Razor Girl (9 page)

“Point is,” said Coolman, “he'd never hang around a place like this.”

Merry kept walking. “But where could Bucky Boy go? Based on his so-called comedy act, Miami's definitely not his scene. The Hispanic milieu, and all,” she said. “Lauderdale might be more his speed.”

Coolman shook his head. “Buck's not a beach person.”

Merry eyed him over the rims of her oversized shades. “Of course we're assuming the best-case scenario—that he hasn't been murdered and dumped in a ditch somewhere, right? That he's still alive and making his own decisions, not rotting somewhere with multiple ice-pick wounds to the torso.”

“Jesus, what a ray of fucking sunshine you are.”

Back in L.A., Amp had issued a statement on behalf of the Nance family announcing that Buck was in rehab at an undisclosed location. The subject of his alcoholism would be dealt with “frankly and openly” in future installments of
Brethren.
In the meantime, retail sales of the popular Buck Nance action figure, mud flaps, gun racks, spittoons, rattlesnake vests and other patriarch-related merchandise would be suspended until Buck's recovery, when he returned to the show. Most of the ugly online tumult was already ebbing, except for a few nutty tweeters obsessed with the rumor that Buck was a Taliban sympathizer. To avert more trouble on that front, Platinum Artists had dispatched a “personal assistant” to move in with the half-cocked Miracle, take her shopping and sabotage her Internet connections.

Coolman didn't want to think Buck was a victim of foul play. In the absence of a corpse he remained hopeful that his star client's disappearance was caused by a drunken binge, a contract-related tantrum, or an exploitable emotional breakdown. In any case there wasn't much that Coolman could accomplish traipsing the streets of old Key West.

“Let's go back to the room,” he said to Merry.

“And do what?”

“Watch a movie. Wait for the phone to ring.”

“I could use a massage,” she said.

“That's an outstanding idea.”

“From a deep-tissue professional, Bob. You may observe, not participate.”

In the lobby they were cornered by a perspiring crew from TMZ. Coolman acted miffed though he was secretly pleased that the tabloids knew he was Buck Nance's manager, and had gone to the trouble of tracking him down.

“No comment,” he chirped, hoping Amp would see the clip on TV and appreciate his coolness under fire.

Merry covered her face as they elbowed past the cameraman. When Coolman asked her why, she whispered, “Practice, sugar. For when I'm famous.”

In the hotel suite they drank watery mimosas until the arrival of the masseuse, a matron with bowling-ball shoulders and an Eastern European accent. She unfolded a table and asked Coolman to leave the room. Merry said it was all right if he stayed.

“Bob just quit the monastery,” she told the masseuse. “We're easing him into the secular life. What do you say? His poor little pecker looks like a baby sparrow, waiting to fly.”

“Then of course,” said the masseuse.

Coolman turned crimson. Merry peeled down to nothing and stretched out on her tummy with her face turned away, her hair tumbling like a waterfall off the edge of the table. She held her long legs straight, tapping the heels of her feet together like Judy Garland in the ruby slippers. The masseuse began kneading Merry's bottom and hummed a harsh Slavic lullaby that killed Coolman's lust.

He went into the bathroom, shut the door and called his divorce attorney, Smegg, who demanded to know why he'd missed the mediation hearing that morning.

“Shit, I totally forgot about it,” Coolman said. “I'm seriously stuck in Florida.”

“No biggie. Rachel never showed, either.”

“Really?”

“She's in Tahoe with Drucker,” said Smegg, “fellating him dawn to dusk.”

“What? I thought that was over.”

“She friended me on Facebook.”

“Classic,” said Coolman.

“It's all to your ultimate benefit, this licentious taunting. A poor reflection on your wife's character, most judges would agree. Having said that, I hope you're getting laid down there in Margaritaville. Discreetly, please.”

“Yeah, I can hardly walk, my dick's so sore.”

Drucker, the priapic toad from William Morris, would be gleefully following the Buck Nance fiasco in the media. Coolman suspected that Drucker was angling to steal Buck away from Platinum, and milking Rachel for intel in the sack. Lately her legal team had been dogging Coolman to produce a roster of his clients and the commissions they'd paid, but so far the deft Smegg had been able to stonewall.

The mediation session had been reset for the following week. Coolman assured Smegg that he'd be back in L.A. before then.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Merry Mansfield looked up from the massage table and said, “So, Padre, did you take care of your little bird?”

“I'll be down at the tiki bar.”

Slowly she rolled on her side. “You sure about that, Bob?”

On her sleek thigh he spied the pink razor knick from the fateful crash on Ramrod Key. His hungering gaze rose to one of her cinnamon-freckled breasts, where in lieu of a standard nipple ring Merry had opted for a bronzed pop-tab from a beer can, or possibly a soft drink.

“Diet Fresca,” she confirmed. “Don't give me that look, because you are totally digging it. Tell me I'm wrong.”

Oiling her palms, the masseuse spoke up. “Father, do you still hear confessions?”

Coolman shook his head vehemently and made for the door. “I'm not a goddamn priest,” he snapped.

The masseuse, a reconfirmed Catholic, whirled and decked him with a slippery right hook. He awoke sometime later sprawled across one of the king-sized comforters, Merry pressing an ice-filled towel to his jaw.

“Time to get up, sugar,” she said. “The police are waiting downstairs.”

“What for?”

“A man's been killed on the Conch Train. They need you to look at the body.”

Y
ancy took Deb's metal detector and walked the neighborhood collecting bottle caps, loose change and the odd brass bullet jacket. He was thinking about the bumblefuck who'd electrocuted himself with the Tesla. How did Buck Nance's Green Room demands end up in that car? The list probably belonged to Lane Coolman, Buck's manager, though Yancy couldn't imagine a scenario in which Coolman would willingly ride around with a goon like Zeto. Maybe it was he who'd crashed into Coolman's rented Buick, but then why was there no damage to the Tesla? Only Coolman could fill in the blanks; Yancy hoped he'd be easier to find than Buck.

There remained the additional mystery of Martin Trebeaux, the driver of the second crunched Buick—where did he fit into this rolling clusterfuck?

Back at the house Yancy tried to FaceTime Rosa so she could share the sunset over his shoulder. Then he remembered she was still airborne, and unreachable.

The cold front had chased away the bugs and energized the little Key deer; two does and a buck friskily crossed the empty lot next door. Yancy went indoors, put on some Stevie Ray and lit a fat one. When Deb and her boyfriend appeared on the front steps, he flung open the door and spread his arms.

“Back the fuck off!” yeeped the lawyer, his muskrat eyes darting fearfully to Yancy's Remington, at rest in the corner.

“Relax, counselor. Who wants a hit?”

“I'm here to tell you—
order
you—to leave my fiancée alone.”

“My heart crumbles,” said Yancy. Then, spinning toward Deb: “So, then, it's over?”

“Real funny,” she said.

He hung his head. “You're one lucky bastard, Brandon. Among her myriad charms, she can suck the husk off a coconut.”

Yancy dodged Brock Richardson's right cross and dropped him with a knee. Deb called Yancy a prick, though instead of tending to her whimpering spouse-to-be she took a long smokeless toke from her e-cig. Richardson wobbled upright like a newborn calf while Yancy re-fired his joint.

The lawyer panted, “For that I'm gonna sue your ass.”

“If only you could find the courthouse.”

“I know all about you, Yancy, everything—like why you're not a detective anymore. My people have a file
this
thick”—thrusting a liberally spaced thumb and forefinger—“about your felony arrest.” For Deb's benefit he added: “For assaulting a highly respected doctor whose wife you were screwing.”

“Not my finest moment. However, I thought he was hurting her.”

“I've seen the police report,” Richardson sneered. “You used a goddamn—”

“Handheld appliance. It's true.” Yancy turned to Deb. “Which reminds me, darling. Do you want your metal detector back?”

“Wait—what?” said Richardson.

Yancy's eyebrows danced. “She's a kinky one, Brad.”

“Oh shut up,” Deb snapped. “This little visit wasn't my idea.”

“Well, it's a good time to clear the air. Sit down,” Yancy said to the lawyer. “Or don't. You should be aware that your attractive though hard-edged future bride approached
me,
not the other way around. She managed to lose her expensive engagement ring somewhere on your property, and enlisted my help to find it.”

Richardson seemed to teeter on his heels.

Yancy went on: “She offered a reward, which I declined. A substantial reward.”

He winked, prompting this from Deb: “I hate your guts.”

It wasn't easy to pity a woman who wore Lilly Pulitzer on Big Pine Key. “Wait here,” Yancy instructed the twosome, “and try not to dismember each other.”

Carefully he navigated to the carport and returned with the metal detector and a plastic bait bucket, which he placed on the floor for Richardson's inspection. “Here's all I found so far. Bottle caps, ammo, but no diamond, sad to say.” Yancy had earlier pocketed the coins.

Richardson was aghast. “You lost the fucking ring and didn't tell me?” he screaked at Deb. “And now you're trusting this sociopath to give it back if he finds it? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Seriously, am I engaged to a mental defective?”

“Maybe you should've bought me my own rock, you cheap sonofabitch, instead of giving me your fat ex-girlfriend's!”

The shouting went on for a while. Yancy was grateful to be stoned. He picked up the twelve-gauge and reclined on the sofa, trying to maintain focus. Using his phone he clicked the stereo to his Mudcrutch playlist.

When the couple in his living room ran dry of taunts, he said, “Listen up, Brick. The diamond ring? It can be found.”

“It's
Brock.
And guess what, they're set to clear the damn lot in two days.”

“Then never mind. Once the bulldozers get here, ha, it's over. The slab gets poured, you'll never see that stone again. How much did it set you back? Two hundred grand's the number Deb mentioned. And no insurance, for some reason.” Yancy yawned. “Now refresh my memory. Who's the mental defective?”

When the lawyer took a step toward him, Yancy raised the shotgun barrel to waist level. Richardson wore a crocodile belt befitting a class-action ace. Deb grabbed his arm warning, “Just stay cool. He's crazy.”

“You told him how much the ring cost? Seriously?” Richardson hissed. “Unfuckingbelievable! You don't think he's gonna run straight to a pawnshop if he finds it?” He glowered at Yancy. “I bet he already did.”

Yancy clicked his teeth. “Deborah, my little spitfire, you never told me your beloved was a high-stakes gambler.”

Richardson raised his palms. “I'm just sayin'—”

“No, no, by all means, summon your contractor and tell him to crank up the heavy equipment pronto. Clear your precious lot and pour the concrete, you really think I've got the ring. Oh, and good fucking luck getting a warrant to search my house. You do recall from law school what a warrant requires? Probable cause, which you don't have. But go ahead and roll the dice—or, as an alternative…”

“What now? What's the alternative?” Deb said dully.

“Don't let your crew disturb so much as a twig on that land. We'll keep on searching for your overpriced jewel night and day until we recover it.” When Yancy stood up with the Remington, Richardson crow-hopped backwards a step.

“Fine. Brilliant. Now would you please tell him,” Deb said, “that we never had sex.”

“That's true, sir. Not even a covert grope.” Yancy spoke solemnly.

The lawyer said, “I don't trust a goddamn word you say.”

“Of course not. You'd have to be a fool.”

“God, what's in your shirt?” Deb was staring at Yancy's breast pocket, which had begun to twitch.

He'd forgotten about the ring-necked snake he had rescued from the mango salsa at the Reef Raff. He took out the little reptile to show his visitors, who hastily departed without a civil goodbye. The Porsche was a cherry speck by the time Yancy emerged to release the squirming snake in his front yard. The text from Rogelio Burton arrived soon thereafter. Yancy was too baked to drive so he cabbed it back to town.

Burton was waiting at the crime scene.

Abdul-Halim Shamoon had been born in Syria and raised in Brooklyn Heights, where he still resided. He owned a prosperous discount electronics shop in midtown Manhattan, half of a taxi medallion and a dozen refrigerated freight units near LaGuardia. Twice a year he treated himself to a cruise, always alone, because his children were grown and his wife of three decades got seasick. Abdul-Halim looked forward to these solitary trips. He was free to do whatever he wished, and no one tried to steer him away from the fun. The ship that brought him from Miami to Key West was called the
Carib Vagabond,
and it would continue on to San Juan, St. Thomas and Nassau. Unfortunately, Abdul-Halim never got to explore those scenic ports of call.

After debarking with twenty-three hundred other passengers, Abdul-Halim stopped at a kiosk in Mallory Square where he purchased a ceramic seahorse and a smallish watercolor of a blue-faced parrotfish. Then he went to Captain Tony's and ordered a rum-and-Coke because it looked like straight Coke, in case a more devout Muslim might see him drinking. He nearly fell off his barstool trying to count all the bras stapled to the ceiling; some were so astoundingly large that they conjured shameful parachute fantasies. After downing another drink (it
was
Key West), Abdul-Halim walked outside and actually shivered in the wind. Florida wasn't supposed to get so cold. With guidebook in hand he trekked down Duval Street to the Southernmost Point. There he took a cheerful selfie and sent it to his wife, who texted back: “Have fun. The downstairs toilet is backed up.”

Thirty-three minutes later Abdul-Halim boarded one of the mustard-yellow Conch Trains, which were actually jointed trams that puttered through the island's quainter streets. Abdul-Halim wasn't wearing his kufi or any traditional garb that would have advertised his Arab heritage. The other passengers said he was approached by a shirtless, middle-aged white man wearing a banded Panama hat. There were differing accounts of what happened next. A couple from England told the police that Abdul-Halim jumped from the moving tram car when the white man began shrieking at him. Another passenger said there was a struggle first. Still another said the shirtless rider cold-bloodedly shoved Abdul-Halim off the Conch Train.

In any event, the accosted man sacrificed himself to protect his souvenirs, locking both arms around his shopping bags. Having no way to break his own fall, he smacked the pavement facedown at full force. The impact drove the pointy snout of the ceramic seahorse into the soft cleft beneath his sternum, where it snapped off, puncturing his aorta. Blood spurts ruined the pretty parrotfish painting, as well.

“God Almighty,” said Yancy when he looked at the body.

Burton motioned for him to lower the tarp. “You smell like cheap weed, by the way.”

“Oh, it's not cheap.” Yancy had pulled on a pair of medical gloves but somehow he couldn't fit his left pinkie into the proper finger holder. “Who is this poor guy?”

“A tourist. The suspect would be our missing shitkicker.” The detective summarized what the other Conch Train riders had said.

“Motive, Rog?”

“The victim was a Muslim. Nance hates Muslims.”

“And we know that…how?”

“I'll show you,” said Burton.

Yancy followed him to his car, where he took out an iPad and opened an amateur video of Buck preaching to a small congregation at a church called the First Chickapaw Tabernacle of Hope and Holiness.

“This went up on YouTube for about seven seconds,” said the detective, “which apparently was long enough.”

“Brothers and sisters, let's stop kiddin' ourselves. The Muslim ain't our friend. He ain't our comrade. The Muslim, deep down they all want the same thing Al Katie wants—”

“He means al Qaeda,” Burton translated.

“—which is the total destruction of white Christianity. The Muslim, now, you might actually know one or two of 'em personally. You might even think, ‘Oh, he seems friendly enough. I like that wife of his, too.' And maybe their kids are on the same soccer team as yours, and every Saturday you see this happy Muslim family out at the county fairgrounds, cheerin' and handin' out grape Gatorades and so forth. And you might think, ‘Well, they're decent folks. Nuthin' t'all like those cold-blooded heathens who hijacked our airplanes and flew 'em into the World Trade headquarters or whatever.'

“But I'm here to tell you, the Muslim can't never be trusted, no matter how kindly and normal he acts. They ain't no true peace or love in his soul because his religion decrees his sworn enemy to be Jesus Christ, our Lord 'n' Savior. Also the United States of America, which will fall only when white Christianity succumbs. So, brothers and sisters, all I'm sayin' is don't let your guard down. Stay vigilant and suspicious, and we will prevail. To be weak and softhearted is to be doomed. Oh, and all these things I'm warnin' you about? Same goes for the homosexual crowd and the Negroes.

“Now, lay your right hand on your neighbor's knee, and let us pray…”

“Possibly the lamest Cajun accent ever,” Yancy said.

Burton agreed. “More hillbilly than swamp rat.”

“The hand on the knee is a clever touch.”

“Yeah, literally. He makes 'em sit boy-girl-boy-girl.”

The detective put away his iPad and locked the car. He and Yancy made their way through the rubberneckers, ducked under the perimeter ribbon and returned to the lake of blood surrounding Abdul-Halim Shamoon. A crime-scene tech was enumerating the fragments of the lethal seahorse figurine.

Yancy said he was mystified about why Buck Nance had begun assaulting strangers—first the artist in the courtyard, now a cruise-ship passenger.

“People do come unglued,” Burton said.

“Was he wearing a hat?”

“One of those Panama jobs. How'd you know?”

“What else you got?”

“Ink,” Burton said. “Our witnesses saw a fresh tat on his back, right across the shoulder blades. Know what it says?”

“Hit me, Rog.”

“ ‘HAIL CAPTAIN COCK.' Roman script, all capital letters.”

“Gotta love the spirit,” said Yancy. “I'm putting myself back on the case, by the way.”

“Uh, no, you're not.”

“He killed a guy, which changes everything. You wouldn't have called if you didn't want my help.”

Burton said, “Don't get carried away. This is strictly under the radar.”

“Where I do my best work.”

“Andrew, we're not having this conversation.”

“Of course not. And we're not standing next to a body tarp, either.”

They stepped back to make way for the coroner's crew.