The lovestruck pouchies were going hard at it again, this time with high-pitched pornographic audio. Yancy picked up the nail shooter, which was fully charged. Overhead the gulls scolded and the buzzards circled in silence. To the west, the Gulf waters glinted like green crystal, as far as the eye could see. It was a glorious day to be doing almost anything else.
Yancy planned to burn his clothes when he got home.
TWENTY-FOUR
The Gulfstream jet leased by Platinum Artists touched down at Key West International carrying Jon David Ampergrodt. He was accompanied by his occasional “security assistant,” a man called Prawney, who was tall, bald and African American. These characteristics were practically mandatory at the security firm that employed Prawney; many of its celebrity clients were white, and white celebrities always wanted big, shiny, black muscle. It was a status thing. Prawney was introduced to clients as ex-NFL or ex-military, when actually his background was the culinary arts. For years he was a salad chef at Morton’s before opening his own Mediterranean restaurant in Long Beach. Despite a well-reviewed debut and excellent word-of-mouth, Prawney’s lively taverna shut down abruptly after only two months. A shipment of spoiled Greek octopuses is what put him out of business, incapacitating in one disastrous night Sarah Silverman, Josh Brolin’s tax accountant and half the cast of Empire. Crestfallen and broke, Prawney was steered by a Jamaican weightlifter friend to the security company, which hired him after a thorough background check. He shaved his skull, hit the gym and soon thereafter began work as a bodyguard. Never in his life had he thrown a punch.
“Prawney, where the hell is my ride?” Amp asked when they stepped off the plane.
“Right there, sir.”
“No, that’s a Hummer. Nobody rides in Hummers anymore, not even the Russians.”
“Nothing else was available on the island,” Prawney said.
“Make it go away.”
They ended up cabbing it to the Pier House, where Platinum had booked a top-floor suite for Amp. He waited at the door while Prawney inspected the rooms. From the windows you could see the main harbor channel, a mad derby of yachts, Jet Skis and fishing boats. It was Prawney’s first trip to Florida.
“Why isn’t Lane answering his goddamn phone?” Amp griped.
He was so worried about the meeting that he’d asked Prawney to bring a gun. The security firm expected every “in-country” employee to have a California concealed-weapons permit, which Prawney was able to obtain only because marksmanship skills weren’t required. He was a lousy shot, and avoided practicing on the pistol range because the noise hurt his eardrums. Prawney believed his height, girth and stony demeanor were adequate deterrents to trouble; the firearm was just a prop. He rarely bothered to clean the secondhand Glock that stayed snapped in the plastic holster under his suit jacket.
“Maybe Mr. Coolman left a message at the front desk,” he said to Amp.
“Call down there and find out. Tell ’em to send up some sushi, too.”
During the flight Amp had briefed Prawney about the deal meeting. Lane Coolman would be there with Buck Nance, a redneck TV personality who was a valuable Platinum client. Prawney had never watched Bayou Brethren because reruns of Hell’s Kitchen aired at the same time on another channel. Amp described Buck as a harmless poser, no threat whatsoever.
The wild card in the group—and the reason Amp brought Prawney for protection—was a middle-aged white male who would be introduced as either Spiro or Deerbone. Amp described him as breathtakingly stupid, hotheaded and armed. So far the only thing he’d shot was a mailbox, but Amp wanted Prawney to confiscate his weapon before the meeting.
“How big is this dude?” Prawney asked while they waited for room service.
“Cree says he looks like a freaking scarecrow. He keeps that pistol in the waist of his pants.”
“Not a problem.”
“Lane says the man is racially intolerant.”
“Intolerant, or insensitive?”
“A full-on drooling bigot,” said Amp. “Just a heads-up.”
“I appreciate that.”
The sushi rolls were made with local yellowfin. Prawney admired the presentation, the frisky choice of radish sprouts instead of alfalfa. Amp ate two rolls and left one for Prawney.
Coolman called while Amp was taking a shower. Prawney answered the phone.
“I thought Mr. Ampergrodt was coming alone,” Coolman said in a low voice.
“Is there a problem? I’ll have him get back to you right away.”
“Tell him Deerbone wants a ride in the G5.”
“Where to?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just circle the Keys for a while. The yahoo’s never been up in a plane.”
“I understand.”
“One more thing…” Coolman was practically whispering now. “…he’s carrying a gun.”
“Me, too,” said Prawney.
“Good. Can I sit next to you?”
—
Deb was driving the cherry-reddest of Brock’s Porsches when he called to tell her about his upcoming meeting with the mob boss at a place called Higgs Beach.
“And you think he’s going to return the diamond? Incredible,” she said.
“Have some faith, for once. Don’t be so goddamn negative.”
Deb didn’t tell him she was on her way to the Keys. She planned to surprise him at the hotel later, if her plan worked out.
Yancy was hosing down a small boat on a trailer when she pulled up to his house. From the glove box of the Porsche she removed a bag of potent reefer, which she waved under Yancy’s nose as she breezed up the steps, through the front door.
He trailed her inside, where she opened with: “Can you please change the music? Or at least turn it down?”
“The answer would be a hard no. That’s Mr. Sonny Landreth on the slide guitar.” Yancy beelined for the couch.
“God, what’s that smell?” Deb said.
“I was burning something in the backyard.”
“Not a body, I hope.” She stripped down to her bra and a spidery thong selected for the occasion. The heels she left on while she rolled a joint from her stash. She took a hit and joined Yancy on the couch.
“I know I came on way too strong the night we met, but I was so freaked about losing my diamond that I was ready to do whatever, basically anything, to get it back. Most guys—to be honest?—wouldn’t say no to a free BJ. Still, I shouldn’t have gotten so mad.”
“So, you’ve returned to make amends. In your underwear.”
She said, “Tonight I intend to do a proper seduction. Give me a chance to show off a little, okay?”
“Your timing’s not great. Also, I don’t have your engagement ring anymore, as you surely must know. It was removed from the premises by two gorillas.”
Deb took Yancy’s left hand and placed it between her legs. His free hand reached up and plucked the joint from her lips. “So this isn’t about the diamond,” he said.
“No, that’s Brock’s project. Tomorrow he’s meeting with an actual gangster to ask for the ring back, if you can imagine.”
Yancy smiled. “You must mean Dominick.”
“I don’t know the guy’s name. I don’t care to know.”
“No offense, Deborah, but my arm’s falling asleep.”
“I drove all the way from Miami,” she said, “to persuade you to sell us your house. That is, if Brock survives his Mafia beach party.”
Yancy said he’d heard about the hassle with the archeologist over the Indian teeth found on their property. “But, Deborah, I’m not selling you my house as a backup.”
She tightened her thighs and offered him twenty percent above market value.
“I can’t move my fingers,” he said.
“This place is a total tear-down. Get yourself something bigger, with a pool.”
Yancy yanked his hand free. “I like it here. I’m not leaving.”
She stood up trying to tug him toward the bedroom, but he didn’t bu
dge.
“It wouldn’t feel right,” he said. “I’m already in a relationship—possibly two—and you’re engaged to the man of your dreams.”
“Oh please. This is a fucking real-estate deal.”
He stubbed out the doobie. “Did you honestly think this approach would work? I mean, knowing what you know about me—this is what you came up with?”
“It’s my go-to move,” Deb said, popping out of her bra.
“You don’t want to live in this neighborhood, trust me.”
“The view from your lot’s way nicer than ours. I was thinking Cape Dutch architecture.”
“Sorry to interrupt, sweetie, but we’ve got company. No sudden moves, please.”
She turned her head and let out a cry of fright. Two twitchy bat-eared intruders stood upright on the glass coffee table. They swayed slightly sniffing the air, using their long white tails for balance. It appeared to Deb that the creatures were preparing to leap.
“Gambian pouched rats,” Yancy whispered. “They must’ve chewed through the drywall. This whole damn island’s crawling with ’em.”
Deb tensed up, trembling. She folded her arms across her chest.
Yancy told her to be cool. “They can smell fear. Also brie. They go beast-mode over brie.”
“I fucking hate rats. And, Jesus, they’re so big!”
“Don’t piss ’em off, just stay calm. Here’s what we’ll do—I’ll distract ’em while you make a run for the car. Count of three, okay?”
“Are they f-f-fast?”
“Whatever happens, Deborah, don’t look back. Even if you hear me screaming, begging, weeping, do not look back. Ready? One…two…”
She kicked free of her Jimmy Choos and flew out the door. The keys were in the Porsche, thank God.
—
Mona had taken a job at Stoney’s, walking distance from the duplex. Brennan gave her a fifteen-minute break to speak with Detective Rogelio Burton, who was at a four-top by himself. Mona sat down saying, “I ain’t seen him since the last time you asked.”
“Has he called?”
“No, and you can tap my damn telephone, I don’t care. Benny’s gone.”
Burton had ordered a fish sandwich, which he pushed aside after one bite. “That’s not mahi,” he said. “That’s fried vinyl.”
Mona shrugged. “I bring my own lunch.”
“There’s no warrant out for Benny yet. We just want to speak with him about what happened on the Conch Train. Get his side of the story.”
“Bullshit. You wanna haul his ass to jail.”
“He knifed a man, as well,” the detective said, “a crime you witnessed with your own eyes.”
“You married?”
“Sixteen years.”
“A million bucks says you wouldn’t never snitch out your wife, no matter what she done.” Mona tapped two fingers sharply on the table. “ ’Cause she’s everything to you, right? Your whole world.”
Burton laid a twenty on the table and stood up. “If you really care about Benny, tell him to come see me.”
Mona appreciated that the detective didn’t refer to Benny as Blister. It showed he respected her as Benny’s wife. Still she said, “I got no clue where he’s at.”
“Think about it, please. Unless he does the right thing, his future is grim.”
“I ain’t so sure that’s true,” said Mona. “You want change back?”
After work she went home, got dressed up and rode her bike to a Chevron station on the main highway. Minutes later a steel-blue van with tinted windows pulled up. The doors slid open and Benny’s head popped out. “Hop in, Baby Buns!” he said.
As soon as Mona sat down, he placed a cold rum runner in her hand.
“I thought you said limo,” she said.
“This is a limo. A limo van—made by Mercedes-Benz! It came from a place on Miami Beach.”
“Do I look like a fool, Benny Krill?”
“No, this is the new hot thing. They call it a Sprinter. Right, boys?”
Benny’s Hollywood agent was in the back of the van along with the man they said was Buck Nance. Mona asked the agent if Benny was still going to be on the Bayou Brethren show.
“Absolutely,” Lane Coolman said. “I’m thinking we might have a place in the cast for you, too.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Just being yourself, Mrs. Krill.”
“Would I get fifty grand a week same as Benny?”
Benny cut in: “Don’t worry, Mr. C. She ain’t serious.”
“Screw you. What if I am?” said Mona.
Buck started coughing and told the driver to open the windows. “Somebody put on too much damn perfume.”
It was the fanciest van Mona had ever ridden in. The seats were soft tan leather and the carpet smelled brand-new. There was a bar and a flat-screen, like in the real car limos that movie stars used. Mona felt underdressed in her blue-jean skirt and cowgirl shirt with snap buttons.
“My TV name is Deerbone,” Benny told her. “Best you start callin’ me that.”
“What on earth does it mean? Deerbone.”
“It’s just a name. Same as Buck or Clee Roy.”
“Where’d you get them clothes?” she asked.
All three men were wearing untucked tropical shirts and khaki-style pants. Mona felt like she’d stepped into the Tommy Bahama at the outlet mall.
Benny said, “Mr. C took us all shoppin’. Gotta look fly for the meet-up with the boss man.” He winked at Mona. “On his private jet plane.”
“Oh, no way,” she said.
“Oh yeah. I tole you these people were serious.”
After a lifetime of being disappointed by men, Mona felt herself longing to believe that this time was different, that Benny was really truly going to be a cable TV star. She asked if she could come onto the plane, too, but Buck didn’t seem okay with that.
“Maybe next time,” said Benny.
She sniggered. “Oh sure. What next time?”
Coolman said, “Of course you can join us on the jet, Mrs. Krill. Things are happening pretty fast, aren’t they? Big things. Good things.”
The van accelerated suddenly and made a neck-twisting turn. Coolman scooted forward and spoke under his breath to the driver.
“He thinks we’re being followed,” Coolman reported to the others, Buck nodding ruefully.
“It’s those goddamn tabloids. They ride my white ass all over creation,” he said.
The group turned to watch out the back window. There were no cars behind them on the road now, but the driver hadn’t been imagining things. It wasn’t a tabloid photographer who’d been tailing the Sprinter; it was Andrew Yancy.
He was so baked he shouldn’t have been driving a lawn mower, much less a car. He should have stayed home to recapture the Gambian pouchies that he couldn’t bring himself to shoot. The mega-rats had escaped by deftly unlatching the door of the trap, which Yancy had hidden in a closet before he went outside to burn his clothes. Now the animals were roaming his house, raiding his cabinets, gnawing his baseboards, fucking in his laundry basket, shitting up a storm. It was a health inspector’s nightmare.
And while he had not staged the creepy rodent tango on his coffee table, Yancy had shamelessly taken advantage of the spectacle, to speed along Deb’s departure. Later, on the drive to Key West, he’d passed her bright red Porsche stopped on Summerland Key. She appeared quite animated in the driver’s seat, probably trying to explain to the state trooper why she was speeding topless in thong panties down the Overseas Highway. On the plus side, she’d left her bag of primo weed at Yancy’s place.
His destination was Stock Island because he wanted to keep an eye on Blister Krill, in case Lane Coolman lost control of the nitwit. Expecting Blister to return for Mona, Yancy staked out the duplex, parking the Subaru behind a shrimp truck at the end of the block. To kill time, he sorted through the jumbled contents of his billfold searching for the business card of Rocko Gibralter Document Disposal. It wa
s stuck between two five-dollar bills, the highest denomination in Yancy’s possession. He dialed the number, a Miami mobile exchange, and left a message. He honestly didn’t expect a callback from the mobster with the rowdy service dog.
Mona emerged from the duplex and climbed on her bicycle. Yancy followed slowly in the car, hanging back a few blocks. She pedaled to the Chevron, locked her bike to a newspaper rack and went to stand by the diesel pump. Yancy was spying from a nearby parking lot when she climbed into a blue Mercedes van, which proceeded at a suspiciously lawful speed toward Key West. Although Yancy felt reasonably alert, the pot definitely had affected his rolling surveillance skills. The van driver figured out they were being tailed, and made a wild-ass turn off Flagler Avenue. Yancy continued straight in hopes of appearing uninterested and no threat, just another set of headlights on the road. His idea was to pull off at Habana Plaza and wait for the van to reappear, Flagler being one of the main drags into town.
Yancy spotted the shopping center and changed lanes, but at that instant an oncoming car veered across the center line speeding directly toward him. He yanked the wheel hard and boot-heeled the accelerator, trying to squirt out of the other driver’s path. The lunatic missed him by inches, Yancy’s Subaru jouncing over a concrete curb and rattling to a stop in a dense row of bougainvilleas. He wasn’t hurt, although a hot twinge in his abdomen reminded him of the stab wound. Not wishing to attract first responders, he swiftly backed out of the shrubbery, thorns screaking on the paint of the Subaru. Meanwhile the other vehicle, some generic sedan, sat perfectly aligned on the shoulder of the road, comfortably clear of traffic. The car looked like either a Dodge or a Chrysler, metallic gold. The door was open and Yancy heard music blaring—“What Kind of Man,” by Florence and the Machine.
I should’ve guessed, he thought.
Merry Mansfield stepped out of the sedan and waved.
“Miss me?” she called.
“Are you insane!”
“Look who’s talkin’. Let’s go for a spin.”
The car was an eleven-year-old Chrysler 300. “A marvel of engineering,” Merry said. “Comes with its own chiropractor. Somebody gave it to me for a bang job in Boca next week. They already yanked the airbags.”