Razor Girl (17 page)

“Yes, of course. I understand.” Amp kicked off his Ferragamos and danced a jig in front of the window, fist-pumping for the wretches stuck in traffic down on Santa Monica.

“We believe Mr. Nance has left Monroe County,” Sonny Summers continued, “and doesn't want to be found.”

“It's very possible.”

“You're better off hiring a private investigator.”

“Already done,” Amp lied.

“Just so you know—Benny Krill, the man that we believe killed our Muslim tourist, he's apparently a major fan of your TV show. That's why he got the tattoo. It'll all come out in the media once we catch him, which should be soon.”

“I appreciate the heads-up.”

“It's the least I can do, considering your generous donations to my re-election committee.”

No shit,
thought Amp. “Did you get the boxed set of the series I sent?”

Sonny Summers said, “Funny stuff. My wife thought so, too.”

“Are you a fisherman?” Amp asked. “I'll FedEx some flies made with Buck's premium rooster feathers.”

Sonny Summers said no thanks. “Blue water's my thing.”

Amp had no clue what that meant. He said goodbye to the sheriff and took a call from the junior talent agent assigned to keep an eye on Buck's hotheaded mistress. To make sure Miracle wouldn't feel abandoned, the team at Platinum Artists had given her permission to seduce one of the other brothers. She selected Junior, who offered no resistance and was properly dazzled by her talents. As Amp had correctly calculated, allowing Buck's girlfriend to switch Nances had caused combustible rancor on the set, further boosting the ratings. Although the brothers' wives would never allow Miracle to appear on camera, she could still bloom into an important if unseen character—the ruthless mystery slut. Amp heard the new plot line was tracking strong in all market segments.

The young agent reported that Miracle was elated to be cheating on Buck, Junior was elated to have stolen his AWOL brother's girlfriend, and Junior's wife was threatening to put lighter fluid in his mouthwash.

“Would that kill him?” asked Jon David Ampergrodt.

“Not sure.”

“Do some research, please. We don't need any more surprises.”

“I'm on it,” the agent said.

“And when you're done, for God's sake delete your search history.”

Amp drove to the Wilshire where he met Rachel Coolman in a fourth-floor suite. His phone started ringing while his face was buried between her legs. She grabbed for his ears but he'd already veered away to peek at his caller ID.

“No way,” he gasped.

“Get back down there.”

“It's your husband calling.”

Rachel said, “Tell him you can't talk now 'cause your mouth is full of me.”

Amp retreated into a closet. “My man! Where the fuck are you?”

“I'm with Buck,” Lane Coolman replied. “The where isn't important.”

“So he's alive! Fantastic!” Amp strived for an approximation of relief.

“Buck's contract? Rip it up.”

“The one we've been working so hard on? Why?”

“He wants a better deal, Amp. You'll need to take notes.”

The connection was lousy, but the voice on the other end definitely belonged to Coolman. However, his tone was unfamiliar—frosty, subdued, curt.
Could he somehow know,
Amp wondered,
that I'm banging his future ex-wife?

“Put Buck on the line, would you?”

“In a minute,” was Lane's sharp reply, no deference whatsoever. Amp sensed that a very good day would soon be turning to shit. He wasn't wrong.

The deal presented by Lane was outrageous: Buck would return to
Bayou Brethren
at double his salary. He'd be bringing with him a long-lost twin named Spiro, for whom Buck had been searching far and wide. The stress from that heart-wrenching quest would be used to explain Buck's breakdown at the Parched Pirate and brief absence from the show. Fortunately, Buck was whole again—his brother Spiro would move to the chicken farm and acquaint himself with the rest of the family. The newfound sibling would receive $50,000 per episode; for reruns, scale plus twenty percent. If the producers refused those terms, Buck would quit and jump networks taking Spiro with him. Their new show would be called
Bayou Blood,
and it would be aired head-to-head against
Brethren.

“And, oh, if that's how it goes down? I'll be moving to William Morris,” Coolman warned Amp. “Buck and Spiro, they're coming with me.”

Amp's brain was quaking. He had so hoped Buck would stay missing. The last thing the Nances needed was another brother, but the last thing the show needed was a competing spinoff.

“Lane, what is Spiro's real name?”

“Can't tell you.”

“Backstory?”

“Think Elvis and Jesse Presley—except little Spiro didn't die at birth. He was kidnapped from the hospital nursery by Gypsies.”

“No Gypsies,” Amp said firmly.

“Then make it human traffickers. No, wait—a distraught woman who'd tragically lost her own child and was desperate to fill the void. That'll work. But then she turned out to be an amazing mom who adored little Spiro and made him the center of her life. When she died in a freak accident, he was devastated. Quit his job and ended up on the streets of Key West. That's where Buck finally tracked him down—homeless, grief-stricken and disoriented. That's our pitch.”

“Okay. Tell me how the foster mother dies. What kind of accident?”

“She's hit by a runaway ice-cream truck,” Coolman said.

“I like it. I really do.”

“On the steps of a church.”

“Too much,” said Amp, scrambling to keep up. “You say Spiro was so heartbroken that he quit his job and moved to Key West. Why there?”

“Because it's the end of the great American highway, Amp. It's where the pavement runs out.”

“Are you fucking with me? Because that's like pure poetry, man. We all end up at the end of the road with nothing but our dreams. Beautiful! Though I've gotta say, this lost-twin thing has sort of been overdone—”

Rachel rapped on the closet door to announce she was going home. “Tell Lane I'll see him in court. Tell him to lube up.”

“What?” Lane said, his voice rising. “Who's that talking?”

“Just the waitress. I'm at Bouchon.”

“I swear it sounded like Rachel.”

Amp said, “Here's a question: Do they even look alike? Buck and his ‘twin'?”

“When they grow out their beards, they will. Close enough, anyway.”

“Lane, I've got to be honest—”

“No, Amp, you've got to be smart.”

“Can I speak to Buck?”

“After the deal's done,” Coolman said. “Did you think we'd disappear off the face of the earth, just to make your life easier? Seriously.”

“Listen, you've got it all wrong. I am
totally
jazzed to hear your voice. I had every cop in the islands lookin' for you guys!”

Amp was rattled, off his game. Negotiating naked from a hotel closet had him at a disadvantage; normally he'd be manhandling Coolman via Bluetooth while gliding through the canyons in his Aston.

“I totally get the brother concept, Lane, but the problem is those shitbirds at the network. They're gonna want to know who is this Spiro guy, what's his angle, and so forth.”

“Make the deal happen, or we're gone. I'm talking a cloud of dust.”

“All right, you bet, absolutely,” said Jon David Ampergrodt, jolted to the bone. “I'll have it iced by the next time we talk. That's a promise, man.”

But nobody was on the end of the line.

The duplex was buzzing when Yancy and Merry arrived. Parked out front were two sheriff's cruisers, Rogelio Burton's unmarked sedan and a vented panel truck from Animal Control. Inside the apartment, Burton was attempting to interview Mona while the uniformed officers stood back watching the guy from Animal Control grapple with Benny Krill's mongoose. There was grunting and blood splatter.

When Mona saw Yancy, she said, “Shit, you
are
a cop. How bad did he cut ya?”

Yancy pulled up his shirt. Mona grimaced. “I never seen Benny like that before. He lost his goddamn mind is all,” she said.

Burton led Yancy to the back bedroom and gave him a heated lecture ending with: “Andrew, this bullshit stops right now.”

“Where's our suspect?”

“Like I would tell you.”

“The wife claims she doesn't know, right?”

“We're still having that discussion,” the detective said.

From the living room came a piercing cry. The mongoose had taken another bite out of the Animal Control officer.

“If it's any consolation,” Yancy said to Burton, “Blister stabbed me.”

“And still you didn't call. Unfuckingbelievable.”

“Don't take it personally, Rog.”

Yancy had known that either Burton or the Key West cops would eventually identify Krill from his tattoos and track him to Stock Island. It had been Yancy's hope that the hunt would take a few days, yet here they were already. He wondered if Mona would flip on her husband, assuming she knew where he went.

Another yowl arose, followed by more shouting and bedlam. Merry rushed into the bedroom to report that the mongoose had been Tased, with unsatisfactory results.

Burton threw his hands in the air, a gesture Yancy had seen many times; the two of them had had facing desks in the detective division. Yancy thought of how much he missed working with Burton; through all the low times Burton had stayed rock-solid and loyal, even when Yancy disappointed him.

“Rog, I'll tell you what I
think
I know.”

“Just stick to the true parts, asshole.”

“First, Blister's crazy as a shithouse rat. Second, he's got a major man-crush on Buck Nance because of that idiotic TV show. That's probably why he went after the Muslim on the Conch Train. I also think he kidnapped Buck to be his best buddy. He's been holding him captive on a derelict boat, which just happened to sink off Sunset Key this afternoon with no hands aboard. My guess is that Blister's still got Buck locked up somewhere.”

“This time you're wrong, Andrew. I can't tell you how good it feels to say that.” Burton was grinning. “Nobody's got Buck Nance. He's safe, sound and free as a bird.”

The news jarred Yancy. “Where the hell is he?”

“The sheriff couldn't care less, and neither should you.”

One of the uniformed cops knocked on the door saying the coast was clear, the mongoose having evaded capture and fled into the twilight. The officer from Animal Control was driving himself to the hospital to get his wounds treated.

Yancy asked Burton how he knew for certain that Buck Nance was safe.

“Because he called Sonny.”

“Okay, wait—Sonny spoke directly with Captain Cock?”

“Less than an hour ago. Nance apologized for all the hassle he'd caused. Said he was going through a rough patch and took some time off for personal reasons, which is Hollywood for dope, booze or pussy.” Burton caught himself, and turned sheepishly to Merry. “Sorry. ‘Women' is what I meant to say. Dope, booze and women.”

She smiled. “That's so sweet. Why can't I ever meet guys like you?”

Yancy pushed on. “How does Sonny know it was Buck on the phone?”

“Same voice from the TV show,” said Burton. “Buck's agency sent Sonny a box of DVDs.”

“Something's not right, Rog.”

“You want to get off my shit list? Swear out a complaint against Benny the Blister for jamming that blade in your belly.”

Merry piped up, “I was there. I saw everything.”

“Outstanding. Then off we go.” Burton drilled Yancy with an expectant stare. “That way, if this shithead skates on the Conch Train case, at least we can nail him for trying to murder you. It's your civic duty, Andrew, to press charges. Also, you fucking owe me.”

“But Sonny'll go postal when he finds out what happened. I'll never get my badge back. The rest of my life I'll be swabbing meat racks for
E. coli.
”

“Let me handle the sheriff,” said Burton.

Merry tugged Yancy toward the door. “Come on, sugar, time to roll.”

“Rog, what you told me about Buck Nance—I'm not buying that story,” Yancy said. “The pieces don't fit.”

Burton said the pieces fit splendidly. “Andrew, listen to the lady. Go home, have a good night's sleep and tomorrow get your ass back on the job.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Your
real
job,” Burton added, as Merry pulled Yancy out the door.

T
he furniture truck arrived with Yancy's new sofa—a seven-footer, slate-gray with white piping on the cushions. He lay down for a trial nap and awoke helplessly to the sound of Merry chatting on his phone.

“Why?” he croaked after she hung up.

“I called her because she has a right to know you got hurt.”

“What'd she say? She coming back?”

“I promised her we hadn't slept together,” Merry said. “Fifty-fifty, she believed me.”

“But is she coming back?” Yancy sat up wincing. “She's not, is she?”

Merry stretched out, settling her head in his lap. “That gig at the morgue screwed her up big-time. Swear to God,
I
couldn't do it—working on stiffs all day, no way. She told me she's learning to ski. Cross-country, not downhill. She said she's getting used to the cold.”

“I'm so glad you two got caught up. Want a pillow?”

“Don't tell me you're getting hard. Where's your famous manners, Andrew?”

Pinned to the sofa, he folded his arms to limit the mischief. Merry's hair was fanned exotically across his knees. Her throat featured dainty freckles in a pattern like the Little Dipper.

“Know what else Rosa told me?” she said. “They had only one murder in all Norway last week! A couple drunk farmers arguing over a crossword puzzle, one guy smacks the other with a manure shovel. She said you hardly ever hear sirens at night, not like Miami where it's dawn to dusk. I think she really feels safe there. Much as she adores you, Andrew, she needs to be somewhere other than here. By the way, your cock's poking me in the ear.”

“Do you not know anything about male hydraulics?”

Merry closed her eyes smiling. “I'm not worried. You're a hopeless gentleman.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“I did.”

“I mean your real name.”

“Who taught you how to nag?” Merry said.

Not wishing to involve Rogelio Burton, Yancy had contacted some cop friends in Miami. As he'd expected, they couldn't find anyone named Merry Mansfield in the state or federal computers. It was a relief, in a way, because there was no tawdry rap sheet to visualize.

He said, “I don't get why you're still here.”

“Meaning with you? Because it's not too boring. Plus you got stabbed and need a driver. Relax, Andrew, I'll be gone soon.”

“No rush.”

“What are you going to do, now that the riddle of Buck the Missing Redneck is solved?”

Yancy said, “Blister's still out there.”

“Your pal Burton'll find him.”

“I need a project. You understand.”

She drove him for a walk-through at a Wendy's, which checked out okay except for one chartreuse burger patty. The mortified manager sailed it out the rear door to a waiting raccoon, while Yancy looked the other way. The next stop was a Parisian-style bistro where an amber fleck on a cheese-cutting board turned out to be human ear wax. The laconic teenaged offender received a mild lecture on hygiene, and Yancy recorded the find as “noncritical.”

Merry commented on his forgiving mood.

“Just wait,” he said.

Two different customers at Stoney's Crab Palace had posted Instagram shots of “mystery meat” they'd been served as lamb kabobs. Tommy Lombardo said the photographs were inconclusive, and he asked Yancy to keep an open mind. After viewing the photos on his phone, Yancy told Merry to proceed straight to Stock Island. She dropped him in front of Stoney's, where he ambushed the owner in his office.

“Jesus, where'd
you
come from?” Brennan cried.

He was on his knees, tacking a rust-brown pelt to a bare pine plank.

Yancy said, “Is that what I think it is?”

“The mink I told you about. So what? The lady who owned it changed her mind.”

“It's not a mink, you moron.”

Brennan said, “Her old man's hyper-allergic, so she sold it to me for seventy-five cash. The fur is, like, a major score. I'm gonna sell it to Bergdorf's.”

“What'd you do with the rest of it?”

Brennan wouldn't look him in the eye.

“The meat,” Yancy said. “Shanks, loins, shoulders. Where is it?”

“Threw it all away.”

“I can't decide what's worse, your lying or your cooking.”

Brennan smoothed the edges of the pelt. “Show me in the code where it says you can't serve mink.”

“First of all, it's a fucking mongoose. Second, you labeled it lamb, which is totally illegal.”

“How bad illegal?”

Yancy anticipated another bribe offer and Brennan wasted no time, fishing a hundred-dollar bill from his back pocket. “Pitiful,” said Yancy. “Put it away.”

“Don't shut us down again, Andrew. I got a kid in college.”

“Would that be the University of Cheech, or the University of Chong? I know your boy, Brennan. He runs a grow house on Big Coppitt.”

“Cut me some slack, man.”

In truth, food mislabeling wasn't a serious enough offense to justify closing down a restaurant, even Stoney's. Yancy suspected that the serving of mongoose meat wasn't specifically mentioned in the state health codes.

“Lucky you caught me on a busy day,” he said to Brennan.

“I knew you was human.”

Merry called Yancy from Fausto's grocery asking if he preferred Advil or Aleve. The night before, she'd flushed all his Percocets in an act of tough love.

When Yancy got off the phone, Brennan presented a platter featuring a purplish wedge of mammal flesh, scalded to the approximate texture of a roofing tile. “It's the last piece,” Brennan said. “Try a bite.”

“I'd rather slam my nuts in a screen door.”

“It ain't half bad, Andrew. Even better would be fried cutlets.”

Yancy slapped the platter from Brennan's hand and walked outside. He looked up at the bluebird sky wishing he'd worn his shades.

Spending time with Benny the Blister had shaken Buck Nance's confidence in the superiority of the white male. He and his brothers had clung to such views since their Romberg youth, warped by their father's fulminations. While redneck stardom had exposed Buck to many white fans who were poor advertisements for a master race, Blister stood out as one of the worst specimens he'd ever met—stupid, reckless, dirty and delusional.

And that's when he was stone sober.

“I can't believe we're in business with this maniac,” Buck muttered to Coolman while Blister took a cacophonous dump, the bathroom door wide open.

“It's all good,” said Coolman.

“He killed a dude.”

“Keep it down.”

“And stabbed a damn cop!”

“Ssshhhh.”

“Where'd he come up with ‘Spiro'? That's not a bayou name,” Buck griped.

“Amp is properly freaked out, that's all that matters. A couple weeks from now, when the chopper I'm putting in your new contract lands at the rooster farm, you'll be making twice as much money as your backstabbing brothers.”

“And earning every damn dollar,” said Buck.

Blister had warned them about the vicious new vibe on
Bayou Brethren.
Coolman wasn't surprised, but Buck refused to believe it until he saw for himself. They had screened the latest episode on a sixty-inch plasma in the conch house Coolman had rented for them on Fleming Street. It was the day of the rough dinghy ride back to the mainland, after Blister had sprung them from the handcuffs and sunk the
Wet Nurse
by disconnecting the seacock hoses.

Buck had grown furious watching Junior, Buddy and Clee Roy badmouth him on camera. He immediately gave Coolman permission to contact Jon David Ampergrodt and present the Spiro Ultimatum. Blister was soaring, too dim to foresee the obvious.

Coolman had no intention of casting a criminal on the show as his prize client's lost twin. Once Buck's rich new deal was finalized, Coolman planned to call Crime Stoppers and have Blister busted for the Conch Train killing. The network honchos wouldn't be upset; in fact, they'd be relieved because they wouldn't have to write an expensive new Nance into the story line. Meanwhile Coolman and Buck would stay mum about what happened on the boat. Putting Blister on trial for kidnapping would be counterproductive, keeping Buck in Key West at a time when his presence on the
Brethren
set would be crucial.

Now Coolman didn't need “Hell Island” or any other project in his back pocket; Buck's new deal was a lifetime score for both of them. The Nance patriarch's scrappy rebound from disgrace and scandal would be the hottest show-business story in America. At Lane's instruction Buck had already phoned the sheriff to say he was alive and well, and deeply sorry for all the fuss he'd caused. He promised to donate a truckload of
Brethren
swag to an auction benefiting the local kids' baseball league, which fully redeemed him in the eyes of Sheriff Summers.

Buck's return to television was guaranteed to rack up monster numbers in prime time and on streaming Internet. And, as the architect of the celebrity redneck's triumphal comeback, Coolman would be more valuable than ever to Platinum Artists, possibly even more valuable than Amp. The only cloud on the horizon was Rachel, and Coolman was now considering an expedited divorce settlement—before he got promoted, and the serious dough began rolling in.

“Oh no,” he heard Buck say. “What the fuck?”

Blister was twirling a silver-plated semiautomatic that he'd stolen from a Mini Cooper outside the Pier House after docking the dinghy. Coolman was scared of firearms, and Buck's own limited experience came from the TV tapings, when he and his brothers would pepper whiskey bottles or beer cans under the off-screen supervision of a former Marine sniper.

“Is that thing loaded?” Coolman asked Blister.

“Not totally sure, dude.”

Buck calmly told him to put the gun away. Blister instead aimed it at the plasma screen where one of the bad hairpieces on Fox News was offering insight on Ukraine.

“Just 'cause I don't have my own lawyer,” Blister said, squinting one eye, “don't mean those Hollywood Jews can screw me over on this deal. You boys got my back, right?”

Buck roared, “Hell, yes, brother!”

Coolman, struggling to hide his fear, nodded devotedly.

Blister lowered the pistol. “Now on, call me Spiro.”

“I'm proud to have you as a client, Spiro. Big changes are coming your way, good stuff, so get ready.”

Coolman excelled at false enthusiasm, and Blister was swept along. That Coolman had persuaded the bonehead to uncuff them and abandon the
Wet Nurse
somewhat restored Buck Nance's faith in his agent. It had been Coolman who, upon learning of Blister's preposterous ambition to join the
Brethren,
conceived the lost-twin concept. Blister was so excited about becoming a Nance that he'd allowed Coolman to purchase a new cell phone for the ostensible purpose of accelerating negotiations. The rental house on Fleming, paid for with the same Platinum Artists Visa card, had been cleverly presented by Coolman as a luxury perk. Blister was ecstatic, even though the size of the place made it difficult to keep his eyeballs on Buck and his agent 24/7.

Coolman believed that Blister would come to treat them less as captives and more as fellow players in the TV deal.
Vanity always trumps common sense,
Coolman had whispered to Buck.
First rule of Hollywood.

And, sure enough, Blister seemed to be letting down his guard. He assigned Buck and Coolman the same upstairs bedroom yet failed to secure the windows, so that escape via a Poinciana tree was available if necessary. While the presence of the handgun was unnerving, Buck reminded Coolman that Blister had acquired it by chance, not design. The dumbass had been snooping mainly for loose cash and jewelry in the Mini Cooper. His unfamiliarity with the basic mechanics of firearms confirmed his preference for knives; in addition to not knowing if the semiautomatic was loaded, Blister had no idea what caliber it was.

Buck hoped that, like most burglars, Blister would pawn the weapon at his first opportunity. Coolman was too jumpy to wait.

“You need to get rid of that thing ASAP,” he told their kidnapper.

“How come? You're my agent, not my damn babysitter.”

“Because if you get caught with a gun, our whole project's in the shitter. The network has a strict moral turpitude clause in every talent contract.”

Blister sneered. “What the fuck is moral turpentine?”

Coolman smiled painfully. “
Turpitude.
It means bad behavior, Spiro. Such as drug use, sexual misconduct—or getting busted with a stolen firearm.”

“I don't plan on gettin' busted.”

“Still—”

“Listen here, I been thinkin' hard 'bout my contract,” said Blister. “That man in California you been talkin' with—what's his name again?”

“Jon David Ampergrodt. He's the head of the whole agency.”

“I wanna meet him.”

Coolman sucked in a breath. Buck's expression turned grim.

“There's no need for a meeting,” Coolman said to Blister. “Mr. Ampergrodt can overnight the paperwork directly to us.”

“No, I wanna see the man. He thinks he's the shit, right? Well,
I
am the shit and I need a handshake.”

Buck Nance spoke up. “Trust me, brother. That ain't how it works.”

Blister waggled the semiautomatic. “It works however I say. How soon can he git here?”

Coolman cleared his throat. “I'll make a call.”

“You do that.” Blister flipped the gun around in his hand and casually peered into the barrel. “I can't tell if that's a damn bullet down there, or not.”

Brock Richardson complained to the governor's office about the archeologist who was blocking construction of his house on Big Pine Key. The governor kept a team of smooth-talking aides who were trained to appease aggrieved campaign donors, and one of them referred Richardson to the Department of State, which referred him to the Division of Historical Resources, which referred him to the section on Compliance and Review, where nobody was answering the goddamn telephones. Richardson left an acid message warning of imminent litigation, naively presuming that anyone at that invisibly low level of government knew who he was, or gave a flying fuck.