Razor Girl (12 page)

No one should have known better than Richardson that Pitrolux was dangerous, that the male body couldn't safely absorb and metabolize thrice-daily applications of strong deodorizing chemicals juiced with male hormones. Yet because he merely farmed out product-liability cases and had never actually litigated one, Richardson assumed the allegations against Pitrolux were hyped, a common tactic in his field. He would have spared himself much misery by studying the victims' sworn statements or just scanning a summary of the expert testimony, but he'd never done that before—not in the Ambrosia flammable diaper lawsuit, not in the Ram-Vigor Vitamin contamination case, not even in the Lamb-Gland Injectibles class-action.

Richardson's only role was to troll for fresh plaintiffs using slick TV spots in which he starred as the pin-striped, doom-faced messenger of gruesome manifestations. The diverse Pitrolux litany included excessive hair growth (facial and torso), elongated larynxes, unwanted testicular enlargement (often bilateral), suppurating acne, random tissue deformities and life-threatening erections, to name a few.

Long before the ninety seconds of infomercial horror was over, Richardson's 800 lines would light up. Sympathetic-sounding paralegals would interview the callers, winnow the whack jobs and hook up the others with a legitimate law practice. When the claims got settled, as such cases usually did, Richardson would receive a very sweet slice of the pie. It was a system that had already made him a multimillionaire. He couldn't remember the last time a live client had walked through his door—and what would be the purpose of such a visit? Except for the wall of uncracked legal books that served as the backdrop for Richardson's TV ads, his law office looked more like a Calcutta call center.

Over a decade he'd done so many commercials about so many supposedly harmful pharmaceutical products that he had grown numb to the possibility that some of it might actually be bad shit. He assumed Pitrolux was just another worthless dick-stiffening potion that had been carelessly packaged and clumsily marketed. Whose brilliant idea was the juniper fragrance? And all those Texas cheerleaders who tried it—where the hell were Mom and Dad while their medicine cabinets were being pillaged?

Concealed in Richardson's suit closet was a twelve-pack of Pitrolux that had been sent as a TV prop by one of the seven law firms to which he funneled future plaintiffs. One day he'd curiously opened a box and thus began a furtive ritual, buttering the sticky purple gel under his arms using the patented Soft-Glide applicator. A week later he awoke with a hard-on that endured two cold showers and all three hours of the
Today
show. He surprised Deb with it when she returned from a pedicure. Afterward she said the sex was the best she'd ever had.

These extended romps continued until suddenly, late one Sunday afternoon, Richardson was unable to perform. He doubled down on testosterone squirts and within days he returned to turgid glory. Unfortunately, his bedroom exertions revealed another disconcerting product flaw, namely that Pitrolux wasn't a particularly effective deodorant. Worse, the tang of juniper began to overpower not only Richardson's effluvial perspiration but also other emissions. He shaved off his thickening body hair, yet still he reeked. Soon Deb declared an end to all intimacies, and demanded that he consult a personal groomer.

It was at about this time, while visiting their future home site on Big Pine Key, when she dropped the diamond engagement ring, a two-hundred-thousand-dollar fuckup that enraged Richardson and temporarily chilled his animal ardor. Still he continued his covert use of Pitrolux, testing different dosages behind locked doors inside his bayfront house on Miami Beach. Manic wanking sessions found him self-gagged with a towel to muffle the deep-jungle roars that accompanied every climax.

Meanwhile he and Deb were barely speaking, except for a nightly exchange of barbs on the topic of the missing rock. Richardson saw no choice but to postpone construction of the Keys villa while the bare lot was searched for the ring. For that important task he recruited professionals, three out-of-work treasure salvors who shared a house trailer on Summerland. So far they'd spent a hundred fruitless man-hours combing the property with metal detectors, shovels and sifting buckets. Richardson was beginning to wonder if his fiancée had concocted the story about losing the diamond. What if she'd gone and hocked it herself? Maybe she had a drug habit, or a gambling problem. Or a secret boyfriend with a drug habit
and
a gambling problem.

Richardson's mind squirmed with such ugly doubts while he lathered himself in the shower. He was distracted by a tweak of pain when his loofah snagged on something in the cleft of his left armpit. He explored the site with a forefinger, making a strange discovery. His exclamation was loud enough to echo off the polished walls. Deb entered the bathroom and found him in front of the mirror naked and wet, one soapy arm held upward.

“What now?” she asked.

“Nothing!” The arm snapped down.

“What were you looking at, Brock? Let me see, come on. Don't be such a baby.”

Remembering her uncle was a dermatologist, Richardson lifted his arm. Deb stepped closer and peered at the shorn pit.

“Whoa,” she said with a sickly wince. “Not good.”

“It's just a skin tag. Don't touch it.”

“Are you serious? You couldn't
pay
me to touch it.”

“I'll get it zapped off at the doctor's. No big deal.”

“Jesus, it sort of looks like—”

“I
know
what it looks like.” Richardson spun away grabbing for a towel.

“Let me text a picture to Uncle Rob, in case it's something serious,” Deb said.

“It's nothing, okay?”

Hurriedly he dried off, bounded across the bedroom and locked himself in the walk-in closet. There he took out an unopened dispenser of Pitrolux and re-read the warning label, which wasn't nearly as frightening as his TV script.

In the car he caught himself steering with his knees while he fingered the pink twig of flesh sprouting beneath his arm. By the time he got to Big Pine his mood was low, and it didn't improve during his meeting with the treasure hunters. They had failed to recover the two-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond, but were keen to show him something else they'd unearthed.

A molar, they said. Possibly human.

M
erry Mansfield told Yancy a version of her life so far-fetched that he bit his lower lip, trying not to laugh.

“That's so rude,” she said.

“You've got a charming imagination. I could listen to you go on all day.”

“What did I say that you don't believe?”

“Basically every word.”

“See, I'm just testing you. So far, so good.”

They were waiting outside Tramp City Ink & Piercing for the owner to return from a late lunch. It was the third stop on their tour of tattoo parlors.

“Technically, I'm not a maritime artifacts appraiser,” Merry admitted. “Also, I didn't really go to boarding school in Switzerland. My mom wasn't a consular attaché in Morocco. My dad never had a thing with Sigourney Weaver. I wasn't the youngest of six sisters, all master equestrians. I
did
get married when I was eighteen, except my husband wasn't pulped to death at an orange-juice factory. What really happened, he went to prison for counterfeiting food stamps and I divorced his ass. No kids from the marriage, thank God—that part's true. What else? Oh yeah, I didn't lose a three-million-dollar bauxite inheritance to Bernie Madoff. My folks are still alive, and they're not leaving me a nickel.”

“So I know who you're not,” said Yancy. “Now tell me who you are.”

“Aren't you the smooth one?” She laughed.

“Then at least your real name. Come on.”

“Merry Mansfield. And even if it wasn't, you're still going to ask me for crazy hot sex.”

“I doubt that,” Yancy said. “No offense.”

“You men, I swear. Look at me.”

“I am.”

“No, right here.” Merry, pointing two fingers at her eyes. “Now I dare you to tell me with absolute, one thousand percent certainty that you're never, ever gonna try to get in my pants, that there are no earthly circumstances that would ever put that notion in your head. Lemme hear those words. Come on, Andrew.”

“You know I'm in a relationship.”

“Just say it: ‘Merry, you're a phenomenally attractive woman, but we are never, ever going to have crazy hot sex. It's totally out of the realm of possibility. No chance whatsoever.' ”

“Not on this planet, not in this lifetime,” Yancy said. “How's that for categorical?”

Merry stuck out her tongue. “Dick.”

“That's my point. I'm nothing but trouble.”

“Me, too!” She whacked him on the arm. “Don't you get it?”

“The answer, again, would be no.”

“I feel like you're in denial. Something in your voice.”

“It's called spiritual fatigue. Last night I went one-on-one with a rat the size of a Corvette. This isn't the career I envisioned for myself.”

She said, “Know what I'm gonna do for you, sugar? I'm gonna get a tattoo.”

“That's flattering, and also insane, but we're here on business.”

The owner of Tramp City was called Wikky, anemic and heavy-lidded. Oddly, he bore no visible body ink or hardware.

When Yancy flashed his roach-patrol ID, Wikky slapped shut a Jack Reacher paperback and said, “What's the problem, man? I run a sanitary premise.”

Yancy said he wasn't there to do an inspection. “I'm looking for a certain customer.”

“Privacy is important to our clientele,” said Wikky. “You don't have a warrant, I can't help you.”

“Then maybe I'll take a peek at those needles, after all. You disinfect 'em after each tat, right? The machine, no doubt, also spotlessly maintained.”

Wikky surrendered in a blink. “Tell me the dude's name.”

“Buck Nance.”

“The bayou brother from TV? I thought he was in treatment after what went down at the Pirate. They said on TMZ he's in Malibu.”

Yancy said, “It's possible he's still in Key West. He got rid of his beard, so you might not recognize him.”

Merry Mansfield sidled ahead of Yancy and introduced herself. “Sir, I would very much like to get inked,” she said.

Wikky frowned. “This some kinda trick?”

“I was thinking of a little bumblebee.”

“Please don't make a scene,” Yancy said to her.

Wikky opened a fat three-ring binder full of vivid templates. “You want a standard honeybee, or one of the Mexican hybrids?”

“Just a honey, honey.” Merry twirled around and lifted her skirt. “Right there.”

Yancy hustled her outside, stepped back into the shop and bolted the door behind him. Wikky looked disappointed. Merry waved to him sadly from the other side of the window.

When Yancy held up the sketch of a beardless Buck Nance, the tattoo artist shook his head and said, “I never seen that guy.”

“Maybe he came in on your day off.”

“I don't take any days off. Long as the bars on Duval stay open, I'm open.”

“So, you remember every single tat you've ever done?” Yancy asked.

“Plus I save all the paperwork for the state, if that's what you mean. I'm strictly legal.”

“Ever do one that said ‘Hail Captain Cock'?”

Wikky folded his arms. “Run that past me again.”

“ ‘Hail Captain Cock,' ” Yancy repeated. “Capital letters, straight across the shoulder blades. Roman script?”

With a wary nod Wikky said, “Yeah, but he wasn't the same dude you showed me in the drawing.”

“Then who was it? I'll need the name.”

The tattoo man dug through a dented file cabinet until he found it. “Krill,” he said to Yancy. “With a K. First name Benjamin.”

The address was an apartment house on Petronia. Yancy wrote down the number, unit 277, though he didn't expect to find anybody named Benjamin Krill. More likely the mystery customer was Buck Nance, giving a fake name and address. Wikky probably hadn't recognized him; a pencil sketch wasn't as reliable as a photograph, for ID purposes.

“And you saw this guy when?” Yancy asked.

“The second time was February fourth. See, I got it logged right here. The Captain Cock.”

“And the first time he came in?”

“Two nights before.” Wikky had the customer's file in his hands. “I get lots of repeats 'cause I'm the best in town. It ain't braggin' if it's fact.”

“What kind of tattoo did you give Mr. Krill on the 2nd?” Yancy asked.

“A badass Chantecler rooster, in profile. Custom job.”

“Where?”

“On his stomach. For the bird's eyeball I inked the dude's navel. He had an innie, so it hurt like a mother. But, hey, he asked for it.”

Yancy took out his phone and found a publicity shot of Buck Nance on the
Bayou Brethren
website. Wikky studied the photo but said he couldn't be sure. “Every skinny old white fart with one of them ZZ beards looks the same to me.”

When Yancy left the shop Merry called him a prick for locking her out. Then she took his hand and declared there might still be hope. The sensible thing for him to do was say goodbye and walk away, but he didn't. He enjoyed her company. She was a trip.

When they got to the apartment building on Petronia he asked her to wait out front. The door of unit 277 was opened by a stout woman who could have been forty, or sixty. Yancy presented a lightning glimpse of his roach-patrol credentials hoping she'd mistake him for a regular detective, which she did. He told her he was looking for Benjamin Krill.

“Nobody calls him that,” the woman said. “He ain't here anyhow.”

Yancy was surprised to learn that Krill existed. Buck Nance must have known him, or at least heard of him, in order to use that name at the tattoo shop.

“Are you his wife?” Yancy asked the woman.

“Common-law, but not on paper. Lemme guess—he ain't paid the damn rent again. Or is it worse than that?”

“What do they call him?”

“I call him Benny but he goes by Blister. You come to throw his ass in jail?”

In the background Yancy heard chittering sounds and a blaring television. He asked the woman if he could look around. She yawned and motioned him inside. Dirty laundry was strewn all over the place. The high-pitched barking emanated from a full-grown mongoose leashed on a rope triple-knotted to a leg of the dining table. When the animal spied Yancy it flattened its ears and lunged wildly on the rope. The woman hurled an ashtray yelling, “Shut the fuck up, Clee Roy!”

Yancy withdrew straightaway.

Back in the doorway the woman said, “Wouldn't break my heart, you had to shoot that thing. Say it got loose and come chasin' after you.”

Yancy informed her that he didn't have his gun.

“What! Whoever heard of a cop that didn't carry.”

“I'm not here to arrest anybody, Mrs. Krill. This is an administrative visit.”

“Oh well.” She plucked a bent cigarette from the pocket of her housecoat and lit it. “You can call me Mona.”

Yancy said, “I have one more question about your husband.”

“No, I
don't
know where he's at. You find that bastard, tell him to drag his scrawny ass home, so I can kick it.”

“I was wondering if he's got any tattoos.”

“Benny?” Mona clucked. “No, sir—and I'd be the best one to know.” She winked and flicked an ash on the floor.

When Yancy emerged from the apartment building, Merry Mansfield was thumbing an old newspaper she'd picked up from somebody's front lawn. “Check this out,” she said, and showed him a headline on page 3:

ELECTROCUTION VICTIM IDENTIFIED AS MIAMI EX-CON

It was a story about Juan Zeto-Fernández frying himself while recharging his Tesla.

“Did you know this genius?” Yancy asked.

“We were partners, Andrew.”

Oh, this ought to be good,
he thought. “Partners in what?”

And, for once, Merry told him the truth. She didn't know what had come over her.

Lane Coolman was sure nobody had ever been kidnapped twice on the same trip to Key West. In his mind he was working up an outline for the script, a miniseries for HBO or possibly Netflix. He knew plenty of writers who'd kill for the job.

Working title: “Hell Island.”

It was the redhead's fault that he'd been snatched a second time. Had she not pranced off with that sketch cop Yancy, Coolman wouldn't have been walking from the scene of the Conch Train homicide alone in the dark; he would've been side-by-side with Merry Mansfield, and the kidnapper likely would have left them alone. It was exponentially way more difficult to abduct two persons at knifepoint than one. This was a known fact even among the stupidest criminals.

Coolman longed to be back in L.A., reclaiming his turf at Platinum Artists and demolishing his future ex-wife in divorce court. Rachel's attorney was probably pitching a fit, complaining that Coolman was staying out of California as a stall tactic. Coolman wondered what Amp thought about his disappearance, if Amp thought about it at all. The man had the attention span (and conscience) of a mosquito.

Once again Coolman found himself imprisoned on a vessel—not a lobster boat, this time, but a weather-beaten cabin cruiser called
Wet Nurse.
The kidnapper said the previous owner was a playboy obstetrician. For days Coolman had been shackled to one of four small berths in the bow. After dark he could see the lights of Key West, and sometimes hear applause from the crowds at Mallory Square. During the day other boats would pass nearby, but he'd given up shouting for help. His asshole kidnapper blasted music 24/7 from portable speakers on the deck, a relentless loop of hard Southern rock—Skynyrd, 38 Special, Marshall Tucker, the Allman Brothers. One afternoon, “Ramblin' Man” played seventeen times. Coolman kept count. When he pleaded for an updated playlist, his reward was a slap to the back of his head.

The kidnapper used an inflatable dinghy to travel back and forth to the island. Coolman was given food twice a day, and the menu didn't change: cheeseburgers, tater tots and lukewarm lime Gatorade. The narrow berths on the cabin cruiser featured spore-covered mattresses and thin woolen blankets. A plastic bucket served as the toilet. Soapless bathing was permitted on occasion, thirty-second dousings from a deck hose spewing seawater. A salty crust had thickened on Coolman's skin; his hair was grimy, and his unshaved stubble itched constantly.

Early on he'd tried to initiate a discussion of ransom, but the kidnapper showed no interest. A scornful grunt had been the response when Coolman announced he had twenty-one grand in the bank that he was willing to pay for his release. Still, except for the “Ramblin' Man ” blowup, the kidnapper didn't seem particularly violent. His knife stayed out of sight, and threats were kept to a minimum. He seldom spoke to Coolman and treated him as more or less invisible, which was irritating though understandable. The man had bigger fish to fry. Some days he'd be gone for a long time, and Coolman would bloody himself trying to squirm out of the handcuffs. Unfortunately, it was impossible to lose weight on a cheeseburger-and-taters diet; if anything, Coolman's wrists were getting chubbier. The truth was he had no willpower. Every time a bag of junk food was placed in front of him, he went at it like a wolf on a fawn. It was a scene that wouldn't appear in Coolman's script. To portray him a hot young actor would be cast, someone who could do stoicism and also drop thirty pounds during the shoot.

Coolman envisioned “Hell Island” as a career-saving parachute, in case Amp axed him from Platinum Artists. The money from a miniseries could be semi-decent, especially if Coolman started the ball rolling with a bestselling book about his back-to-back hostage ordeals. Hire some slick ghostwriter and spend a week at the W yakking into a tape recorder. How tough could
that
be?

Dwelling on this vainglorious project was mental therapy, for Coolman had no logical reason to be upbeat. Mornings on the boat were pierced by the basso horns of cruise ships in the harbor and the high whine of passenger jets on final approach to the airport—melancholy reminders of how close he was to freedom. Whenever the wind clocked out of the north, the temperature plummeted, the old boat pitched, and the windows whistled. Coolman had never been an avid sailor, never understood the so-called romance of the high seas. Yachts were tolerable, yachts he could do, but anything under a hundred feet—forget it. Although he didn't get seasick, he was miserable in other ways. The kidnapper had thrown his cell phone overboard, a traumatizing blow for any agent. It made Coolman feel small and helplessly out of touch with his world. The
Wet Nurse
was cramped, rank, gloomy. When the seas got rough he couldn't fall sleep, unlike the other hostage, who was cuffed to the opposite bunk. The all-night snoring and fart-fest drove Coolman batshit, though he didn't complain. The mood down below already was sour and tense.