“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 pol
ice, 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.
“She drop by often?” Rosa asked in what Yancy prayed was a teasing tone.
“That’s the future next-door neighbor I told you about.”
“So you finally returned her diamond?”
“I will, I will.”
“Andrew!”
“The mackerel dip aged aromatically so I switched to hummus.” He told her of his plan to safekeep the ring until Deb and Brock the P.I. lawyer parted ways, their unbuilt villa a casualty of fractured romance.
Rosa said, “I cannot believe what I’m hearing.”
“It’ll never last. They’re tragically mismatched.”
“This is crazy. You’re gonna get caught.”
“Hey, is it snowing over there?”
Days passed before Rosa FaceTimed him again. Against all odds the call was answered by another unexpected female visitor, a worldly redhead who went by the name of Merry Mansfield. Yancy had met her at the scene of the Conch Train assault and harmlessly taken her for fried oysters while Burton interviewed her male companion, Buck Nance’s manager. Over dinner Merry had downplayed her relationship with Lane Coolman, saying he was a mere diversion from her tedious day job as an appraiser of sunken treasure and maritime artifacts. Yancy found her to be a delightfully entertaining liar, but at the end of the evening he said goodbye with no thought of seeing her again.
Yet somehow she’d ferreted out his address and presented herself with no warning. She said Coolman had failed to return to the Casa Marina the night Yancy took her out. The man she playfully called “Bob” was staging a jealous sulk, she said, and not responding to her texts or voicemails. For days she’d continued to occupy the hotel room until being summoned to the front desk and informed that Platinum Artists was no longer picking up the tab—would Ms. Mansfield be paying with an Amex, MasterCard or Visa?
“Bottom line, I’ve got no place else to go,” she said to Yancy after the taxi delivered her to his driveway.
“This is a phenomenally bad idea.”
“Where’s your spare bedroom, sugar?”
“It’s uninhabitable at the moment.”
“You’ve got a couch, right? Don’t pretend you’re not going to let me in, because we both know you will.”
That afternoon as Yancy stood in the shower—having positioned his phone carefully on the countertop, between the floss and toothpaste—Merry breezed into the bathroom and sat down to pee. Moments later Yancy heard the dreaded chiming of FaceTime, and hollered for Merry not to answer. She did anyway.
Pawing shampoo suds from his eyes, he flung aside the shower curtain and vaulted dripping wet out of the tub.
He slipped, no surprise, windmilling through the steam until his forehead smacked the tile. It was his sorry fate not to be knocked unconscious.
Merry placed the phone in his fingers, flushed the toilet and glided out the door. Yancy smiled wanly at Rosa, whose gaze was as frosty as the Oslo twilight.
“Are you naked, Andrew?”
“This is not a date, I swear to God. She just showed up at the door.”
“A Jehovah’s Witness in a tube top,” said Rosa. “What a lucky fellow you are.”
“It looks bad, I know. Two calls, two different women pick up my phone. But I haven’t laid a lip on any of them—”
“Andrew, I’m not mad.”
“You should be. I would be.”
“I’m just disappointed.”
“Christ, that’s worse,” Yancy said. “Anger cools. Disappointment only festers.”
“I’ve decided to stay abroad a bit longer.”
“Aw, don’t do this. Please?” Thinking: Did she really say “abroad”?
“I want to see more of Norway.”
“In the middle of winter. Norway.”
“Honestly, I’m not angry,” Rosa said.
“But you don’t even ski.”
“I can take lessons. Hello? I learned to paddleboard in like five minutes, remember?”
“Not the same,” said Yancy. “Not even close.”
“From now on—here’s the new rule, okay? You listening? In the future, instead of me calling you, you call me. Preferably when you’re not having company.”
After the phone went dark Yancy wrapped a towel around his waist and threw himself on the couch. Merry prepared a bag of ice for his head. She apologized for pissing off his girlfriend. He said she definitely needed to find another place to crash.
That night he grilled bison burgers from Montana. For a beverage he stuck with iced tea because he knew he’d be driving. Merry was drinking Land Sharks and getting relaxed. She changed into a Guy Harvey leaping-marlin tee-shirt that she’d found folded inside a drawer—Rosa’s Sunday morning wardrobe.