Razor Girl Page 5

  In one hand she held a travel can of Edge gel with aloe; poised in the other hand was the new Gillette disposable that she’d bought at the drugstore.

  “I don’t really need to shave again,” she said, “but it’s gotta look legit for Monsieur Trebeaux.”

  “This is nuts,” Coolman grumbled from the rear seat.

  “Well, does it work, or not?”

  “I would’ve given you a ride anyway, without the free peek.”

  “Maybe so,” Merry said. “But that’s what iced the deal, and don’t pretend otherwise.”

  She had locked the rear doors with a switch that disabled the interior handles, meaning Coolman was trapped. He could have reached around Merry’s headrest and seized her by the neck, but he feared she would lay open his wrists with the razor. He also knew Zeto was somewhere nearby, watching from the Tesla.

  Merry said, “Now cover your eyes while I do this.”

  “Really? You’re about to flash a perfect stranger.”

  “That’s business, Bob. You and I are practically dating.”

  He saw her tilt the shaving-gel can, and heard a squirt. He turned away, trying not to think about the skimming sound of the blade.

  She said, “Keep your eyes peeled for that silver Buick.”

  “Can I say something? The whole Mark Wahlberg thing—it was an honest disagreement. Also, we weren’t a good fit. Sometimes that happens in my business.”

  “So you’re not really a douche.”

  “Not with clients.” This was true. Coolman was loyal and fair, relative to the Hollywood norm. “Mark got an offer to do a voice-over commercial and, yeah, I talked him out of it. The money was insane but the material wasn’t right for him. Trust me.”

  “Who cares. It’s just TV.”

  “See, no, you’re wrong. A megastar like Mark, everybody would recognize his voice and then word gets all over town he’ll do anything for a buck. The product, get this—was a combination deodorant and testosterone wipe. For men only—”

  “Duh.”

  “—some greasy goop you smear in your armpits. I told Mark it would hurt his brand and, see, branding is what we do best at Platinum Artists. So he turned down the voice-over gig and then that slut Affleck said yes for two mil. Ben, not Casey. A week later Mark fires me! But then it turns out I was right—that stuff’s got some freaky-ass side effects, and major, major PR challenges. But instead of thanking me, Mark, the ingrate, he’s still pissed.”

  “It doesn’t work?” Merry asked.

  “What?”

  “The jelly. It doesn’t give you a titanium hard-on?”

  “You’re missing the point,” Coolman said. “The only reason for the story—I wanted to explain why he and I parted ways. It was a professional difference of opinion, that’s all.”

  “The armpit thing makes no sense to me. I mean, why not just smear the stuff right on your knob?”

  “Okay, forget I mentioned it.”

  Merry capped the can of Edge and placed it in a cup holder. “Hey, there’s our merry traveler!”

  “Where?”

  “Remember what I told you, Bob. Go limp.”

  Coolman grabbed the edge of the seat with both hands as the Civic snaked into the traffic on Roosevelt. Merry weaved between two cars and a city bus, then cut in tightly behind the Buick and goosed the accelerator. The force of the crash jolted Coolman but nothing popped or snapped. He heard Merry swear, and saw that the airbag on the steering column had blown open. Snowy powder speckled her cheeks and hair, and she was groping on the floor for the razor, her key prop, which had been knocked from her hand.

  “That lazy fucking Zeto!” she said. “He’s supposed to take out the damn airbags before we do the bump—I’ve only told him like a hundred times.”

  The deflated fabric obstructed her view, yet Merry managed to hold the Civic on course, trailing the damaged Buick into the same strip mall lot from which Coolman had been abducted. A woman wearing Kermit-green spandex and four-inch clogs hopped out of the target car and beelined for the mall. She never looked back.

  A man that could only have been Trebeaux emerged from the driver’s side, stalked up to the Civic and froze at the sight of Merry Mansfield—pretty much all of Merry, who had dusted off the airbag residue and composed herself. Trebeaux’s eyes widened and he swallowed three times, by Coolman’s count.

  With a faint French accent Merry apologized for the smashup. Sheepishly she displayed the razor as she lowered her skirt. “I’m on my way to a really big date.”

  Trebeaux struggled to maintain his outrage. “What the hell were you thinking? I mean, who does that while they’re driving? You could kill somebody!”

  “Please don’t call the police. I’ll give you cash to fix your car—can you take me to the Hampton Inn? That’s where I left my money.”

  Coolman, who considered himself an expert on deception and doubletalk, marveled at Trebeaux’s transformation from irate motorist to lustful schemer. Trebeaux stooped to peer at Coolman in the backseat.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Some hitchhiker,” Merry said. “He looked so lonely and pitiful I had to give him a lift.”

  “Well, Jesus, he got quite a show.”

  “No, that’s why I made him sit in the back.”

  “How do you know he’s not a rapist or a serial killer?”

  “Because I can read men. He’s totally harmless.” She lowered her voice. “I think he’s brain damaged. Ask the simplest question, all he does is grunt.”

  Coolman tried to establish eye contact with Trebeaux, but Trebeaux had already refocused on the redhead behind the wheel.

  She said, “I’m super-duper sorry I scared your girlfriend away.”

  “Hell, she’s not my girlfriend. Where’s the Hampton?”

  “Just up the road. I’m Merry, by the way. Spelled like Merry Christmas.” She put down the Gillette and shook his hand.

  “I’m Bill,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  She laughed. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”

  “I’ll give you a ride to the hotel, but first let’s stop somewhere for a margarita. Then maybe afterward we can call it even. No police reports, no insurance companies.”

  “Deal,” she said.

  “What about the hot date you’re meeting?”

  “No worries. He’s used to waiting.”

  Coolman perceived that he’d become invisible, or at least superfluous. It seemed like a good time to make a move. He dove over the front seat toward the passenger door, which failed to yield to his shoulder.

  “Simmer down,” Merry advised him. Then to Trebeaux: “I told you he wasn’t right in the head.”

  Through the windshield Coolman helplessly watched the gliding-ghost arrival of the white Tesla. Merry feigned alarm. “Oh God, it’s him!”

  “Who?” Trebeaux asked.

  “The guy I was supposed to meet! How’d he find me here?”

  Trebeaux guessed that the swarthy young man in the bomber jacket was either a Russian gangster or some empty-headed poser from South Beach. When he saw the man’s handgun all he said was: “Oh fuck.”

  “Exactly, Bill.” Merry swung her long legs out of the Civic, smoothing her dress. “Now be smart.”

  While she and Zeto escorted Trebeaux to the Tesla, Coolman remained muddled and motionless in the crash car. He didn’t notice that Merry had remotely rolled down his window until she flung him an over-the-shoulder glance that said, What are you waiting for, numbnuts?

  He wriggled headfirst out of the Civic and hit the ground running.

  —

  Every morning Yancy woke up amazed that Dr. Rosa Campesino still cared about him. On paper the match wasn’t ideal. She was sharp, beautiful, single, sane, and saved at least two or three lives per day in the E.R. He was a banished cop consigned to probing the grim hot kitchens of funky restaurants, bringing home vile stories of insects amok in the cornbread mix.

  Rosa’s initial attraction to him wasn’t e
ntirely baffling because Yancy was good at making first impressions. He could be funny and semi-charming, though with smart women that carried you only so far. It didn’t take them long to unpeel your true personality. Yancy was prone to an acid bluntness that produced poor results career-wise and also on the domestic front. While he wasn’t one of those loudmouthed fools who uttered every thought that entered their heads, his idea of self-editing often fell shy of the societal norm. Rosa said she tolerated his sharp tongue, preoccupied moods and impulsive detours because there was old-fashioned nobility in his heart, and his social missteps were made with good intentions. Yancy hoped she truly believed that and wasn’t just trying to convince herself he was worth the effort.

  When he returned from fishing she was waiting at the house, still wearing her hospital scrubs which drove him wild as she well knew.

  “Catch anything?” she called out as he backed the boat trailer into the driveway.

  “Nada. The water’s still too cold.”

  “But it’s a gorgeous day, no?”

  “Breathtaking,” Yancy said. She was.

  While he rinsed the skiff and wiped down his fly rods, Rosa fixed Cuban sandwiches and warmed some black beans with rice. He walked inside and caught her eyeing the container of fish dip, which he snatched from her fingers. After spooning out the engagement ring he told her the story of Deb and Britt (or Brad, or whatever the hell it was), his potential new neighbors.

  “Please tell me you’re not holding on to her diamond,” Rosa said, “for leverage.”

  “That would be wrong?”

  “So wrong. Also illegal, no?”

  “But the way she described the house they’re planning, it’s a bona fide atrocity. I’m not kidding, baby—maybe worse than the last one.”

  An unspooled ex-girlfriend of Yancy’s had torched the previous offending structure in a bid to win back Yancy’s affections. Rosa’s devotion stopped well shy of felonious melodrama.

  Yancy wiped off the ring and handed it to her. “Her boyfriend told her it cost two hundred grand. What do you think, doctor?”

  “I think it’s quite large.” Rosa tossed it back.

  “Come on, try it on.”

  “Really? Here’s how my delicate fingers spent the afternoon: Groping for lead slugs inside the intestines of a three-hundred-pound heroin dealer who’d shorted the wrong customer. So I’ll pass on the hand modeling today, if that’s okay.”

  “A man can dream,” Yancy said. He mushed the ring back into the fish dip.

  “The dealer survived, by the way. Shot five times, and he’ll be back on the street in time for Easter.” Rosa bowed. “My service to the human race.”

  “See, this is exactly why you should move down here. Our E.R. isn’t so demoralizing.”

  “Promise you’ll return the diamond to this Deb person, no matter what kind of architectural monstrosity she and her scuzzy boyfriend want to build next door. You get busted for grand theft, mister, that’s pretty much a career killer.”

  “How did I ever live without you?”

  “How can you not have a decent imported beer in this house?”

  Rogelio Burton stopped by and had a plate of black beans. He’d been Yancy’s best friend and calming influence in the detective bureau, and they were still close. That didn’t mean Yancy listened to his advice. Rosa changed into a devastating swimsuit and went out on the deck to catch some sun.

  “The sheriff sent me,” Burton said to Yancy.

  “Where’s my badge?”

  “Don’t start again.”

  “Then you know what? Sonny and I have nothing to talk about.”

  The problem was election-year politics. Although Yancy had singlehandedly solved a major murder case—a first for the roach patrol—Sonny Summers had postponed reinstating him due to the controversy it might stir.

  “You watch much TV?” Burton asked.

  “Weather Channel. MythBusters reruns. That’s about it,” Yancy said. “They gouge you for the porn on pay-per-view, so I’m boycotting.”

  “There’s a reality show called Bayou Brethren. It’s about a family of redneck chicken farmers in Louisiana.”

  “Somehow that one slipped past me.”

  “It’s actually funnier than it sounds.”

  “Do-it-yourself liposuction would be funnier than chicken farming.”

  “Being a fisherman you’ll like this: They sell the damn rooster feathers for trout flies. The star’s a guy named Buck Nance. They call him Captain Cock, because cock roosters is what they raise.” Burton summarized Nance’s catastrophic stand-up appearance at the Parched Pirate.

  “The dumbass told a gay joke?” Yancy said incredulously. “On Duval Street?”

  Burton took out his smart phone and showed one of the YouTube videos taken at the bar. Yancy wondered aloud if Mr. Nance had a death wish.

  “They ran him off, and now he’s gone missing,” Burton said. “That’s why Sonny sent me to see you. He heard what happened at Clippy’s—all that hair they found in the cobbler.”

  “It was the quinoa.”

  “I want recipes I’ll call Rachael Ray. Just hang with me on this, Andrew. The AWOL reality dude, he’s famous for his long beard. We’re thinkin’ maybe he chopped it off in a panic so people wouldn’t recognize him. That stuff you picked up at the restaurant, Sonny wants it sent to Miami for a DNA test.”

  Yancy stiffened. “The sheriff’s got no jurisdiction over health inspections.”

  “It’s the height of the season, man. It would be epically shitty PR for the Keys if something bad happened to this moron while he was here. That’s Sonny talkin’. Drop whatever you’re doing and go find Buck Nasty is what he tells me this morning. You think I signed up for this?”

  “Tell Sonny I’ll trade him a hair sample for my detective badge.”

  “Listen, he’s the one who cut the sweet deal that kept your ass out of jail, and he’s the one who got you another job. Or did you forget already?” Burton was getting aggravated. “Swear to God, Andrew, your own worst enemy is you.”

  It was not Yancy’s first exposure to the concept. He said, “You’re lucky I sleep with a forensic expert.”

  He removed one of the collection baggies from the refrigerator, walked outside and presented it to Rosa on the sundeck. She looked up from the chaise lounge and said, “For me? This is more romantic than roses.”

  “Please? We need to know if it’s beard hair.”

  “If you weren’t so earnest, I’d pop you in the balls.”

  From the doorway Burton said, “Rosa, I swear, this wasn’t my idea.”

  She opened the bag and gingerly lifted a salt-and-pepper tuft. “I would say it’s from a white male, middle-aged. My guess is facial, but you’ll need to put it under a microscope to make certain. Beard hairs are grooved and they look triangular in cross-section. By the way, I don’t want to hear the story behind this disgusting little treasure. I’m serious.”

  Rosa had been a rising star with the Miami-Dade Medical Examiner’s Office until she burned out on autopsies and quit to go work on live patients.

  She returned the mystery follicles to the bag and said, “Do you have some Purell, Andrew? You’ve got exactly thirty seconds.”

  He sprinted for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, handing the baggie to Burton as he flew past.

  —

  Buck Nance’s mistress wasn’t part of the TV show. He’d been faithfully married to the same woman for almost thirty years is what America had been told. Krystal Nance was hefty and hardspoken and loved Buck truly, but she didn’t put up with any BS from him or any of the brothers. It had all been laid out in the script for the pilot. Krystal Nance was tough as nails.

  Buck’s girlfriend went by the porny name of Miracle though she had a master’s in computer science from Florida State. Buck had met her at a popular Pensacola oyster bar, where she worked as a second-string shucker. A month later he bought her a condominium overlooking Escambia Bay, a transaction oppo
sed by Jon David Ampergrodt, Lane Coolman and the entire management team at Platinum Artists. However, they stood powerless against Miracle’s allure, which was exclusively sexual. Her favorite position was called “The Wet Wolverine,” which played deviously to Buck’s Wisconsin roots. One night he shredded an ACL attempting to carry her mid-coitus from the ironing board in the condo’s pantry to the futon in the living room. The injury—portrayed to Krystal as a post-hole-digging accident—forced a hasty rewrite of a Brethren segment that had called for Buck to kick in the door of Clee Roy’s brand-new Durango.

  Miracle was needy and also short of patience. She reacted melodramatically when feeling ignored by Buck, and her tantrums were a source of peptic anxiety for his handlers. With trepidation Jon David Ampergrodt had phoned her to ask if she’d heard from Buck in Key West.

  “Not for thirty-seven hours,” Miracle replied with homicidal chill.

  Amp told her what happened at the Parched Pirate, and encouraged her for verification to check out the YouTube clips. “We’re all a bit concerned for the big guy,” he added, hoping to dilute her anger with worry.

  “Why? He’s just off chasin’ pussy.”

  “No, he’s not. He probably got scared shitless by the crowd, and now he’s hiding in a dive somewhere.”

  “Deep in strange pussy is where he’s hiding,” she said.

  “Miracle, listen to me. Nobody’s heard a word from him—not his brothers, not his mom, not Krystal, nobody.”

  “That’s because he and Lane are too busy whorehopping.”

  “No, no, Buck would never—”

  “Hey, he whorehopped me, didn’t he?”

  The line went silent. Twenty minutes later somebody hacked the official Bayou Brethren Facebook page and posted a close-up photo of Osama bin Laden side-by-side with a head shot of Buck. The caption said: “Two epic beards! Yo, maybe I should join the Taliban!”

  By lunchtime, the bin Laden item had galvanized a horde of patriotic bloggers who didn’t know the difference between the Taliban and al Qaeda but were nonetheless infuriated by Buck’s apparent flippancy. One even accused him of sculpting his facial hair in homage to the dead terrorist.