Razor Girl (10 page)

It was Lane Coolman's first ride in a squad car since college. Merry Mansfield sat in the caged backseat and downed two eight-hour energy drinks. The cop kept checking her out in the rearview; she still wore a sexy sheen from the massage oil.

“How's your jaw?” she asked Coolman.

“I'm fine,” he said, though speaking was painful.

When the cop asked what had happened, Merry cut in, “I clocked him, okay? I've got jealousy issues, he's got fidelity issues. You know that tune. Truth? He's lucky I didn't chop off his pecker and feed it to the pelicans.”

“Don't say anything more,” the officer said, “or I'll have to arrest you.”

“Oh, he won't press charges.”

“Under state law it doesn't matter. So do us all a favor and hit the Mute button.”

Coolman piped angrily: “She didn't lay a hand on me! I don't know why she'd say such a sick thing. Swear on the Bible, she never touched me.”

Merry tapped a cardinal fingernail on the steel grid separating the cop from his passengers. “See how he's trying to protect me, officer? That's more than loyalty. It's true love.”

“I barely know this chick,” Coolman protested through clamped teeth.

The cop's slack expression established that he didn't give a shit. His job was to drive them to a corpse, period.

Frances Street had been blocked off on each side of the parked Conch Train. There were five open trolley-style cars hooked to a tractor dolled up like an old-time locomotive. The restless passengers were being interviewed by Key West city detectives, one of whom peeled off to greet Coolman and Merry. As they were led toward the bright yellow body tarp, Coolman's stomach clenched and he tasted sherry-doused chowder on the rebound from lunch.

He felt sure he was going to see the body of Buck Nance, which was sad and shocking, yes, but also it pissed him off. Self-destruction was acceptable in show business when your career was tanking, but not while you're starring in America's hottest cable show.
Bayou Brethren
was still a monster hit, generating monster revenues. The other Nance brothers would carry on for a season or two, but without Buck's crusty presence the ratings would slide and the network would lose enthusiasm. Meanwhile, facing the dark freeze of agent purgatory at Platinum Artists, Coolman would be forced to dredge, poach and beg for a new top-name client.

“You folks ready?” asked the Key West detective.

Coolman said, “Yeah, let's do this.” Like he'd viewed a hundred stiffs.

The tarp was tugged aside, and there lay a slightly built Mideastern-looking man with a wispy coal-black beard. His open eyes were glazed, his shirt front was drenched with blood—and he was a complete stranger.

Coolman made no effort to conceal his relief. He tried to high-five Merry, who backed away muttering, “Jesus, Bob, dial it down.”

“That's not him!” Coolman whooped to the detective.

“Who?”

“Buck Nance!”

“We know that, sir. We believe Mr. Nance was the assailant.”

Coolman was stunned. “You think Buck did this? That's insane.”

“Do you know the victim? Or maybe your client knew him.” The detective pointed with the toe of his shoe.

“I've never ever seen the guy before. You can't be serious.” Coolman wished somebody would close the dead man's eyes.

The city detective asked him to please notify the department as soon as he heard from Mr. Nance. Coolman was then passed along to a different detective—Burton was his name—on special assignment from the sheriff.

“Buck did
not
murder anybody,” Coolman repeated.

Burton nodded agreeably. “It's a manslaughter all the way. Argument turns to punches or maybe just a shove, and poor Mr. Shamoon tumbles off the Conch Train. All that blood you saw? The unlucky bastard impaled himself on some knick-knack he bought for like nine bucks. So, you're right, it's definitely not murder. They'll file it as manslaughter one but they'll let him plead to a lesser. Anyway, you and I need to talk.”

Coolman said he had to make a phone call right away.

“He's quite the big shot,” Merry said to Burton. “A mover and shaker. Can't you tell?”

“What's your connection here, ma'am? Are you with the same talent agency as Mr. Coolman? Do you know Mr. Nance?”

Merry laughed and laughed. “No, no, I've never even watched that stupid rooster show. Mr. Coolman and I just recently met. He bought me a swimsuit and a so-so lunch, which he thinks entitles him to a courtesy fuck. It does not.”

“Don't forget the massage,” Coolman added acidly.

“You men!”

“Go make your phone call,” Burton said to Coolman. “I'll expect you back here in five minutes.”

For privacy Coolman hustled halfway down the block. He tried Amp's super-secret cell number, but there was no answer. Coolman left a long message relating what he knew about the death on the Conch Train, adding: “Buck's in the deepest of shit, dude. He's gonna need a lawyer, so call me back ASAP.”

Burton was huddling with his Key West counterparts, so Coolman went looking for Merry. He found her speaking to a tall, lean man with a baked-in Florida tan.

“Say hello to Inspector Yancy,” Merry said.

Except for the blue hospital gloves, Yancy was dressed more like a bartender than a detective. And he smelled like grass.

“Are you in Homicide?” Coolman asked doubtfully.

“No, I'm on loan from another agency.”

“Buck Nance didn't kill anyone, okay? The whole idea is ludicrous. You've seen his TV show, right?”

“Indeed I have.”

“Well, then, you know,” said Coolman, “he couldn't hurt a flea.”

“Still it doesn't look good. Let's be honest.” Yancy swung a saddish gaze toward the body tarp. “Mr. Nance doesn't have a reputation for cultural tolerance. I watched one of the videos from the Parched Pirate. Talk about making a poor impression.”

“Andrew wants to take us to dinner,” Merry said. “He knows an oyster bar we can walk to from here.”

So it's Andrew already?
thought Coolman.
Jesus, she doesn't waste any time.

He told Yancy he didn't do shellfish because he was hyper-allergic.

Merry sighed. “Then order a freaking cheeseburger, Bob. Let's just get out of here, okay?”

Yancy looked amused. “ ‘Bob'? I thought your name was Lane.”

“Inside joke,” Coolman growled.

“Tell me what happened to that car you rented. The silver Buick—the one they towed from the Sears lot.”

“What? Oh.” Coolman glanced anxiously at Merry, who was unfazed and in his opinion standing too close to Yancy. “I, uh, backed into a tree.”

“At about forty miles an hour, from the looks of it.”

“I don't…who do you work for, Inspector?”

Coolman was saved from Yancy by Detective Burton, who led him to a quiet area and asked too many questions. He tried to hide his surprise when Burton brought up Zeto's name, and he asserted he'd never met the man. Likewise he played dumb when the detective mentioned Buck's Green Room manifesto. Coolman guessed it had fallen from his pocket during the kidnapping, but to Burton he feigned bafflement.

When the subject of the damaged rental car arose, Coolman stuck with the lie about hitting a tree. He didn't wish to complicate his mission, which was to find Buck and bring him back to Los Angeles. Burton undoubtedly would have been entertained by a truthful account of the crash, especially Merry Mansfield's razor antics, but with lust on his mind Coolman decided to shield her from the authorities. Later he could have kicked himself for being such a sucker.

Because after the detective finished interviewing him, Coolman went looking for his redheaded companion—and she was gone. She'd waltzed off to dine with her new friend, Inspector Yancy.

Just the two of them, of course.

O
n the fourteenth of February, unseasonably hot and calm, Martin Trebeaux and Dominick “Big Noogie” Aeola boarded a New York–bound flight at Miami International. Trebeaux was dragged down the concourse by an inbred Irish setter wearing a blaze-orange vest stamped: “Working Service Dog.” The setter had no special training whatsoever; in fact, it barely responded to its own name, which was “John.” Trebeaux had purchased the official-looking vest for thirty-four dollars online, no documentation required. A shrink who lived in Trebeaux's building had composed a letter for the airlines saying Trebeaux was emotionally unfit to travel unless accompanied by a “comfort animal,” specifically John.

“They gotta let him on the plane,” Trebeaux explained to Big Noogie. “It's an FAA rule.”

“You are the scum of the scum.”

“No, it's the hot new thing. Everybody's doing it.”

“Like who?”

“Like half the Hamptons, that's who. Know how much Delta charges to fly a full-grown dog in cargo? Look how happy John is here with us.”

“Make him lie down,” said Big Noogie, who was as large as his nickname suggested. Even in a bulkhead row he felt cramped.

“I can't make him lie down. I can't make him do anything,” Trebeaux confessed. “He doesn't really pay attention.”

Big Noogie wrapped a hand around the setter's silky snout and bent over until they were nose to nose. “Yo, John,” he said. “Lie the fuck down.”

The dog flopped onto the floor.

“Now
that
is respect,” Trebeaux said, neatly coiling the leash in his lap.

“Get him off my feet or he's goin' in the overhead.”

“Sure, Dominick. Absolutely.”

Trebeaux understood he was still alive only because a bright new beach was being born behind the mob's Royal Pyrenees Hotel and Resort—a flawless white crescent that was the envy of neighboring hoteliers. Trebeaux had told Big Noogie that all thirty-eight thousand cubic yards had come from the northeastern coastline of Cuba. In truth the pristine crystals had been pirated from the Canaveral National Seashore, vacuumed from the shallows at night by high-volume dredges and then barged south to the Royal Pyrenees. The glistening booty was being fanned over the cheap gritty fill that Trebeaux's crews had initially deposited behind the hotel. Big Noogie found the new mantle so rich and velvety that he set aside his low opinion of Trebeaux and asked his associates in Queens to consider a shareholder role in Sedimental Journeys.

In other words, grab the whole goddamn company.

Trebeaux wasn't yet aware that he might be surrendering his beach-renourishing operation to the Calzone crime family, and the Calzone crime family wasn't yet aware that Trebeaux had no high-level connections in Havana, no secret source of fine Caribbean sand.

Somewhere over the Carolinas, Trebeaux offered to sell forty-nine percent of his company, but only if he remained chairman and CEO—that was the deal breaker. Big Noogie chuckled and said they'd sort out the details over lunch. For the rest of the flight he played Sudoku and exchanged no words with Trebeaux. During the bumpy descent to JFK, Big Noogie looked out the window and saw rough waves on Jamaica Bay. The pilot came on the intercom and said the temperature was thirty-three degrees, have a wonderful day in the tri-state area.

A dingy Town Car picked up the men at the airport. They pulled over along the Van Wyck so that John the fake service dog could take a leak. The sight of the fluorescently garbed setter slowed traffic, New York motorists assuming it was a police K-9 sniffing for corpses.

The meeting was in Oceanside at a small joint called Crisco's—red-checked tablecloths, red lampshades, red walls. While waiting for the other mobsters to show up, Trebeaux ordered spaghetti, meatballs and prosciutto lasagna. John was ejected from the dining area after slurping a sausage from Big Noogie's plate. The owner of the place, Crisco himself, led the dog out the front door and placed it in the backseat of the Town Car.

Soon two men in long winter coats arrived. They were introduced to Trebeaux as “Joey” and “Vin,” straight out of the movies. Joey was slender and going gray at the temples; Vin was younger and broad as a dumpster.

“You must be the sand man,” said Joey.

Trebeaux bowed. Vin and Joey sat down and listened to his pitch. Surprisingly, they asked few questions.

“So, the demand for restored beaches is, literally, eternal,” Trebeaux said in summary. “Soon as you lay one down it starts washing out to sea. Next thing you know, these suckers are back on the phone, begging for more sand.”

Vin said, “We get it.”

“As I told Dominick, I'm willing to sell forty-nine percent.”

“How 'bout dis? We take a hundred percent, you get to fly home with your dick in one piece.”

Trebeaux was silent for a few moments. Then: “At least can I keep the title of chairman? I just bought a shitload of letterhead.”

Big Noogie chuckled. So did Vin and Joey and even Crisco, who was uncorking a bottle of Chianti for the table.

“You can call yourself El Fuckstick Supremo for all I care,” said Joey, “but you still work for us.”

“Can I ask about my salary?”

Big Noogie said, “It was me, I wouldn't.”

After lunch they all walked outside and shook hands. Joey and Vin departed in a Suburban with tinted windows and mismatched tires. Big Noogie and Trebeaux got into the Town Car.

“Hey, where's John?” Trebeaux held up the empty orange vest.

The driver said, “I walked down to Starbucks for like five minutes. Came back he was gone.”

“What kind of creep would steal a service dog?”

Big Noogie said, “You got a brother?”

Usually Crisco's was safer than the police precinct house. Everyone in the neighborhood knew who ate there; the regulars never even locked their cars. Whoever swiped Trebeaux's Irish setter had to be from somewhere else, Big Noogie said. He told the driver to put the word out: Bring back that goddamn mutt, or else.

Trebeaux said, “Don't worry about it, guys. Let's roll.”

“But he's your pet dog, for Christ's sake.”

“No big deal, Dominick. I'll pick up another one for the flight home.”

“You're serious.”

“Why not? We can hit a shelter on the way to Kennedy. I'll get directions off my phone.”

The driver looked at Big Noogie, who said, “Unbelievable, right?”

Trebeaux was already scrolling through a list of animal adoption facilities in Queens. “But we've got to call the new one John, too,” he explained, “because that's the name the shrink put on his letter, and that letter is what gets us bulkhead.”

“Plus early boarding,” said Big Noogie.

Thinking:
Scum of the scum.

Jon David Ampergrodt couldn't believe the sheriff of Monroe County, Florida, wouldn't take his calls.
Everybody
took his calls. The sheriff's assistant said Sonny Summers was very busy. Jon David Ampergrodt replied that nobody could possibly be busier than himself, and he would greatly appreciate five precious minutes of the sheriff's time. The sheriff's assistant didn't sound particularly young or fuckable, like Jon David Ampergrodt's assistant, but her stance was loyal and unwavering. Jon David Ampergrodt came to admire her during the time he was being jerked around.

“Call me Amp,” he'd say.

“No, Mr. Ampergrodt.”

“Well, may I call you Jessie?”

“ ‘Mrs. Kunkle' is fine.”

Finally, one morning, a breakthrough. When Amp reached the sheriff's assistant, he said, “Please tell your boss I'm interested in donating another pile of money to his re-election.”

Minutes later, the phone rang. It was Sonny Summers in Key West.

“I understand you've got a homicide on your hands,” Amp said.

“Unfortunately. Tragically. A passenger from a cruise ship.”

“And Buck Nance is your prime suspect? I must tell you that's totally absurd.”

“Officially he's a person of interest,” the sheriff said. “Mrs. Kunkle mentioned something about campaign donations?”

“You received the first bundle, I believe.”

“Yes, and thank you.”

“However, I'd been left with the impression that in exchange for our generous support, you'd make it a priority to track down Mr. Nance.”

“Oh, we tried,” said Sonny Summers. “Now we're trying even harder. His silver money clip and credit cards have been recovered. Those are solid leads.”

“Outside of your department and the city police, who knows he's your main guy in this choo-choo train killing?”

“Not a soul. No one. Well, hardly anyone.”

“Can you keep it quiet as long as possible?” Amp asked.

“I don't like press conferences. Actually, I don't
believe
in press conferences. We run a tight ship around here. No leaks.”

“That's good to hear. I've got fifty other friends that are thinking of giving to your re-election committee.” As before, these would be names collected at a soup kitchen near the Staples Center. Amp's assistant would arrange for the cutting of all the cashier's checks, drawn from a special company bank account.

“I'd be real grateful for the help,” said the sheriff. “Just a reminder—”

“The max is a thousand dollars per customer. I remember.”

Amp was no longer in a panic to get Buck Nance back on the cock farm. The first episode of
Bayou Brethren
completed after his disappearance had absolutely
killed
in the ratings. It had been written as a somber family discussion of Buck's recently fabricated struggle with booze and pills, setting the stage for his eventual return from fake rehab. During the taping, however, each of the brothers wandered off-script to share unflattering anecdotes meant to document Buck's disintegration and also sabotage his popularity with viewers. Krystal Nance had chimed in with an uncharacteristic tirade, having received revelatory correspondence (with photos attached) from a woman claiming to be Buck's secret mistress. Despite around-the-clock supervision, Miracle had somehow gained access to a laptop, and also to Krystal's personal email. As a result, the crying coach hired for Krystal faced an impossible task, and was sent back to L.A.

The success of the Buck-less
Brethren
thrilled Poe, the director. He persuaded the producers to accelerate the season's shooting schedule to two episodes per week, and shave the editing time by half. The mission: Exploit the domestic turbulence among the Nances to lure an even larger audience. Amp had been informed via conference call that Buck's phony rehab period should be extended until further notice; his presence in Pensacola was unneeded.

Amp wasn't sure if it would help or hurt the show if Buck was jailed for attacking an innocent Muslim. The malicious Internet chatter had mostly abated since YouTube had pulled the videos of Buck's bar monologue in Key West, but floating somewhere around cyberspace was another incendiary clip from a stridently anti-Islamic “sermon” that he'd delivered at the fake church. Amp had told no one in the Nance family or on the
Brethren
production team that Buck was now a murder suspect. So far, the only ones who knew were Amp, Lane Coolman and a high-powered Malibu defense lawyer—and, once more, Coolman had fallen off the planet.

He hadn't been heard from since he'd left the voicemail on the night of the Conch Train killing, two weeks earlier. It made Amp wonder if his protégé was wigging out because of the divorce. Coolman's first kidnap story had seemed shaky; maybe he'd made up the whole thing. Maybe he'd needed the “ransom” to cover his legal fees. Had Amp owned a fully formed conscience he would have experienced at least a tickle of guilt for boning Rachel Coolman on the sly, but he'd lost not a minute of sleep. It had been her idea, after all, and Amp was but one of many to meet her for a quick one at the Wilshire. That she would pauperize her future ex-husband in court was a given—it was California, right? And hadn't Coolman, a scheming hound himself, put the moves on every babe on the tenth floor, including Amp's own not-too-swift assistant, who'd almost said yes?

“I'm also concerned about Buck's manager,” Amp said to the sheriff. “We haven't heard from him in a while. Could your people ask around?”

Sonny Summers said his people were pretty darn busy. Amp suspected they might hunt harder for Coolman if Amp offered to further fatten the next bundle of checks for the sheriff's re-election committee. Amp briefly considered making such a proposition, yet he couldn't summon a sense of urgency. The truth was, Coolman's absence at Platinum Artists had created no discernible void.

“Never mind,” Amp told Sonny Summers. “He'll surface eventually.”

“They usually do.”

“But please let me know if you arrest Mr. Nance? Before I see it on the news.”

“Don't worry. We'll do it low-key,” the sheriff said.

“Low-key would be lovely.”

Amp said goodbye and speed-dialed Rachel Coolman's number. He was free for lunch, and she ate fast. She did everything fast.

Yancy's situation worsened soon after the Conch Train killing, when Burton reversed field and told him to forget about the Buck Nance case. The sheriff had heard Yancy was poking around, and was threatening to leave him on roach patrol for eternity unless he backed off. Yancy accepted the news maturely and went bonefishing until the tide ran out. When he returned, his would-be neighbor Deb was sitting on the doorstep. Her nose was elaborately bandaged due to a vaping mishap—after too many cocktails she'd touched a vintage Ronson to the tip of her e-cig as if it was a Marlboro, sparking a minor detonation. Yancy withheld sympathy due to her sarcastic appraisal of his landscaping.

He invited her inside and went to fetch the metal detector. Naturally that's when Rosa happened to FaceTime him from overseas, Deb answering on his behalf. The two women were having an improbably civil chat when Yancy re-entered the living room. Deb handed him the phone on her way out the door.