky.”
Getting? Deb thought.
She had mixed feelings about the potent gel. It was indisputably harmful, as evidenced by the weird baby schlongs sprouting in her lover’s armpits. On the positive side, his performance in bed had become so stellar that it served to counterbalance the repellent facets of his personality. She could envision a medium-length marriage—say five to seven years—based solely on the attractions of sex and money. She feared the future might not be so tolerable if Brock kicked the Pitrolux habit. He had spoiled her.