Razor Girl

  “That snob. It was like ten years ago she made the swimsuit issue. At least ten years.”

  “Right. Because she wouldn’t have a drink with you, that makes her a snob. I remember. Anyway the shop has security video of a guy entering a side courtyard who resembles our missing shitkicker. He puts on a Bum Farto tee-shirt and rips off the sleeves,” Burton said, “then for reasons unknown he punches out some artist dude’s easel.”

  “Maybe the painting was really awful.”

  “No, man, the canvas was blank.”

  “On the plus side,” said Yancy, “this means Buck’s still alive, alert and ambulatory.”

  Burton said he went to speak with the artist but it was a waste of time. “He offered me fifty dollars to sit for a nude portrait. You believe that shit?”

  “Totally. You’ve got the body of a Greek god. Who lives on pasta.”

  “Bite me.”

  Yancy got distracted by something he saw through the back window. He hung up on Burton, hurried outside, jumped the fence and jogged across the empty lot toward Deb, the frantic fiancée. She was waggling a long-handled metal detector, which upon seeing Yancy she raised at a defensive angle.

  “Easy, neighbor,” he said. “I came to apologize for grossing you out the other day.”

  “Stay the hell away from me.”

  “Honest, there’s no corpse buried under my house. The hair in the baggies is evidence in a missing persons case.”

  Deb had the look of a spooked mare, confirming to Yancy that he was successfully establishing himself as an eccentric.

  “Brock says you nearly shot him the other day!” she said.

  “What a crybaby. It was target practice with beer bottles, perfectly legal recreation.”

  “Not in a residential neighborhood.”

  “The sad song of a deluded liberal. Never once did I point that gun in Brent’s direction, you have my word.”

  “It’s Brock,” Deb snapped. “He made some calls. He says you’re not really a cop.”

  “In what sense? Because I could argue the point.”

  “Just stay back!”

  Today’s ensemble was skinny jeans, a pale rose blouse and matching tennis shoes. Her ash-blond hair was cinched with a white scrunchie. The shades were Chanel, naturally, non-polarized and therefore useless against the tropic glare.

  Yancy took her metal detector and demonstrated a better search technique, vectoring between the red survey flags while sweeping the wedge-headed device back and forth above the ground. He thought of Rosa’s sound admonition to return the lost diamond ring, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not just yet.

  Fuming, Deb followed him at what she perceived was a safe distance. She said, “I can’t believe I almost blew you.”

  “I can’t believe I said no. There might be sainthood in my future.” Yancy stooped to pick up a rusty flathead nail that the detector had revealed with a warble. He put the nail in his pants pocket thinking of the Key deer, which sometimes browsed the open lot at dusk. A punctured hoof pad could cause a nasty infection.

  He asked Deb if she’d finally informed her future husband that she’d lost the engagement ring on the site of their dream home. “Brock doesn’t need to know,” she said. “I’ll find it myself.”

  “And if you don’t? What happens when the backhoes show up to clear the property? They’ll bury that rock forever.”

  She dragged sourly on her e-cig. The metal detector cheeped again. Yancy picked up a tarnished dime, minted in 1973. “Back then we were both in Snuggies,” he said. “I still wear one on special occasions.”

  “You. Are. Disgusting.”

  “At a minimum.” When he handed the coin to Deb, she slapped it out of his hand.

  He said, “I were you, I’d stall Brad as long as possible—”

  “Brock, you dick. Brock, Brock, Brock.”

  “Don’t let him bring in the heavy machinery until you’ve searched every square inch of this property. I’ll help you, Deb, but you’ve got to stay strong.”

  “How do I stall him? He wants the slab poured by next week.”

  Not happening, thought Yancy. “Isn’t the ring insured?”

  Her answer was a bitter no. “If it was insured, he could get his money back and buy me a new one. Which is what I deserve, instead of wearing some other tramp’s diamond.”

  “He hasn’t noticed it’s not on your finger?”

  “I told him it’s at the jeweler, getting sized. That’s what makes me so mad—this is actually his fuckup, not mine. If he’d given me a ring that fit, my own ring instead of hers, it wouldn’t have fallen off.”

  Because Richardson had been too lazy (or too cheap) to insure the two-hundred-thousand dollar pebble, the search for it was bound to continue, delaying construction and buying Yancy some time. He fully intended to surrender the diamond once Deb and her beau split up, scrapped their vulgar house plans, and put the lot up for sale. In Yancy’s mind he hadn’t stolen the gem; he was holding it in protective custody. When the time came, he would return it in anonymous, untraceable packaging.

  The metal detector led Yancy to two more nails, a bent stub of rebar and a size 7/0 fishing hook. Deb warned that Brock was having him investigated by professionals, which Yancy saw as a positive development. The details of his personal history would only heighten Richardson’s doubts about Yancy’s fitness as a neighbor.

  “Tell me something,” he said to Deb. “Why do you lovebirds need to build such a huge place? What’s wrong with a classic four/three ranch-style? That’s plenty roomy for a vacation home—and you’d have space in the yard for a pool.”

  Deb said, “Nobody in Florida with Brock’s kind of money builds a one-story house. I can’t believe you’d say that.”

  “What is Brock’s kind of money?”

  “Enough to fill a Bounce House and roll around in naked. Haven’t you seen the ads on TV? He’s got all the Pitrolux lawsuits, a gi-mongous class-action.”

  Pitrolux was a deodorant armpit gel that also boosted testosterone. The target market segment was middle-aged men with slack penises and gagging body odor, but the refreshing juniper scent had attracted teenage girls who failed to read the warning label while rifling their parents’ medicine cabinets. Among the jarring side effects of Pitrolux were volcanic acne, yam-sized larynxes and goatees as lush as any in the NBA. Scores of young plaintiffs, including a squad of misfortunate high-school cheerleaders from Austin, went after the drug manufacturer, the labs, the retailers and even Ben Affleck, the famed actor who was the voice on the Pitrolux commercials. Affleck had been quickly dropped from the lawsuit and held blameless by a judge who happened to be a diehard fan of Gigli.

  “Your fiancé must be quite the busy beaver at the courthouse,” Yancy said.

  Deb laughed. “Brock doesn’t do any trial work. He farms all the cases to other lawyers who specialize.”

  “So he’s basically an 800 number, a referral switchboard. What’s his split of the settlements? Or does he take a flat fee?”

  She nodded toward her Porsche. “However he collects it works just dandy for me.”

  “What a country,” said Yancy.

  “Grow up.”

  She asked if she could leave the metal detector so that Yancy could keep searching in his spare time. He played along, waving as she roared off. After lunch (a sardine-and-tomato sandwich), he went online to locate Rosa on Flight Tracker. According to the miniature jet icon on the map, the plane hadn’t yet departed from Miami. He sent a pining note in the hope she was checking her emails.

  Tommy Lombardo called asking Yancy to rush to a new seafood joint in Marathon called the Reef Raff.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” said Yancy. “Today I’ve got a McDonald’s, a Checkers and Stoney’s, of course, which’ll take all afternoon.” The owner of Stoney’s Crab Palace, a man named Brennan, was a serial offender of the health codes. Roaches were so plentiful at his restaurant that Yancy used an improvised suction device to expedite the rou
ndups.

  Lombardo told him to forget Stoney’s and proceed at full speed to the Reef Raff. “Somethin’s moving in their mango salsa,” he reported gravely.

  “Yum.”

  When Yancy first went on roach patrol he’d dropped thirty pounds in a haze of constant revulsion. These days almost nothing bothered him. “Exactly what type of movement was observed?” he asked Lombardo.

  “Wiggling is what they said.”

  “Wiggling, or wriggling?”

  “What the fuck’s the difference? They got a lady fainted face-first into the salad bar. Fire rescue’s on the way. So is freakin’ Channel 7.”

  “Then I’ll shut the place down right away.” Yancy knew his boss dreaded emergency closures, which generated reams of paperwork in addition to unwanted publicity. Among restaurant inspectors it was considered the nuclear option.

  “Now hold on, Andrew—don’t do a damn thing till you find out what you’re dealin’ with up there. Maybe it’s not so bad.”

  “And what kind of life-form would be acceptable in a platter of salsa, regulation-wise?”

  “Work with the man,” Lombardo implored. “That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Yancy got dressed in his inspector clothes, including a semi-clean necktie, and organized the contents of his briefcase. Halfway down Key Deer Boulevard he decided he wasn’t up for a maggot inquiry; it was simply too nice a day. A stern phone call to the Reef Raff insured that the condiment in question would be sealed and preserved for Yancy’s future scrutiny. Upon reaching the Overseas Highway he aimed his car in the opposite direction of Marathon, back toward Key West.

  The supermodel who’d rejected Yancy was long gone from the wine shop, but the college-age woman behind the counter was happy to help. She left him alone in the broom-closet office where a desktop computer cycled black-and-white loops from the shop’s security cameras. Although the courtyard video lasted only thirty seconds, the quality was crisp enough for Yancy to see that the unbearded man donning the Bum Farto shirt closely resembled the sketch of Buck Nance. His assault on the artist’s canvas seemed like the spontaneous act of a batty street person, but without any audio it was impossible to know if Buck and the aspiring Renoir had exchanged harsh words beforehand.

  “Is Bum Farto a real person? I see those tee-shirts all over town.”

  The young clerk was watching the video clip over Yancy’s shoulder. Like a heron she’d stepped silently into the cubby.

  “Bum was the fire chief here a long time ago,” Yancy said. “He got busted for dealing blow from the station house but he disappeared before they could put him in jail. The locals say he ran off to Costa Rica and lived like a king. By now he’s dead from old age, but the legend lives on in casual wear.”

  The woman leaned in for a closer look. “So, what’s the deal with the skanky dude?”

  “That’s Buck Nance. The other detectives didn’t tell you? He’s on Bayou Brethren.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Darling, you just made my day,” Yancy said.

  “Why’re you guys lookin’ for him?”

  “There’s a fear he might endanger himself.”

  The shop clerk shrugged. “Isn’t that why people come here?”

  Yancy walked out thinking he was wasting his time. Sonny Summers probably wouldn’t rehire him even if he personally delivered Buck Nance. It was an election year and Yancy’s name was still toxic, or so the sheriff would claim.

  The search for Captain Cock offered therapeutic diversion from the Rosa setback, but a selfless act of public service it wasn’t. If the cops didn’t find the bogus Cajun chicken farmer, the tabloids would. On the drive to Marathon Yancy unilaterally took himself off the case, vowing to save his meddling for serious true crimes.

  He was elbow-deep in mango salsa when Burton called to tell him about the dead body.

  EIGHT

  The old Bahia Honda Bridge was chosen for its altitude, scenic vista and lack of bystanders. It had been built for Henry Flagler’s train and was later paved for automobile use. Dominick “Big Noogie” Aeola was mildly afraid of heights, a condition ameliorated by three screwdrivers and three milligrams of Niravam. His toothpick-chewing companion did most of the strenuous work, the stripping and binding of Martin Trebeaux. They hung him from the abandoned bridge using his own belt, cinched with authority around his puffy marbled ankles. The belt was teal green with festive little whales on it. Big Noogie said he wouldn’t last five minutes in Ozone Park wearing shit like that. Trebeaux was gagged with his tartan boxer shorts, and dangled naked except for the surgical hemostats still clamped to his scrotum. Their polished steel reflected a soft salmon glow from the sunset sky.

  Big Noogie’s plan was to terrorize the scammer and then give him two weeks to replace the defective sand behind the Royal Pyrenees hotel. But Trebeaux kept trying to talk his way out of the jam. He wouldn’t shut up about Cuba, the fantastic beaches ripe for export. Claimed he had an inside track to Raúl Castro. It’s the most gorgeous tuff in the Caribbean, Trebeaux kept burbling. Sand so soft and tan you want to strip down and hump it.

  The visual was more than Big Noogie could abide, so now Trebeaux was dangling from the Bahia Honda Bridge, his gay whale belt knotted around a spike of rusted girder. Below, on the newer four-lane span, traffic swept along in both directions. Occasionally a car would slow, the occupants peering up curiously at the old truss structure.

  “Somebody with good eyes might call us in,” the man with the toothpick said.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Would the cocksucker die if we just cut him loose? What I mean is, is the fall down to the water far enough to snap his neck?”

  “Good question,” said Big Noogie.

  Martin Trebeaux was flapping like a spastic fruit bat.

  “Because if he don’t die,” the toothpick man went on, “and the sharks don’t get him, we could be fucked.”

  “I understand.”

  “He’ll tell the cops everything. You know he goddamn will.”

  “The man never shuts up,” Big Noogie agreed.

  He was ready to get off the bridge, which was spackled with bird shit and stunk acridly.

  “So, Noog, want me to pull him up or what?”

  “Yeah, pull him up. You need some help?”

  “Better not. Your back’s still hurt, ’member?”

  Big Noogie had popped a lumbar disk while burying a body in the Meadowlands. The dead guy weighed like two-eighty and they’d had a bitch of a time rolling him into the hole. What had ruptured was Big Noogie’s L5-S1, right above his butt bone. He got the same surgery as Tiger Woods, yet his lower back continued to ache and now his right foot was permanently asleep. Golf was out of the question.

  “Aw, fuck it,” he said, and grabbed one of Trebeaux’s legs.

  Back in the car, they allowed their captive to remove the hemostats from his ball sack and put on some clothes. The toothpick nibbler was driving; Big Noogie stayed in the back with the sand man.

  “I want a new beach, a real beach,” Big Noogie told him, “or you’re dead.”

  “Absolutely! I’m on it,” Trebeaux promised. He noticed the mobster was holding his cell phone.

  “Guess who’s on your voicemail, Marty? The Key West cops.”

  “I didn’t call ’em! Swear on my mother’s grave!”

  Big Noogie grinned, his teeth shaded brown from all the coffee and cigars. “I know you didn’t call ’em. Otherwise we’d have thrown you off that bridge and the sharks’d be chewin’ on your fat ass.” He wiggled the phone. “The cops want to know about that car you rented.”

  “The Buick?”

  “They towed it from where you left it. Now they got a few questions,” Big Noogie said. “Questions you ain’t gonna answer.”

  “Of course not. How could I?” Trebeaux cupped his crotch protectively. “I’m not a rat. I’m not a squealer. I’m not suicidal, either.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”
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  “By shutting the fuck up,” said Big Noogie.

  Turning to look out the window, he thought: Once we get our new sand, I’m done with this shitsucker.

  —

  The Tesla had come into Zeto’s possession after its owner, a man called Escambrine, fled the United States to avoid a prison hitch. A smuggler of exotic bromeliads, Escambrine had asked Zeto to care for the car until he could secure a forged passport and return to Florida for another illicit orchid raid in the Everglades.

  Zeto had never driven an electric vehicle, and he’d heard mixed reviews. But with its racy lines, whiplash acceleration and high-tech interior, the Tesla proved to be a hit with the babes. Zeto also liked the novelty of gas-less motoring, although there were few car-charging stations in South Florida. Using a standard outlet was annoyingly slow; to speed the process Escambrine had advised using 240-volt sockets instead of a standard 110. Zeto could never make himself wait long enough before unplugging, and consequently the Tesla’s mileage range was reduced to that of your average golf cart.

  It didn’t matter in a little town like Key West, but soon Zeto would be heading back to Miami, a drive he preferred not to interrupt with power-up pit stops. On Eaton Street he cased out a two-story guesthouse where a young Latin man wearing neon-blue Beats was clearing the sidewalk using a jumbo electric leaf blower. Zeto attempted to inquire about the power source but the leaf blower was too loud, and the man declined to turn it off or remove his headphones. To signify the number 240, Zeto held up two fingers, then four fingers followed by a circle made with his thumb and an index finger. The man nodded vaguely and stepped around him.

  Zeto followed the cord of the leaf-blowing machine to an external outlet on the shady side of the house. He whipped the Tesla into a side driveway, uncoiled the charging apparatus and connected the cable to the car. The problem arose when he attempted to plug the other end into the wall outlet. That it didn’t fit properly would have been obvious to your average six-year-old. A simple adaptor lay unnoticed on the floor of the Tesla’s backseat. Also available and untouched: an instruction manual.

  Using a pair of side-cutter pliers Zeto unwisely endeavored to reconfigure the prongs on the recharge plug. A licensed electrician later summoned to the scene would determine that Zeto’s brute effort not only damaged the prongs but also inflicted a one-inch slice in the cord, exposing wires that Zeto was inadvertently touching when he jammed the plug for the last time into the wall. It was not beneficial to be kneeling in a water puddle at the moment of contact.