Razor Girl (26 page)

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 was 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.”

Yancy turned down the radio and buckled himself in. “You almost killed me,” he said.

“Not even close!” She was amused to see him so rattled. “Andrew, I knew you'd turn right and not left, because that's how your logical little man-brain works. This is what you get for having starlight sex with me on a boat. Now I'm totally in tune with the way you think.”

“Then what am I thinking right this second?”

“You're thinking how smokin' hot I look,” she said. “You're thinking you're really super-happy to see me, even though you won't dare admit it.”

“I'll admit I'm glad to see you, if you'll admit that running me off the road is an extremely fucked-up way of saying hello.”

“So what happened with Rosa?”

“I never got on the damn plane. I came back for Blister.”

“And
that
is why I came back for you,” Merry said.

She was cruising up Flagler in the opposite direction of Old Town. The Chrysler had at most five good cylinders, and perhaps one functioning shock absorber. Yancy asked Merry if she'd seen a blue Mercedes van with tinted windows.

“You mean the Sprinter you were tailing while I was tailing
you
? I'm pretty sure they were on their way to the airport,” she said, “which is where we're headed, too—unless your cock's hijacked your guidance system, and now you want to get a room because sitting so close to me is driving you freaking crazy.”

She reached over and touched a fingertip to his lips.

“Airport,” he said.

“Well, aren't you the hardass.”

They found the Sprinter outside the check-in office used by private aircraft. Merry parked the Chrysler in the pay lot and took a stroll in her rhinestone flip-flops. She came back to report the van was empty, and the driver was getting coffee in the main terminal.

“He told me his name's Pete and he's divorced,” she said. “Two lies in two minutes. Men are the worst.”

“Where's Blister and the others?”

“Probably cracking a bottle of Cristal.” She pointed out a big Gulfstream, waiting at the end of the runway.

Yancy cussed and beat on the dashboard—Coolman, the fuckweasel, was taking Buck Nance and Benny the Blister back to California.

Merry said, “Easy, Rocky. Don't hurt yourself.”

“Fuck the stitches. Fuck this case.”

“One of these days,” she said, “we're gonna get here
before
the plane leaves the gate.”

They stayed long enough to watch it take off. Then Yancy grumbled, “Let's go.”

“Where to? I know you're hungry. What about Clippy's? I like that place.”

Yancy said he wasn't up for the Clippy's experience. Merry suggested grabbing a pizza and going back to his house.

Thinking of the escaped pouchies, he said, “I changed my mind. Let's get a room.”

“What a slut puppy! I love it.” Merry gunned the Chrysler out of the airport, peeling rubber on Roosevelt.

They were checking in at the Doubletree when Yancy's cell started ringing. It was a Miami number.

To Merry he said: “Sorry but I need to grab this.”

“I'll be waiting upstairs. Get ready, young man—whips, chains, condiments.”

Yancy hurried out of the lobby to take the phone call in private.

“Whassup?” asked the voice on the end of the line. “I bet I know.”

“Hello, Dominick,” Yancy said.

M
ona and Blister were enchanted by the Gulfstream. Each of them claimed a window seat. Mona thought the plane was bigger and fancier than the one Dr. Nekrotos used on
Learjet Vet.
The flight attendant took drink orders and brought tiny bowls of warm pecans. When Mona asked why she couldn't see anything but darkness below, the flight attendant explained that they were over the ocean.

Blister kept his nose to the glass and was barely listening when Jon David Ampergrodt rolled out the dead Aunt Carol story, apologizing for sending Cree Windsor to the first meeting.

“No prob,” Blister mumbled.

Buck Nance inquired about the large bald Negro on board.

“He's an air marshal,” Amp said. He opened a brushed-leather briefcase and handed the deal memo to Lane Coolman, who leafed through it intently.

“Where's my producer credit?” he asked.

Amp's left shoe started tapping. “That wasn't part of the package we agreed on. I'm the producer, Lane, same as always.”

“Nothing's going to be the same as always. Don't you get that?”

Amp was stunned. His protégé was behaving like a soulless, backstabbing cockhead, which would have been fine if he'd been backstabbing someone other than Amp, who said, “Associate producer. That's the best we can do for you.”

Coolman frowned. “Two words:
Bayou Blood.
I could do the pitch in my sleep. ‘Betrayed and rejected by his family, Buck Nance and his long-lost twin start their own chicken farm a few miles down the road.' It would take me—what?—maybe two minutes to find another network that would buy that show. You think I'm bullshitting? Two more words: William Morris. That's my next stop, and I'm taking Buck with me.”

The cabin of the luxury jet suddenly felt very small. Amp said, “All right, Lane. You're producer. I'm
executive
producer.”

“Not happening. Wake up.”

“You're ready to blow up this whole deal over something so petty? Maybe we should check with the client first. Hey, Buck, you really want to leave Platinum Artists after everything we've done for you and your brothers?”

Buck had been munching nuts, waiting for his shot. “Was it your idea, Amp? Tell the damn truth.”

“Was what my idea?”

“Giving Miracle to Junior.”

“It was the other way around, man.
She
picked
him.
”

“But whose idea?”

“You went AWOL, remember?” Amp said impatiently. “The show was in trouble. We had to come up with something major.”

Buck reached across the aisle for Amp's throat, but the muscular Negro intercepted his arm and twisted it into an unnatural, somewhat agonizing configuration. Buck's feral moan caught the attention of Blister, who whipped out the semiauto and aimed it at the so-called air marshal.

“Tell your nigger to let go my bro!” Blister hollered at Amp.

Mona spun around saying, “Hey, I thought this was s'posed to be a fun trip. Benny Krill, you put that goddamn gun away!”

Prawney let go of Buck, who uncrimped his arm and continued moaning. The silver-plated pistol remained in plain view, now on Blister's lap. To Amp the barrel looked like it was pointed in Lane Coolman's direction, which seemed only fitting.

“Deerbone, just so you know? We don't use the n-word on television,” Amp said, “or in our company meetings. It's totally not cool, not smart—and that's all I'm going to say about
that.
So if you'd be kind enough to apologize to Mr. Prawney, we can get on with our work.”

“Are you shittin' me?”

Buck, still grimacing, raised his head. “Go on, man. Tell him you're sorry.”

“When hell freezes over,” sneered Blister.

“Then that's when you'll get your TV contract,
brother.
When hell freezes.”

Blister turned for support to Coolman, who said, “In this business, first impressions are key. So far? Not too good.”

“Okay, fuck it. Sorry I called you nigger, dude. But, listen here—nobody lays a hand on Captain Cock long as I'm alive. He's blood now.”

Prawney said nothing. He was scoping out the redneck's gun while trying to appear as if he wasn't. The Gulfstream began a wide turn. Mona spotted something bright on the water, and the flight attendant said it was the lights of a cruise liner. Blister popped his seat belt and jumped to the other side of the plane, so that he could see the ship, too.

“Let's buzz that motherfucker!” he exclaimed. “Go tell the pilot.”

Amp's foot started tapping again. Coolman knew what he was thinking—that “Deerbone Nance” was even more flaky and brain-dead than he'd been led to believe.

Buck said, “I want to go back to the airport. I'm pretty sure my arm's broke.”

Prawney spoke up. “Sprained elbow. Ice it tonight and wrap it tomorrow.”

“Oh, now suddenly you're a doctor. I see.”

“Just trying to help.”

The flight attendant brought another round. Buck and Blister were doing bourbon on the rocks. Mona had a second hurricane, this time with a floater. Coolman sipped Diet Coke, while Amp drank clam milk from Gwyneth Paltrow's favorite organic market in Brentwood.

“You and me,” Amp said to Coolman, and the two men headed for the galley in the rear of the plane. The topic of discussion was Coolman's divorce. Amp counseled him to return to California as soon as possible and begin settlement negotiations with Rachel.

“Is she still balling that dickface Drucker?” Coolman asked.

“I heard she's moved on.”

“To who? Tell me she's still not using the Wilshire.”

“What's the difference? Come home and get proactive,” Amp said. “You don't want to end up in a trial, which would be ugly for you
and
the agency. Rachel's legal team has been talking to some of your female acquaintances. They're lining up for a chance to throw you under the bus, and then drive it back and forth over your head.”

Coolman grunted. “Smegg told me.”

“Point is, your marriage is history. When I fly back to L.A. tomorrow, you're coming with me. This judge is hardcore. You need to show up.”

They returned to the front of the cabin, where Amp again tried to start the meeting. “All right, troops, no more drama and bullshit. Can we please focus on our deal points and get this sucker in shape for the network? That means, Deerbone, that it's time to put your piece away. But only if you're interested in getting rich.”

Blister lifted his shirt to insert the pistol into his pants, and that's when Amp noticed the striking ink job.

“It's a kick-ass rooster,” the redneck boasted. He stood up and unbuttoned. “That's the evil fuckin' eye,” he said, circling a fingertip above his glaring greasy navel.

Coolman unnecessarily explained to Amp that the tattoo was a tribute to Captain Cock.

“Epic,” Amp said tepidly.

“Yo, check this out.” Blister spun around to display the legend inscripted on his back.

From the prim-looking flight attendant: “Oh yeah, baby!”

Mona wanted it known that she disapproved of the tats. “Low-rent biker ink is all that is,” she said. “Hey, girl, what's all them lights down there?”

“Miami Beach,” the flight attendant replied.

“No shit?”

“Where?” cried Blister, lunging again for the window.

Amp looked at Coolman. “This is fucking hopeless.”

“I agree.”

“Tomorrow then.”

“I'll call you at the Pier House,” Coolman said. “They've got a business center there, I'm sure.”

“Why?”

“So you can print up a new deal memo that includes my producer credit.”

“Right. How could I forget.” Amp flagged down the flight attendant and whispered, “The sightseeing tour for these retards is over. Tell the pilots we're going back to Key West.”

Dominick “Big Noogie” Aeola got up, took a leak and returned to bed. He was dozing off again when he heard something that made him open his eyes. It also roused John the First, curled between Big Noogie and his girlfriend. Soon the Irish setter fell back to sleep, but Big Noogie remained wide awake. He lay there thinking, listening in the dark. The room now was still but for Juveline's mewling snore and the occasional dog fart. Although the time was well before sunrise, roosters started crowing outside in the courtyard. Big Noogie had never seen a town with so many goddamn chickens running loose. Of course Juveline thought the fuzzy yellow babies were adorable.

The mobster put on some shorts and led the setter downstairs for a walk. He and Juveline were staying at a new bed-and-breakfast on Eaton Street. The towels were soft and the cuisine was first-rate. Everybody who worked there seemed happy. One night, in the lobby, Juveline had spilled a screwdriver on John the First's bogus service vest. Within an hour it had been spot-cleaned, pressed and delivered back to Big Noogie's room.

He'd gotten used to strangers stopping to tell him what a good-looking dog he had. Once they realized he wasn't blind or deaf they would extend the conversation, trying to figure out his disability. Often Big Noogie responded with a blank smile or a woozy nod, which seemed to satisfy them. Humming a nonsense tune was effective, too.

The morning twilight was full of joggers, young and old. Big Noogie walked John up to Margaret Street and cut over toward the old shrimp wharf. He hadn't expected to like Key West as much as he did. The air was somehow salty and sweet at the same time. He didn't really mind the traffic or the tourists; everyone worked hard to act laid back. Likewise the gay scene was no problem, though Big Noogie had dug in his heels when Juveline tried to take him into one of the dance clubs. All during their trip he'd been telling her to dial down her makeup and wardrobe, but she wouldn't do it. As a result, she had been mistaken more than once for a drag queen.

A humongous yacht was moored at one of the docks but Big Noogie was more interested in the sailboats, the older ones with teak trim. They looked so sleek and pretty. He thought about chartering one for a guys trip to the Bahamas, but nobody was awake for him to ask. Later he hit Harpoon Harry's for breakfast, ordering extra bacon strips for John. From there it was a schlep across the island to Higgs Beach. Ordinarily Big Noogie would have flagged a cab but today he had plenty on his mind, and the time spent alone would be welcome. With the sunlight warming his neck and the dumb mick setter surging joyfully on its leash, Big Noogie thought what the hell. The weather app on his phone reported forty-two fucking degrees and sleet at JFK.

By the time the mobster made it to the beach, he was sweat-soaked and huffing. Having left his umbrella at the B and B, he bought one for ten bucks from an elderly German couple armed with an extra. The man and woman seemed embarrassed to take his money but Big Noogie insisted. He walked along the shore to his favorite spot and looped the dog's leash around the stem of the umbrella, which he speared into the soft sand. Wearily he flung himself into the shade and guzzled a blue raspberry Slurpee that he'd purchased on his trek. John the First lapped at a kiwi strawberry.

At ten on the button the Miami lawyer showed up in crocodile loafers, a thousand-dollar suit and no tie. He smelled like an apple orchard. Big Noogie motioned for him to sit down in the sand.

The lawyer hesitated saying, “I'm not really a dog person.”

John the First was elated to have company under the umbrella.

Big Noogie said, “He spazzes out but he don't bite.”

Brock Richardson positioned himself so that Big Noogie's body mass served as a barrier between him and the wriggling, slobbering, shedding canine.

“I seen your ads all over TV,” said the mobster. “I never tried that shit. What's it called again?”

“Pitrolux.”

“Never needed it, knock on wood.” Big Noogie snorted at his own joke. “How does it make your Johnson hard if it goes in your fuckin' pits?”

“Bad stuff,” Richardson said solemnly. “Really bad.”

“I saw the one where you said you was a victim, too. Is that for real?”

The lawyer looked edgy. “Yes, unfortunately.”

Big Noogie was curious about what had happened. Richardson said he'd rather not talk about it. His hands were closed and his elbows were pressed to his sides, as if he was jammed into a phone booth.

“Guy I know tried that goo,” Big Noogie said, miming the underarm application, “but he told me the boners hurt like hell. Is that true? His girlfriend made him do it. Angelo's his name. Went to Mount Sinai and got a shot in the tip of his pecker, to make the hard-on go down. That's how much it hurt.”

The anecdote made the lawyer wince. “Really bad stuff,” he reiterated. “Any day now the feds'll yank it off the market.”

“I'll give him your number. My friend Angelo. Maybe you can get him some money.”

“For sure,” Richardson said gamely. “Sounds like he's got a helluva strong case.”

Big Noogie pulled the straw from his Slurpee and sucked the icy dregs from the cup. John the First had lost interest in the lawyer and was yapping at some kids tossing a Frisbee. Big Noogie told the dog to shut up.

Then he turned to Richardson and said, “I heard you got a theory 'bout your diamond ring.”

The lawyer nodded, scooting closer. “First of all, thanks for taking the time to meet with me. Is it all right if I call you Dominick?”

“Just talk.”

“So we're clear, I'm not one who throws random accusations around. Misunderstandings happen in any business—mine, too—honest misunderstandings. I don't
know
exactly what went down at Yancy's house, Dominick, because I wasn't there. But here's what I do know: Deborah, my fiancée, is devastated about losing that ring. Inconsolable. Sometimes I get home from the office, she's sobbing into her pillow. Can't eat, can't sleep. The diamond just fell off her finger, did you know that? She didn't even notice it was missing till later—but by then Yancy had already found it, is what I think. It was hidden in his house. Deb blames herself, and she's a total wreck. To see her this way would absolutely break your heart. Imagine something like that happened to your wife, how shattering that would be.”