When they were done eating Merry helped clear the table and load the dishwasher. When she asked if Buck Nance had really clobbered that Muslim guy on the Conch Train, Yancy said he honestly didn’t know. He told her he was working on a different case, one that required a different skill set.
It was the truth, too—a Code Red crisis at Clippy’s, worse than beard remnants in the quinoa. This one was a bona fide onslaught, a furry monster’s ball.
“Why’d you come find me?” he asked Merry.
“Not to have wild upside-down-in-the-mirror sex, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Tell me your real name.”
“The reason I’m here, I had a really good time that night at the oyster bar. You made me laugh—and not accidentally, like most guys. How lame is that? Because you’re lookin’ at the last girl in the world who should be chasing after a cop.”
Yancy said, “I was once a kickass detective, that’s true, but I’ve been ingloriously reassigned.”
“Because you screwed up, right? There’s a shocker.”
“Her name was Bonnie, and she was married.”
“That’s it? Your big slip?”
“Her husband was a doctor, not a good man,” Yancy went on. “One day I saw them together and mistakenly thought he was hurting her. I happened to be cleaning my car at the time so I went after him with my DustBuster. A case could be made that I got carried away. There was a proctological aspect to the encounter.”
Merry howled. “You did him with a vacuum?”
“A cordless 12-volt. This was at Mallory Square, with swarms of tourists watching. The doctor pressed charges, I took a plea, lost my badge,” said Yancy, “and terminated my torrid affair with Bonnie. Who turned out to be a fugitive, by the way, and torched the spec house that once stood right there.” He pointed through a window at the empty lot next door. “She was trying to win me back, which didn’t work. Still I confess I wasn’t sad to see the place go up in flames. It was an abomination.”
Merry uncrossed her fine legs. “Andrew, that’s a fantastic story on such short notice.”
“It’s all true.”
“Well, I can’t wait to hear about the new job. What is it you do?”
“Inspect local eateries for evidence of filth, spoilage and unwanted fauna.”
“No way!” she said.
“In fact, I’ve got to work tonight.”
“Where? Can I come with?”
“A fancy joint in Key West,” Yancy said, “and the answer is a hard no. Put on some underwear. I’ll drop you at the Hyatt.”
“Is it like an emergency?”
“Moving you to a hotel? Absolutely.”
“Don’t be a smartass. The restaurant call is what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Depends on your definition of emergency,” said Yancy. “Does a galloping infestation qualify?”
Merry cringed. “You mean like in the Bible?”
“That would be a pestilence, though you’re in the ballpark.” Yancy reached beneath the sink and took out a pair of sky-blue medical gloves.
“Duty calls, darling,” he said with the darkest of smiles.
ELEVEN
In the heyday of South Florida’s exotic animal trade, niche-seeking entrepreneurs began importing an unusual creature called the giant Gambian pouched rat. In nature it can be found from Senegal to Mozambique, although like most rodents it hardily adapts to any environment. The tropicality of the Keys would prove ideal.
Weighing up to nine pounds, Cricetomys gambianus is the world’s largest rat, a dubious selling point for pet stores. Its body coloration appears dark gray or brown, the belly fur is pale, and the tip of its long tail looks milky white, a trait that breeders hoped would add a cuteness factor. The animal’s bat-like ears seem cartoonishly proportioned, while its tapered snout is lushly wreathed with probing whiskers. The term “pouched” doesn’t refer to a kangaroo-style tummy pocket, but rather to grotesque cheek cavities with enough stretching capacity to hold a pork chop. Ravenous ground foragers, the supersized rodents will also scale trees and trellises in search of snacks. They are nocturnal, restless and perpetually fertile.
Not surprisingly, they never caught on as house pets. What limited market there was evaporated completely when U.S. health officials blamed the species for a harrowing outbreak of monkeypox, a fiercely contagious virus. The government reacted by banning importation of the African behemoths, but by then a breeder on Grassy Key had already set free his unwanted collection, which was thriving in the wild. All attempts to extirpate the wily invaders failed.
The breathless call from Clippy’s came midway through the night’s final seating. Tommy Lombardo immediately phoned Yancy and ordered him to get moving. “And no guns!” he added.
When Yancy got there he saw Mayor Neil Gluckman pacing outside the evacuated restaurant. Irv Clipowski stood by the front entrance holding a pitchfork. Meanwhile a sallow envoy from County Animal Control was examining the broken hinges of a live-catch trap that was large enough to hold a full-grown badger.
Yancy approached the mayor, who said, “He busted the damn trap! I mean, we had the cocksucker cold!”
“How the hell did it get out?”
The man from Animal Control spoke up: “Brains and brute fucking force. That’s how.” He loaded the damaged device into the back of his truck and drove away.
Clippy stepped forward saying, “One of the busboys opened the fire exit—it wasn’t his fault, Andrew—and this godawful monster bolts straight into the dining area.”
“Which was packed,” added Neil.
“Neil was there. He saw it all,” Clippy said.
“Night. Mare.” Neil closed his eyes. “There was an older couple from Brisbane, they called it in as a rabid wallaby. I mean, dear God, they’ve already posted it on TripSwami.”
“Even though we comped their drinks and dinner.” Clippy sighed bitterly. “Heartless, Andrew, some people in this world.”
Yancy felt badly for Clippy and the mayor. Weeks after the initial sighting, not a single pouched rat had been killed or captured on the property. Traditional rodent baits lay untouched in prime corners and crevices. Traps were found sprung or disabled, always empty. Exterminators from as far as Detroit had come and gone, each more vexed than the last.
“What did you tell your customers?” Yancy asked.
Clippy mumbled at his shoes. “We said it was a stray cat.”
“One of the Hemingway cats,” added Neil.
“Guys, come on.”
“You got anything better?” Clippy snapped. “Under pressure, I don’t think so.”
Neil asserted their patrons never got a clear look at the animal because it was moving too fast. Yancy took the pitchfork from Clippy and said, “All right. Open the door.”
He anticipated this inspection would repeat the pattern of previous visits. There would be clear evidence of occupation by mega-fauna—gnawed baseboards, shredded batts of insulation (the Gambies showing an appetite for R-19 fiberglass), territorial urine smears on the PVC, and a daunting abundance of bullet-sized pellets—but no visual confirmation. Yancy had yet to lay eyes on a pouchie, so he was at the mercy of his imagination. In his dreams the buck-toothed bastards charged at him like bull rhinos.
“Could you kill the lights?” he asked Clippy.
Gambian pouchies had poor vision, a weakness Yancy aimed to exploit. He’d brought a blinding, high-lumen Rayovac that in close quarters could double as a bludgeon.
Neil jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be hanging outside.”
Clippy hesitated.
“You go, too,” Yancy told him. “I’ll yell if I need backup.”
Unstated among the three men was the fact that a live rat sighting would trigger an emergency closure. Yancy liked Clippy and the mayor, and he had good memories of dining at their place with Rosa. Still he was bound by the health codes, which said that roaming rodentia of any size were a menace to hygiene.
&nb
sp; He let his eyes adjust to the dim conditions, then kicked off his shoes and started slowly through the main room. The tables were positioned cozily; Clippy’s being a popular joint, every square foot of dining space was utilized. As Yancy advanced he became aware of the beer cooler’s droning hum and his own shallow exhalations.
After taking a few steps he heard scurrying above him. He aimed the beam of the Rayovac at the drop ceiling where pocked tiles quivered under the tread of an unseen commuter. Stillness followed and Yancy moved forward, poking the handle of the pitchfork at random overhead panels. A sharp clatter made him whirl toward the bar. His flashlight fixed on wide-set ember eyes glowing behind a tipped green fifth of Tanqueray. It was a well-fed, fully mature Cricetomys gambianus, nosing the air and flexing its gin-soaked haunches. Drawing closer Yancy saw that the tawny trespasser had stuffed its springy cheeks with Neil’s special gourmet mix, which featured dwarf almonds imported from Catalonia.
Yancy heaved the pitchfork javelin-style but missed, taking down a row of top-end liquor bottles. The spooked intruder leapt in a full stretch from the bar counter to the wall, where it dangled by two legs from a frame displaying Clippy’s treasured three-star certificate from Michelin. Yancy swung the heavy Rayovac, the blunt end cracking the glass but failing to make contact with the über vermin, which dropped to the floor, defecated daintily and dashed away.
“Are you shutting us down?” Clippy asked wretchedly when Yancy emerged moments later. “Don’t, Andrew, please. Can’t you see I’m begging?”
Neil the mayor waved both hands. “Stop, Irv. The man’s only doing his job. Imagine if it ever got out that we interfered.”
“I would suggest a voluntary closure,” Yancy said hoarsely. “Say, for renovations?”
Clippy’s shoulders drooped. “But it’s the height of the season.”
“Hey, he’s doing us a favor,” Neil said. “You all right, Andrew? You look shaky.”
“No, I’m not all right.”
“How many did you see?”
“Just the one,” said Yancy. “But holy fuck.”
“Were you not able to…?”
“Kill it?” Yancy shook his head and ripped the gloves from his hands.
“Jesus, next we’ll be all over Yelp,” Clippy groaned. “Those bloody Australians. Once we’re viral, we’re dead. D-e-a-d. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Go get Andrew some water,” the mayor said.
Clippy made a bit of a scene, backpedaling down the sidewalk. “I’m not going back in there. No freaking way, Neil! Not alone, I’m not.”
Yancy said, “Don’t bother. I’ll be fine.”
But fine was the opposite of how he felt on the drive home. He needed a break after his face-off with the pouched fiend, quiet time to steady his nerves and reassess his fast-dwindling role in the universe. Sleep came slowly, but free of dreams.
The next morning he shuffled out of his bedroom and saw that Merry Mansfield had returned. She was wearing camo yoga tights and doing cartwheels on the deck, her long hair whisking the cedar planks like a ginger broom. Instead of running her off, Yancy asked her to ride along while he checked out some funky tattoo parlors in Old Town. She seemed tickled by the invitation.
Over the moon, as a matter of fact.
—
“The dog’s name is really John?”
Martin Trebeaux said, “I don’t see the problem. He’s a service companion.”
The detective said there was absolutely no problem. “What’s the nature of your disability, Martin?”
“Chronic anxiety.”
The pickings were lean at the adoption shelter in Rego Park. Trebeaux had ended up with a skinny half-beagle half-whippet that looked odd in the large orange vest. Since the dog was too young to be neutered, the shelter made Trebeaux sign a paper promising to arrange the surgery before the animal reached the age of two. The sand man had brought his new companion to the interview at the sheriff’s headquarters in Key West hoping to soften the detective, whose name was Burton.
“Tell me about the Buick,” he said.
“No biggie—it was a hit-and-run, like I said on the phone.” Trebeaux wasn’t about to admit what really happened, especially now that he was business partners with Dominick “Big Noogie” Aeola, the man who’d paid that nutty redhead to crash into him.
Burton said, “So you just abandon the car in the Sears parking lot.”
“I figured the rental company wouldn’t care.”
“Actually, they did. Why didn’t you call the police?”
“Nobody got hurt,” Trebeaux said, “and I was late for a meeting.”
“But the Buick was drivable.” Burton shrugged. “So why’d you ditch it? That’s what I’m getting at.”
“Because I was meeting some important people—it wouldn’t look good for me to roll up in some dented piece-of-crap. That’s the reason I parked it and called for a limo.” Trebeaux had already explained to the detective that he owned Sedimental Journeys, a leading provider of beach renourishment services.
“Describe the vehicle that hit you,” Burton went on.
“Some old Jap sedan—Toyota, Honda, whatever. I wasn’t looking in the rearview when it happened. A loud boom is all I remember. Guy took off right away.” Trebeaux couldn’t understand why the cops were wasting time investigating a damaged rental car. Who could possibly give a shit? Burton wasn’t even taking notes.
The dog began loudly lapping its outsized balls. “Stop it!” Trebeaux snapped. “Bad boy!”
John the Second ignored him.
The detective said, “When you pulled in at the Sears, did you happen to notice another car like yours?”
“I wasn’t paying attention. All I wanted to do is get off the road as quick as possible.”
“There was a second Buick with rear-end damage abandoned in the same lot. Pretty damn strange.”
“What’s this all about?” Trebeaux asked.
Burton showed him a photograph of a shaggy yahoo called Buck Nance, who starred in a cable show that Trebeaux had watched only once. The detective asked if he’d seen Nance on the night of the accident.
“Is that the moron who hit my car?”
“He went missing in Key West a couple weeks ago.”
Burton handed Trebeaux a picture of a younger man with slickened black hair and a studio tan. “That’s Lane Coolman, Nance’s manager.”
Trebeaux stated that he’d never laid eyes on either Coolman or Nance. It felt peculiar to be telling the truth.
The detective said, “All right, then. Thanks for coming in.”
John the Second had contorted into a writhing ampersand, trying to shed the service vest. Trebeaux jerked the dog to its feet. “He’s still in training,” he said to Burton.
Burton reached down and petted the mutt. “Martin, I was hoping you could give me the name of that limo company—the one that picked you up after the accident.”
Trebeaux was caught off guard. “Uh…I don’t think I saved the receipt.”
“Where you stayin’?”
“At the La Concha.”
“I’m pretty sure they got phone books in the rooms. Check the yellow pages and see if any of those car services ring a bell.”
“Do you not believe me? Seriously?” His fake indignation flopped, so Trebeaux tacked south. “Okay, what if it wasn’t a limousine that picked me up? What if maybe it was a woman, and what if she’s married and doesn’t want the whole town to know what she’s doing while her husband’s on a shrimp boat in the middle of the Gulf?”
The detective smiled and placed a firm hand on Trebeaux’s shoulder. “Martin, even if all that was true—hell, if only half of it was half-true—I’d still need a name. You understand? Don’t leave the island without giving me a call.”
When Trebeaux stepped from the building, the low rays of the winter sun caught him square in the face. He walked all the way to Louie’s hoping for an open bar stool. A hostess posted in the foyer said he wasn’t
allowed to bring John the Second into the restaurant.
“But this is a bona fide comfort animal!” Trebeaux objected.
The young woman came out from behind the podium and dubiously studied the dog. “His vest doesn’t even fit. Do you have some documentation?”
“So this isn’t your first rodeo.”
The hostess shook her head. “We get this a lot. It’s the new thing.”
“You know what? Never mind.”
“There’s a two-for-one on piña coladas.”
“Be back in a sec.” Trebeaux marched out the front door and down the wooden steps, where he removed the dog’s collar and unsnapped the orange vest.
“This isn’t working out,” he said to John the Second. “You’re free to go.”
Joyously the mutt galloped off down Waddell, its great ripe balls swinging like Georgia peaches.
—
The romance of Brock Richardson and Deborah had hit a bumpy stretch, due partly to Deborah losing her expensive engagement ring and partly to Brock’s secret experimentation with Pitrolux, the same product whose frightful side effects he recited so ominously on television.
No one should have known better than Richardson that Pitrolux was dangerous, that the male body couldn’t safely absorb and metabolize thrice-daily applications of strong deodorizing chemicals juiced with male hormones. Yet because he merely farmed out product-liability cases and had never actually litigated one, Richardson assumed the allegations against Pitrolux were hyped, a common tactic in his field. He would have spared himself much misery by studying the victims’ sworn statements or just scanning a summary of the expert testimony, but he’d never done that before—not in the Ambrosia flammable diaper lawsuit, not in the Ram-Vigor Vitamin contamination case, not even in the Lamb-Gland Injectibles class-action.
Richardson’s only role was to troll for fresh plaintiffs using slick TV spots in which he starred as the pin-striped, doom-faced messenger of gruesome manifestations. The diverse Pitrolux litany included excessive hair growth (facial and torso), elongated larynxes, unwanted testicular enlargement (often bilateral), suppurating acne, random tissue deformities and life-threatening erections, to name a few.