Razor Girl (18 page)

Deb found him in the bathroom standing again with an upraised arm in front of the mirror. She said, “Don't tell me it grew back. Maybe you should go easy with that stuff.”

“How about knocking first?”

“I'm not digging the visual, Brock.”

“It didn't grow back. This is a new one,” he said.

In fact, it was the third dangly stem to have budded in his armpits. The other pale intruders had been sliced off and biopsied, no evidence of malignancy. Richardson's doctor was, nonetheless, concerned. The tissue formations were uncanny in their resemblance to the male reproductive organ. Mini-dicks, the surgeon called them, eliciting a heartless chuckle from his nurse.

Brock had confessed his Pitrolux habit to Deb after she discovered a Soft-Glide applicator in his dopp kit. She didn't bitch him out too much because their sex life had reignited in a spectacular way. Fucking cosmic, in her words. One night, gleefully appraising his unbound erection, she exclaimed, “You could hang a rodeo saddle on that thing!”

The manufacturers of Pitrolux had replaced the product's pungent juniper infusion with a scent of “country apple,” and discarded the original deodorant formula in favor of an additive that actually suppressed body reek. Deb wasn't merely approachable again, she was insatiable. Blinded by carnality, Richardson continued to slather on the dangerous hormone-infused goop several times a day—this, while his grave TV pitch with its scroll of loathsome side effects attracted more and more Pitrolux victims to the lawsuit.

“There's nothing to worry about,” he told Deb in the bathroom. “They're harmless skin tags.”

“Then how come they look like penises?”

“Because that's all you're thinking about these days.” He managed a suggestive leer. “I'll take full credit, too.”

They dropped to the floor and made love ferociously, cracking two of the travertines. Once again Richardson astounded himself. Afterward, in the shower, Deb returned to the subject of their dream-house dilemma. She implored him to reach out to Trebeaux. “Have him send those goons back to Yancy and
make
him sell his house to us.”

Richardson said, “I already talked to Martin.”

“You tell him we're in a hurry?”

“He knows, Deb.” With soapy fingers Richardson probed his left pit, where the newest pygmy phallus had emerged.

She said, “I like Yancy's lot better than ours, anyway.”

“Why? His is smaller.”

“Something about the view. Can I borrow your conditioner?”

Richardson was still upset that Deb had lost the diamond ring, but the subject was no longer a constant flashpoint. This he attributed to his resurgent libido; nothing less than white-hot sex could soften a two-hundred-thousand-dollar grudge.

He toweled off, dressed for golf and called the sand man in Key West.

“What's the word, Martin?”

“Sorry, Big Noogie says no. He needs his guys to stay in Miami.”

“Did you tell him I'll cover their gas, food, whatever? Yancy is balls-out refusing to sell. He basically laughed in my face.”

Trebeaux said, “Those smartass types are hard to reason with. You've practically got to kill 'em.”

“How much would that cost?” Richardson was startled by his own words—only a card-carrying nitwit would talk on the phone about hiring a hit man. He wondered if the Pitrolux was starting to impair his judgment. All the blood rushing to his cock might be starving his brain.

“Hey, it was just a joke,” he told Trebeaux. “You know that, right?”

The sand man said, “Big Noogie's an important person. I don't want to take advantage of our friendship.”

“So what the hell do I do about Yancy? For real, I mean.”

Trebeaux could be heard sipping a beverage. “You told me you had guys of your own,” he reminded the lawyer.

“Yeah, but they're not as good as your guys. The mob guys.”

“Maybe they don't need to be. Surprise is key.”

The sand man had a point, thought Richardson. Yancy wasn't hardcore; he was all talk. The club bouncers that Richardson occasionally employed might not be as experienced at assault as were seasoned Mafia goons, but years in the National Football League surely had taught them how to locate a kidney with their knees.

“I'm lining up my big Havana trip,” Trebeaux was saying. “You wanna come? Bring your darling Deb.”

“Some other time. We're still looking for that missing diamond.”

“Bummer,” said Trebeaux with a slurp. “I can probably get you a sweet deal on a new one. Just tell me how many karats. Every bride's gotta have a ring!”

“Only one to a customer,” was Richardson's response.

Trebeaux switched to what he thought was a cheerier topic, the Pitrolux case. “Did you check out the photos of my rash? Gnarly, huh?”

On the other end of the call, Richardson was peering disconsolately up the sleeve of his shirt. “You got off easy,” he said to the sand man.

Y
ancy's passport arrived, the renewal expedited by an add-on fee he was happy to pay. He called Rosa in Norway to tell her he was coming. She said the temperature was fourteen degrees, minus-twenty counting the wind chill.

“I don't care if the fjords freeze,” he said.

“Andrew, I'm not ready.”

“Stay at the butcher's. I'll book my own room.”

“This is a tranquil place,” said Rosa. “I love you, but you're not a tranquil guy.”

“I'll read Gandhi on the plane.”

As Yancy was talking, Merry Mansfield appeared at the doorway, lifted her top, then danced away.

“Stabbing victims shouldn't travel,” Rosa said.

“I'll be fine once I'm there. You're a doctor, remember?”

“Slow down.”

“Tell me what's going on.”

There was a discouraging pause. Yancy half-expected her to say she'd found a new boyfriend. He thought:
Please, God, anyone but the ski instructor.

Rosa said, “You're right, it's got nothing to do with your damn stitches. I care about you—that's not up for debate—but I need to keep a distance from the turbulence you create. For example, getting stabbed the way you did—you could've died, okay? Died in a pool of blood on the floor of some dirtbag's apartment, and then someone like me gets to come to the scene and haul away your dumb, dead ass. I'm not trying to be cold, but it's totally your fault you ended up in that ridiculously dangerous situation with that ridiculously dangerous person—all because you wanted to prove something to the sheriff. Which, at this point…honestly?”

“Better spell it out. I specialize in clinging to false hope.”

“A calm sea is the best place for me right now, Andrew. So hurry up and solve your case—then you can hop on that plane.”

“The case is a muck pit. I'm not getting anywhere.”

“You will. You always do. But don't come see me until you're finished, promise? I need you to be totally tuned in.”

She said goodbye without interrogating him about Merry, another ominous sign. He'd been hoping for signs of jealousy.

Merry told him to quit moping. “For God's sake, I just showed you my tits.”

“And adorable they are.”

“Animal!” she snapped, then dissolved to a giggle when she saw his expression. “You don't know what to do with me, do you? I love that!”

Yancy suggested a trip to town for a late lunch. On Highway 1 they spotted Mona pedaling a child's bicycle across the Cow Key Channel Bridge. The tires were almost flat, and a sad-looking cloth purse swung from a chain around her neck.

Merry cruised ahead along South Roosevelt and pulled over at a motel to wait. As soon as Mona huffed past, Merry wheeled out and smoothly executed another leapfrog. In this way they were able to track Blister's wife all the way to Fleming Street without hovering close and drawing attention. Mona stopped at a pretty two-story conch house with lavender shutters, a rope swing on the front porch and a Royal Poinciana in the yard. After an inelegant dismount, she propped the bike against a picket fence and approached the front door. From down the street Yancy and Merry could see her knocking with lumberjack vigor. The door opened and she stalked into the house.

Merry said, “Call Burton and tell him where we are.”

“I probably should.”

“Like, immediately.”

“I hear you,” Yancy said.

With Blister safely locked up, Yancy could be on a nonstop to Oslo tomorrow afternoon. Drop Merry in South Beach on his way to the airport.

He dialed Burton and got the voicemail. “Hey, Rog, call me back as soon as you get this. I believe I've found your Conch Train killer.”

While they waited, Merry told Yancy about an item she'd seen on Page Six of the
New York Post.
“Katie Holmes went to Whole Foods, and they let her sneak in through a hidden passage. Isn't that fantastic? A grocery with a secret celebrity entrance! They should have one at Fausto's. Then, next time you send me for a gallon of milk and some Advil—except there probably won't be a next time—I could say, ‘Sure, Andrew, I'll take the secret passageway.' That would be my dream. To just pop up like a genie in the produce aisle! Me and my Balenciaga.”

Yancy said, “Who's Katie Holmes?”

“I will not let you burst my bubble. I refuse.”

Mona came out of the conch house, mounted the bicycle and briskly began pedaling down the street, toward the spot where Yancy's car was parked. Merry said there wasn't enough room for a U-turn getaway.

“Pretend we're making out like lovers,” she said, throwing both arms around Yancy's neck and kissing him in a way that didn't feel like she was pretending. He thought it would be impolite not to kiss back. Mona sneaked a sideways glance as she rode past; there was the naughty trace of a smirk, but no sign of recognition. She had turned down Grinnell Street and disappeared from sight by the time Merry sat back and started fixing her hair.

“You okay, sport?” she asked.

“I would have to say yes.”

“Not a bad note to end on.”

“Except we're not quite done,” said Yancy.

“How dare you get bold with me!”

“No, look.”

A black limousine was pulling up to the conch house. Merry identified it as the latest Cadillac stretch, with front-wheel drive and a large V-6. “You really need an 8,” she added, “but these fleet companies, they want the better mileage.”

“You drive limos, too?” Yancy asked.

“No, but I've done a few. Easy-peasy jobs—the chassis is so long that they don't fishtail when you hit the rear quarter panel. The chauffeurs are always super-polite, too. Some wild redhead with a razor in her hand, shaving cream all over her cooch—can you imagine what they must be thinking?”

“Only in Florida, is what they're thinking.”

“I like to do limos,” said Merry. “Nobody gets overexcited.”

Three men walked out of the house and climbed into the stretch. First in line was Blister Krill. Next came Buck Nance, followed by his hotshot Hollywood manager, Lane Coolman.

Yancy said to Merry: “Please don't smash my poor little Subaru into that Caddy.”

“Oh please. Your insurance'll cover it.”

“Let's just follow them instead.”

“The new Outbacks look super-sweet,” she remarked. “Or you could get yourself a Forester.”

“Burton's gonna call back any minute.”

“Buckle up, Mario.”

Yancy said, “That isn't funny. Not at all.”

Dominick “Big Noogie” Aeola brought his girlfriend Juveline to Key West along with Martin Trebeaux's original bogus service dog, John. The missing Irish setter had reappeared at Crisco's restaurant soon after word went out that Big Noogie intended to dismember whoever had taken the animal from his Town Car. Although he wasn't a pet lover, Big Noogie tolerated John the dog because his girlfriend insisted. Her given name was Lucinda but she'd called herself Juveline since age fifteen, when she'd been caught selling knockoff Burberry totes and a cop at the booking desk misspelled the word “juvenile.”

Big Noogie got them first-class bulkhead on the flight to Florida. Wearing a new orange vest, John the First snoozed at their feet. Having set aside his scorn for the “comfort animal” scam, Big Noogie had persuaded a psychiatrist in Crown Heights to write a letter documenting Juveline's emotional need for canine companionship while flying. The shrink had a ruinous gambling habit so he leapt at the chance to assist Big Noogie, to whom he was monstrously in debt.

The sand man was waiting when Big Noogie got off the plane. He was surprised to see his ex–Irish setter leading the mobster down the jetway, and he felt a twinge of guilt about John the Second, the replacement fake service dog he'd set loose outside of Louie's. The feeling didn't last, for Martin Trebeaux's attention was dangerously diverted by a woman accompanying Big Noogie. She was taller, and owned many striking features—white-blond hair cropped like Annie Lennox's, full lips lacquered redder than Taylor Swift's, and a gravity-defying ass that was broad enough for a tray of mimosas. Trebeaux forced himself to look away lest Big Noogie catch him gawking.

When they arrived at the hotel, Juveline veered poolside with the dog while Trebeaux and Big Noogie discussed the Cuba deal over platters of fried seafood.

“So who's your Havana connection?” the mobster asked.

“Deputy Minister of Coastal Resources.” Trebeaux had come up with that one while he was in the shower. He didn't know a soul in the Castro government.

“What's he asking for a cut?” Big Noogie said.

“Twenty-five percent.”

“Fuck that in the ear. You tell him it's eighteen now on.”

“I'll try, Dominick, but he's a hardass,” Trebeaux said.

His plan was to hang out in Havana until he located the appropriate bureaucrat to bribe. He was confident he could get all the beach sand he wanted in exchange for twelve percent of gross resale. Big Noogie wouldn't know the true spread and had no way of finding out—he couldn't join Trebeaux on the trip because a judge was holding his passport pending resolution of a felony matter.
Alleged
felony.

“I'll fly one of my guys down there with you,” Big Noogie said.

“Okay, but the Cubans got computers. Anybody with a rap sheet in the States is turned around at the airport and sent back.”

Trebeaux didn't know if that was true, but it was worth a shot. He assumed every person in Big Noogie's inner circle had an arrest record, and Big Noogie's scowl seemed to confirm it.

“I can totally handle this alone,” Trebeaux assured him. “It's what I do.”

“Remember when you were hangin' upside-down offa that bridge? How fuckin' scared you were? Next time you're shark food, you don't play this straight.”

“You think I'm out of my mind? I got the message loud and clear. Trust me, Dominick, we're gonna clean up big-time. Every tourist town on the Eastern seaboard will pay serious bank for this sand. It's like cocaine for your toes!”

Big Noogie chomped another conch fritter. “So, where's the best shit in Cuba?”

“Better than what I put down behind your hotel? My man Sergio—the deputy minister—says it's
mucho primo
on the northern shore. He says there's easy access for our barges, but I'll check it out while I'm down there.”

Trebeaux ordered
mojitos,
and the two men raised a toast. Juveline appeared, body-turbaned in a flamingo beach towel. She said John the dog was chowing down on a room-service steak. Big Noogie passed his drink to her saying, “I could do without the fuckin' mint.”

She said, “Noog, I just saw the biggest rat in the whole universe.”

Trebeaux chuckled. “At the pool?”

“No, on the seawall. Chewin' a mango!” She placed a hand at knee-level to dramatize the creature's height.

Big Noogie looked doubtful. “Even Bronx rats ain't that big.” Trebeaux said it was probably an opossum.

Juveline said, “I know what I saw. Both a you's can kiss my ass.”

Trebeaux was covertly checking out her enormous bare feet, pink as boiled hams. Juveline appraised him over the rims of Gucci shades.

“When you leavin' for Havana?” Big Noogie asked.

“Soon as they okay my visa. I'll need some cash for expenses.” Trebeaux didn't expect Big Noogie to say yes, but there was no harm in trying.

“Pay your own damn way. You'll get it back when the deal's done.” Big Noogie handed a fritter to Juveline, who tore into it like a hyena.

Trebeaux thanked Big Noogie for sending his guys to rough up Brock Richardson's neighbor about the missing diamond ring. “Too bad they didn't find it,” Trebeaux said.

“Yeah. Too bad.”

“Can you believe that asshole won't sell his house? The neighbor I'm talking about. The ex-cop. Even after your guys totally trash his place, he tells my lawyer friend to fuck off, it's not for sale.”

“Some balls,” said Big Noogie.

Obviously the mobster didn't give a shit one way or the other, so Trebeaux dropped the subject. After lunch Juveline headed back to the seawall with a mission to photograph the mutant rat. Big Noogie was going deep-sea fishing though he extended no invitation. Trebeaux told him that Hemingway's marlin boat, the
Pilar,
was a popular tourist attraction in Cuba.

“You ain't a tourist. You're on business,” Big Noogie reminded him, and went to change into sportsman garb he'd purchased online from Bass Pro.

An hour later, somebody knocked on the door of Trebeaux's hotel room. It was Juveline, wearing white short-shorts and a stressed tangerine halter. She asked Trebeaux if he was in the mood to be fucked into a coma. He said totally. She kicked off her sandals and began riding him so violently that he feared his hip sockets would crack. During the tumult a wooden slat succumbed beneath the box spring, yet somehow the bed frame remained intact. The sand man never lost consciousness and clearly heard Juveline say, before departing:

“Baby, you kiss like a blowfish on batteries.”

For a long time he lay there sticky and sore, contemplating the foolishness of what he'd done. On the Death Wish scale of one-to-ten, screwing a Mafia
capo
's girlfriend was like a seventeen. That the
capo
also happened to be your new business partner further magnified the risk. On a positive note, Trebeaux sensed it wasn't Juveline's first foray to a stranger's bed, which meant she was experienced at deceiving Big Noogie. If she weren't a skilled cheater, Trebeaux reasoned, she would already be dead.

Later he showered, shaved and walked to a restaurant called Clippy's, glowingly recommended by the hotel's rooftop bartender. While waiting to be seated, Trebeaux saw a man emerge from the women's restroom carrying an aluminum pole with a rubber snatch-noose attached to one end. The maître d' said there was a clogged pipe, which Trebeaux found amusing due to the indigo stitching on the so-called plumber's shirt:
Monroe County Animal Control.