Yancy felt an icy twisting in his gut.
“That junker Chrysler she had,” Sonny Summers went on, “it came from a repo yard in Liberty City. The registration in the glove box was forged.”
“Okay, but what’s that got to do with me? I was in the vehicle that got smashed, remember? The one that flipped.”
Deep breaths, Yancy was telling himself. Stay cool.
“Do you know the other driver, Andrew?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Three of the witnesses at the scene said they saw you kiss her.”
“Oh, that.” Yancy offered a penitent nod. “We’re talking about an exceptionally good-looking woman, Sonny. I mean overpoweringly attractive. Still, I get that it wasn’t a smart move.”
The sheriff’s expression made clear that his doubts about Yancy’s fitness for duty had once again been validated. “I assume you got her phone number,” he said dryly.
“Nope. Just a kiss.”
“Hope she was worth it.” Sonny Summers signaled for the lurking Brennan to bring the check.
Yancy asked, “What do I need to do to get another chance?”
“Stay away from trouble, for Christ’s sake. It’s really not that hard.”
The drive home made Yancy feel better. At every bridge the water seemed a different shade of blue. The winter sky was bright as an egg, and spangled with birds. Yancy loved the evocative roll call of the lower Keys—Big Coppitt, Sugarloaf, Cudjoe, Ramrod, Little Torch. Here was one blessed stretch of the highway that hadn’t yet been blighted by fast-food chains, box stores and strip malls. That shit was coming, though. Everybody said so.
When he reached Big Pine he turned down Key Deer Road, and from there to his house he counted one deer and seven damn iguanas. Merry’s rental, a new Accord, was parked beside his skiff. She was sunning in a beach chair beside a tall frosty drink. Her tank suit flashed like a chrome streamer from the rail where she’d flung it.
“You’re burning your little bumblebee,” Yancy said.
She reached behind her and patted the tattoo. “All yours, mister. As advertised.”
It still flustered him a bit, the “A.Y.” on her butt cheek. He went inside for a beer. When he came out she was sitting up, legs locked yoga-style.
“Can we officially call this place an estate,” she said, “now that you’ve got all this land?”
“I’m going to pay you back, don’t worry. There’s a check coming from California.”
“So I can cancel your beat-down? Good. I’ll tell my guys.”
He said, “Rosa called today. She’s taken up with the butcher’s apprentice.”
“Get! Out!”
“It’s borderline quaint. Better than a ski instructor, at least.”
Merry wrapped herself in a towel. “You sad? Of course you are, Andrew. Stop pretending you’re not.”
Sad he was, though not blindsided. He’d known that Rosa wouldn’t come back to Florida, just as he’d known that he could never move somewhere as cold and tame as Oslo. Their conversation had been painful but not shattering. She said the butcher’s apprentice was named Ole, rhyming with roly-poly, which conjured an image Yancy could live with.
“Let’s go out in the boat,” he said.
“Oh, I know what that means—wild rebound sex! Men are so freakin’ predictable.”
“It’ll be chilly on the water. Where’s your fleece, Merry?”
They trailered the skiff to Bahia Honda and set out on the gulf side. The wind was westerly and mild, so Yancy steered for the Horseshoes. He backed off the throttle because he wanted the ride to go on and on.
“Wouldn’t it be cool to find a shipwreck?” Merry said.
“You already did.”
“Shut up, Andrew. You’re gonna be fine.”
“There’s something I’ve got to ask. Was your plan to kill Benny Krill with that razor blade?”
Merry shook her head. “The plan was to stop him, that’s all. It was time for everybody to move on.”
“Will you please tell me your real name?”
“I should kick your sorry ass for asking me that.”
She leaned close, holding on to him with both arms as the skiff bumped through a choppy patch of waves. Her long red hair blew wildly in the breeze, tickling his neck. He could see his own reflection in her sunglasses.
That’s how he knew he was smiling.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of thirteen previous novels, including the best-sellers Bad Monkey, Star Island, Nature Girl, Skinny Dip, Sick Puppy and Lucky You, and five best-selling children’s books, Chomp, Hoot, Flush, Scat and Skink. His most recent work of nonfiction is Dance of the Reptiles, a collection of his columns from The Miami Herald.
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Carl Hiaasen, Razor Girl
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