Razor Girl (23 page)

Dr. Harft capped his testimony with a discussion of addictive reactions to Pitrolux—some men doubled or even tripled their dosages even as the unsightly side effects worsened. Richardson could totally relate. When the attorney from Truss Hitch had asked for a professional opinion on what should be done about the deodorant hormone gel, Dr. Harft replied simply, “Remove it from the pharmaceutical marketplace, of course. As you Americans would say, it's really bad
scheisse.
”

Richardson placed the deposition in his briefcase and vectored to the nearest bar on the concourse. Before boarding the plane, he removed the travel-sized bottle of Pitrolux from his carry-on intending to throw it away. Then he changed his mind, telling himself it would be careless to discard such a dangerous substance in a public place. What if a child found it in the trash can?

In Key West he was forced to rent a minivan because it was the last vehicle on the lot. He called Deb, who reiterated her opposition to the trip. Richardson replied: “I bet you'd feel different if it was your two hundred grand.”

“Don't be such a stubborn ass. Just let it go.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Really? Then I've got one more question,” Deb said.

“I can hardly wait.”

“Cremation, or burial? Let me know now, so I can start making arrangements.”

Richardson drove to Louie's Backyard and waited. Martin Trebeaux showed up an hour late, with no apology. Richardson was on his third scotch.

“I had a girl in my room. She wouldn't leave,” the sand man explained. “What can I do for you, counselor? I hope it's not the Cuba trip 'cause I already filled your slot.”

“No, it's about my diamond ring, the one your guys were supposed to steal back for me.”

“The one they couldn't find. Big Noogie told me himself.”

Richardson lowered his voice. “Afterward I sent
my
guys back to Yancy's place, and guess what? He says
your
guys took the ring.”

“And you believe that a-hole?” Trebeaux giggled, as if the notion of gangsters pocketing a two-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond was preposterous. “A man'll say anything when there's pliers attached to his nuts.”

“That's not how it went down.”

The bartender interrupted them with a Creole shrimp appetizer that Richardson had ordered earlier. Trebeaux admired the spoke-and-wheel design of the crustaceans on crushed ice. When the barman left them alone again, Richardson said, “I want my goddamn rock back, Martin.”

Trebeaux frowned. “Wish I could help, but I honestly don't see how.”

“I'll tell you how: Talk to Big Noogie. Tell him how important that ring is to me. Tell him, hell, I don't know…tell him Deb's heart is crushed because she lost it. Make it sound like a sentimental situation.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Listen, these Mafia types, they're romantics deep down. They've all got families and wives and girlfriends,” Richardson said. “Big Noogie'll understand. Being from the Italian culture, he will totally get where I'm coming from.”

“Do me a favor. That Google app on your phone? Type in the name Dominick Aeola and tell me if you see the word ‘romantic' anywhere on his Wikipedia page. The one that lists all his felony arrests, and all the witnesses that mysteriously disappeared.”

“So you won't talk to him about this?”

“Under no circumstances,” said Trebeaux.

It was the answer Richardson expected. “Then I'll do it myself. Set up a meeting for me, okay?”

Trebeaux said that was an extremely poor idea. Richardson fidgeted.

“What aren't you telling me, Martin?”

“This is not a man you want to insult. If you accuse him of jacking your diamond, he might take it personally.”

“What if he doesn't even know?” Richardson said. “Those two meat hogs he sent to Yancy's, what if they decided to keep the ring and told Big Noogie they couldn't find it?”

“That would take elephant balls.”

“But still you can picture the scenario, right? It's not what you call far-fetched. A crook is a crook.”

Trebeaux was skeptical. “Seriously, that's your pitch? You're gonna tell Big Noogie that his own guys double-crossed him?”

“I am, and I'm not.”

“Christ, this isn't a game.”

“The word thing is what I do best. Trust me, Martin, the reason I write all my own TV commercials? Because I know how to connect with people, all kinds of people. I have the gift of instant empathy.”

“You cannot fuck this up. This is my business partner we're talking about.”

“And it's my two-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond.”

Trebeaux swiped a shrimp from Richardson's platter. “I can't promise Big Noogie will see you. In fact I'd be amazed if he does—but I'll ask.”

“And you'll come with me to the meeting? You don't have to say one word. Just sit there like, you know, the mutual friend.”

“Not a chance in hell,” said the sand man, licking a dot of cocktail sauce from his lips. “You go see Big Noogie, you're on your own.”

B
uck Nance walked out of a back room glowering at Blister Krill. Yancy noted a scraggly resemblance, close enough to pass themselves off as TV brothers. Both were thin, sallow and had brown hair shot with gray. Once their beards grew out, they might as well be blood.

“Hello, Buck,” Yancy said. “Or is it Matthew, like the old times?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“He's the one that said he's a cop but he ain't,” Blister interjected.

Buck snorted. “How do you know he's not?”

“Thank you,” said Yancy.

Blister turned on the flat-screen and told everyone to sit on the couch. He said it was time for
Bayou Brethren.
Yancy was wedged in the middle, Blister gouging him in the rib cage with the barrel of the handgun. Buck drank Jack Daniel's while Blister popped an IPA called Grizzly Snot. They both quickly got swept up in the TV show, for different reasons. Buck was incensed to learn that Junior was sleeping with Miracle, and that she was now an open topic for all America. Blister's chief concern was his future seating location at the family table; he declared he wanted a chair between Clee Roy's wife and Buddy's wife, because they looked hot and do-able.

“I thought you were married,” Buck snapped.

“Just common-law, which don't even count outside Florida.”

“But homicide does,” Yancy pointed out.

“Shut up and watch the damn show,” Blister grumbled. When a commercial came on, he said, “I didn't mean to hurt that little Moose-lum dude, but for all I knowed that bag in his hands was a damn suicide bomb.”

“It was gifts for his family.” Yancy looked over at Buck Nance. “Souvenirs, Matthew. That's all he was carrying.”

“Hey, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Sure you did. Blister idolizes you—those sermons on YouTube.”

Blister said, “Amen, brother.”

He raised his non-gun hand to quiet the talk, for on television Buddy Nance had snatched up a half-full Dewar's bottle and heaved it more or less at Junior's head. “Awesome!” Blister cheered at the slow-mo replay.

Lane Coolman walked in the front door, his face clouding at the sight of Yancy.

“There he is—my Hollywood agent!” Blister boomed.

Yancy said they'd already met. “What are you geniuses up to?” he asked Coolman. “I can't wait to hear the big plan.”

Blister ordered Yancy to stand, lift his shirt and show the others where Blister had stabbed him—“in case they think I ain't a serious individual.”

The sight of Yancy's sutures properly alarmed Buck and Coolman. Blister seemed satisfied.

Buck asked Coolman for an update on Amp.

“He's flying in to meet with us,” the agent said, “as promised.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Blister said, “Soon ain't fast enough.”

“Who's Amp?” asked Yancy.

Somewhere Blister came up with boat rope and duct tape. He bound and gagged Yancy before sliding him under a bed. Yancy was impressed by the cleanliness of the floor—not even a dust bunny. The polished pine planks felt cool against his cheek. He shut his eyes and strained to hear the conversation of the carping fuckwits in the adjoining room.

Coolman was telling Blister it was a really bad move, tying up a possible cop. Blister asked if anyone had a better idea. Buck said he couldn't wait to get the fuck out of Florida.

Yancy rolled from beneath the bed thinking it was a good thing that Rosa couldn't see him now. He struggled to his feet and tumbled himself through an open window, his fall cushioned by a row of lush greenery. Once upright, he advanced pogo-style to the nearest cottage, where he used his forehead to bang on the door. The woman who answered was the blond model from the vodka commercial being filmed on the beach. Yancy blinked and grunted beseechingly. Miraculously the woman let him hop inside, where he toppled sideways onto a divan. After she peeled the tape from his mouth, he said, “You have the golden heart of an angel.”

“Dude, who did this to you? I'm gonna call the cops.”

Her name was Miso and she couldn't find her phone. Yancy asked her to get a knife and cut the ropes from his wrists and ankles. She hurried to the kitchen but returned emptyhanded saying, “Sorry, but I'm really stoned.”

“Please go look again.”

“I like you. What's your deal?”

“Any sharp object will do the job,” Yancy said.

“I don't know. Maybe you're a serial killer.”

“This would be an odd way to stalk my victims.”

“That's true.” Miso shrugged. “Look, I was supposed to meet up with some people. You know, from the crew?”

Yancy said, “I really need your help.”

She went back to the kitchen, returned with a steak knife, and commenced sawing on the ropes. Because of her loopy condition, Yancy feared for his veins and arteries. The sash on her robe came undone, presenting a caramel flash of skin that distracted him from her bladework. Once freed, he positioned himself by a window with an unimpeded view of the cottage occupied by Blister and the others. Yancy lowered and cracked the blinds. Miso sat beside him. He told her she'd looked great on the set of the vodka commercial.

“I totally don't even drink that crap,” she said. “What is a guava, anyway?”

“You're on your way to something bigger. That's all that matters. Your life trajectory.”

“Dude, I'm twenty-one and a half.”

“Hang in there,” Yancy said.

“What's your story? Why don't you call the cops on those assholes?”

“I left my phone in the car. Also, I
am
a cop.”

“You are not!” She laughed and frogged his arm. “I said I was stoned, not stupid.”

“Respect,
por favor.
I used to be a hotshot police detective, for real. Now I'm just a humble hardworking health inspector.”

“Yeah, right. I totally know what you inspect.”

“I'm Andrew, by the way. Andrew Yancy. I'd show you my ID, except—”

“It's in the car with your phone, right? I'm so sure.”

Yancy smiled. She smelled like pot and coconut butter. “You who are so quick to judge,” he said, “let me point out that ‘miso' is a Japanese soup.”

“It's just plain old Jane on my driver's license.”

“A perfectly lovely name.”

“Not for modeling it isn't,” she said. “You want a drink? If I can even find the damn liquor. I totally smoked the last doob, so don't ask.”

Yancy put a finger to his lips as he parted the blinds. “Take a look,” he whispered.

Benny Krill, Buck Nance and Lane Coolman had emerged from the nearby cottage. They stood conferring on the porch, in no discernible state of panic, which meant they were unaware Yancy had escaped from the bedroom.

“Those three fellows,” he said to Miso, “aren't exactly master criminals.”

“Uh, yeah, I get that,
Andrew.
Why'd they tie you up?”

“I'll tell you everything later. Would you mind getting dressed?”

“Where are we goin'? Are jeans okay?”

“Jeans are excellent.”

She stood up and shed the robe saying, “This is crazy. What am I doing?”

“You'll have a good story to tell your friends.”

“Promise?”

“Totally,” said Yancy.

Vance Banks stood on the slender balcony of his apartment wishing he had a view of Biscayne Bay instead of the Miami Beach public-works garage. He wore a Hurricanes hoodie and dark glasses to hide his face—an act of prudence, not paranoia. Vance Banks was only thirty-one, but he'd accumulated more enemies than most men twice his age. This was the result of failing to repay certain debts associated with a roaring appetite for cocaine, gambling and high-end escorts. One such obligation had in only a few brief weeks mushroomed with interest from $6,000 to $22,500, a sum currently unavailable to Vance Banks. Being not entirely dim-witted, he understood that the men from whom he had borrowed the $6,000 were more humorless and violent than any of his other creditors. His divorced sister in Jacksonville was unsympathetic, Vance Banks having tooted away a sizable inheritance. His brother in Gulf Shores had long ago stopped returning his calls, while his mother communicated seldom and only through attorneys. Having few options, Vance Banks accepted the fact that, once again, it was time to leave town.

So, late that night, he vacated his apartment, placed his gray tabby cat in the car, drove across the MacArthur Causeway and moved in with his cocaine dealer in Coral Gables. The men to whom Vance Banks owed $22,500 had never seen such a lazy attempt at evasion. They felt insulted.

In return for providing Vance Banks a place to crash, the coke dealer asked him to drive a 2008 Toyota Camry from the Port of Miami to a motel in Hialeah. Vance Banks had no experience on the supply side of drug transactions, but the coke dealer assured him that none would be needed for this job. If he'd known that Vance Banks was in debt to the Calzone crime family, he would not have handed him the keys to that particular vehicle.

The instructions given to Vance Banks were simple: obey the speed limits, observe all traffic signals, and do not open the trunk of the vehicle unless ordered to by a uniformed police officer. Leaving nothing to chance, or so he thought, the coke dealer selected on MapQuest the simplest route of travel and placed a printout in the hands of Vance Banks. Upon arriving at the motel, Vance Banks would simply back the Camry into a parking spot and walk away. There would be no verbal or visual contact with the individuals awaiting the delivery.

Vance Banks hoped to be well paid for this risky chore, but that didn't happen. He never made it to the motel. On Northwest 62nd Street, only five blocks off the interstate, the Camry was struck from behind by an old black pickup that had been following him unnoticed since he'd left his cocaine dealer's apartment. The crash didn't injure Vance Banks or his cat Sawyer, which he'd brought along to calm his nerves. With Sawyer safe in his arms he got out of the Camry and observed with dismay that the impact of the accident had sprung the trunk lid. Frantically Vance Banks tried to close it, but the crumpling was too severe.

Upon approaching the pickup truck he saw behind the wheel a red-haired woman in a tan low-cut sweater. When she rolled down the window he became aware of a disposable razor in her right hand. A dark skirt was bunched around her waist, and there was no outline of panties. The driver's long creamy legs led to feet adorned by gem-encrusted flip-flops.

“Super-duper sorry,” she said.

“Are you seriously
shaving
your…?”

“Bikini zone? It's worse than texting, I know. Completely took my eyes off the road.”

“Freak city,” muttered Vance Banks, nervously eyeing the passing traffic.

The woman tossed the razor and lowered her skirt. “I was on my way to Rocky's. That's my boyfriend. He likes a smooth landing zone, if you know what I mean. Your kitty's quite handsome, by the way. He's got what they call a noble countenance. What's his name?”

“Sawyer. And it's a she.”

“I'm Merry,” the woman said. “Spelled like Merry Christmas.” She held her hand out the window so Vance Banks could shake it. “Honest, I'll pay to fix your car.”

“It doesn't belong to me, unfortunately.”

“Well, let's have a look-see at the damage.” She reached to unbuckle her seat belt.

“No!” Vance Banks blurted. “Stay right there.”

The red-haired woman wore a sexy perfume, which further diminished the chances of Vance Banks making a wise decision. What he should have done was get the hell out of there, before a cop drove up, but a pleasant sort of paralysis had set in.

She said, “Now my dumb truck won't even start. I've got some cash at home if you'll give me a ride. That way we don't have to call the police or insurance company. Please?”

“I guess. Sure.” He figured he could use a shoelace to tie down the trunk lid of the Camry. “How far away is your place?”

“Oh, just a few blocks.”

“You should text your boyfriend and tell him you'll be late.”

She smiled. “You think he doesn't trust me? You're right.”

“My name's Vance Banks.”

The woman reacted with wide eyes. “Dude, are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head in the accident?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you gave me your real name,” she said. “Most guys lie.”

“Wait—what? Do you know me?”

“Poor baby,” she said.

A white Lincoln coupe rolled up and a stocky well-dressed man got out. He had an ivory toothpick in his mouth and a small silver revolver in one hand.

Vance Banks said, with belated perception, “I am so fucked.”

“My suggestion? Give 'em whatever they want.”

“But I don't have their money! I'm tapped out!”

“Get creative,” the redhead said. “Come on, Vance, step it up.”

She offered to take care of his cat, but the transfer was vetoed by the man with the toothpick. Within moments the Lincoln departed at high speed carrying Vance Banks, the purring Sawyer and a gym bag holding forty-eight one-ounce bags of premium cocaine that had been removed from the Camry's trunk. Merry Mansfield abandoned the black pickup on 62nd Street and Ubered back to her hotel on the beachside. She did forty minutes on the treadmill, took a shower and then sat down with a book called
Treasures of the Spanish Main,
which she'd checked out of the library on Alton Road.

At half-past six she put on blue-jean overalls and clogs. Her hair was still wet so she opted for pigtails. A yellow cab dropped her at the News Café, where the man with the ivory toothpick was already waiting. When Merry sat down at the table, he passed her an envelope containing eleven one-hundred-dollar bills, more than she expected.