“You want to do it again?” she asked. “Just for fifteen, twenty minutes?”
“I’m in. Never waste good wood!”
At that moment his phone rang. He answered it and soon started pacing, still comically engorged. By the time the conversation ended he was storming through the kitchen shouting, “Shitheads! I’m dealing with useless, worthless, brainless shitheads!”
Deb closed her book and waited.
“Those two clowns I sent down to Big Pine,” Richardson said, “the whole thing went to hell.”
“What happened now?”
“What happened is they fucked up and got thrown in jail, but that’s not the worst part,” he railed. “Your engagement ring? That asshole Yancy had it all along. The mob guys took it from him, the guys Trebeaux sent. Martin told me they didn’t find it, but Rick says that’s not true.”
“Rick is…?”
“One of my guys.”
“Who’s now locked up? Classic,” Deb said.
“Point is, those Mafia goons grabbed the ring at Yancy’s house and kept it.”
“Speaking of the house—he’s going to sell to us, right? They smacked some sense into him?”
“Are you even listening? Those goddamn guineas stole my two-hundred-thousand-dollar diamond!”
“You mean my diamond,” said Deb.
News of the six-figure ripoff had done what frosty testicles couldn’t do—deflated Brock’s boner. He stuffed himself into a pair of boxer shorts saying, “Don’t worry, I’m gonna get that fucking rock back.”
“We’re talking about the same Mafia, right? The one that kills people and hangs them on meat hooks.”
Brock put on some slacks, tucked in his shirt and fixed his tie. “Trust me, baby, I know how to deal with these mopes. I can totally get down and talk their language.”
“Okay then,” she said, thinking: I’m engaged to a dead man.
—
In an interview with a Brooklyn newspaper, the widow of Abdul-Halim Shamoon said the authorities in Key West weren’t trying hard enough to find the tattooed white man who had fatally assaulted her husband on the Conch Train. Mrs. Shamoon implied that institutional prejudice against Muslims was to blame for the lack of urgency. The article was reprinted in the Key West Citizen and brought to the attention of Sheriff Sonny Summers, who regarded any controversy as a threat to his re-election. Nobody on his staff seemed to know how many Muslims were registered to vote in Monroe County, but Sonny Summers didn’t wish to alienate a single one. Regardless of his or her religious leanings, any deceased tourist was bad for tourism, and anything that was bad for tourism was also bad for incumbents.
The sheriff summoned Rogelio Burton, his top detective, for an update on the Shamoon investigation. Burton reported that the main suspect, Benjamin “Blister” Krill, was still at large and possibly traveling with Buck Nance, the wayward television star. The men were said to have left the island on a private jet the night before, a report that turned out to be false. The aircraft in question had carried only one passenger, Mr. Credence Windsor of Los Angeles.
“So Krill’s still in town? Then get busy and catch the bastard,” Sonny Summers said. “We’ll push the Conch Train thing as a hate crime. You deal with the media.”
Burton wasn’t optimistic. “It’s not a slam-dunk case. The eyewitness accounts from the scene are inconsistent, to put it kindly. Not one of ’em could positively ID Benny Krill from his last mug shot. The only thing they agreed on is the tattoo across his back.”
“Hell, that’s almost as good as a fingerprint.”
“We checked the social media—Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. There are at least thirteen other white males in the country with Captain Cock tats.”
The sheriff said, “You’re shitting me.”
“It’s a very popular TV show.”
“So we’ll have to prove all thirteen of these numbnuts weren’t in Key West on the afternoon Mr. Shabeeb was killed.”
“His name’s Shamoon,” Burton said. “But, you’re right, we’d have to nail down thirteen different alibis. Major project.”
“And flying them all in for the trial—that’ll cost a damn fortune,” Sonny Summers muttered, “even if we put them at the Best Western.” He picked up a sterling silver letter opener that had been given to him for no reason by the governor. Idly he tested the sharpness of the point on his thumb. “Rog, did you talk to Dickinson? What’s his mindset?”
“We might get Krill on a manslaughter,” said Burton, “if we’re lucky.”
State Attorney Billy Dickinson shared the sheriff’s allergy to negative headlines. Losing a high-profile homicide trial wasn’t on Dickinson’s bucket list.
“He says the Captain Cock tat might be enough to convict,” Burton said, “unless Krill gets a halfway competent lawyer. Billy’s afraid the other train passengers will get shredded on cross-exam. Tourists, as you know, make terrible witnesses.”
Sonny Summers tapped the silver letter opener on a corner of his desk to see if it sounded like a tuning fork. It didn’t.
“Rog, someone should speak to the dead man’s family. Make sure they know we’re busting our balls to catch this guy. Or whatever the Islamic word for balls is.”
“I’ll make the call, no problem. They’re American, by the way.”
“Meanwhile explain to me why Buck Nance, a TV star, would be hanging out with a third-rate scumsucker like Benny the Blister. Where did you hear that, anyway? I thought Nance was gone from the Keys, rehabbing at a desert spa somewhere. That’s what he told me when he called.”
Burton said, “An informant says otherwise.”
“Well, fuckeroo.”
“One other update. It’s about your favorite restaurant inspector.”
The sheriff seemed to slump. “This campaign party at the San Carlos tonight—all these folks are bringin’ their checkbooks and I need to charm the shit out of ’em, meaning I need to be at my personal best. Keep that in mind before you say another word.”
Burton assured him that the new Yancy situation was manageable. “A couple meatheads broke into his house. He put ’em in the hospital. The arrest report will call it a home-invasion robbery. Both suspects are in the medical wing at Stock Island.”
“Did Yancy do anything, you know, weird to them?” Sonny Summers asked. “If he did, the media will go apeshit.”
“No vacuum attachments this time. He clocked the intruders with a real-estate sign.”
“That makes it less of a story, right? Maybe no story.”
“Simple self-defense. Probably won’t even make the papers.”
The sheriff sighed pensively. “Why would robbers target Yancy of all people? You’re his friend, but you get what I mean. What has he got worth stealing? Hell, never mind. Can you please not tell me any more about this?”
“My pleasure,” said Burton.
“Be honest—what do you think of this suit for the party tonight? A hundred sixty-five bucks at Men’s Wearhouse.”
“They say seersucker’s making a comeback.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Rog. I look like fucking Matlock,” the sheriff said. “You’ll call the Muslims?”
“Right away.”
“Make sure they know this case is my numero uno priority, same as if poor Abdul was a Christian or a Buddhist. Tell ’em Key West is a place that loves everyone equal, and we want everyone to love Key West.”
Burton said, “Have fun at your fundraiser.”
“There’s an open bar, thank God.”
—
Jon David Ampergrodt looked across his desk at the stylish though drained figure of Cree Windsor and said, “Summation?”
“It’s a shit show, Amp.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“No, I mean literally a shit show. The man wiped himself with the deal papers.”
Amp leaned back studying his fingernails for nicks. Bayou Brethren was still doing spectacularly well without Buck Nance, the younger brothers having bl
oomed into fully realized redneck caricatures. Miracle’s illicit affair with Junior had added a magic spark of toxicity. During the most recent taping, Buddy had thrown a Dewar’s bottle at Junior while Clee Roy had stolen Junior’s iPhone to leer at a picture of Miracle’s bare ass that Junior had snapped in the outdoor shower. Meanwhile the Nance wives were in a frothing riot of jealousy and spite. It was magnificent television.
“We don’t need another damn brother in the cast,” Amp said.
Cree Windsor agreed. “This whole thing was Lane’s idea?”
“But we also don’t need Buck Nance in the same time slot on another network, being represented by another agency.” Amp was thinking out loud.
“You’re the only one this psycho ‘Spiro’ wants to talk with,” Cree Windsor said.
“That’s what Lane told me. Who, by the way, has not distinguished himself.”
“Rule Number One: Never lose control of your client.”
Amp looked up from his nails and nodded. “Or a shit show is what you get.”
“Spiro’s a bad dude, and not in a good way. He’s scary crazy.”
“You mean crazy scary.”
“Right,” said Cree Windsor. “You’re seriously going down to Florida to meet him?”
Amp said it was the only way to get control of the situation. “Lane’s working out the details.”
“Bring some security. The biggest dude we got.”
“Way ahead of you,” said Amp.
“Oh, and don’t forget—your aunt just died. That’s why you sent me down there the first time.”
“Right, right. What was her name? Did we even decide on one?”
“I don’t know—Carol?” Cree Windsor said with a shrug.
“That works. Dear old Aunt Carol.”
Judging from Cree Windsor’s description, the man who called himself Spiro Nance would be terrible on the show—dull-witted, mean and uncoachable. Amp’s idea was to keep him around for a couple of episodes, expose him as a fraud and then fire him for breach of contract. The script would call for Buck to be shattered by the revelation that Spiro wasn’t actually his long-lost twin; there would be tears and humiliation at the weekly barbecue, but the hardy patriarch would rally and move forward.
The network had reluctantly agreed to double Buck’s salary, as Lane Coolman had demanded, but Amp foresaw a walkout by the other Nances if they didn’t receive comparable pay hikes. In theory that could be a windfall for Platinum Artists, which represented all the family members individually. However, Amp expected the network to dig in its heels if the entire cast staged a mutiny over money. Television executives loved reality programming only because it was cheaper to produce than sitcoms and cop shows. If the Brethren payroll jumped too high, the network would simply let the Nances’ contracts lapse and replace the whole greedy clan with a fresh collection of goobers.
Once he was on-scene in Florida, Amp planned to elbow Coolman offstage and take charge. Buck Nance would be steered aside and given a bracing dose of straight talk. The man calling himself Spiro would be humored and led to believe that prime-time glory awaited. Amp also aimed to uncover Spiro’s real name and feed it to a private investigator for a criminal background check that promised to be bountiful.
“The maniac walks around with a gun in his pants,” Cree Windsor reminded Amp.
“So do half the crappy actors in Hollywood.”
For a lunch break Amp met Rachel Coolman at the Wilshire, where he was crushed to hear that for once she wanted only lunch. Room service delivered two coho salmon Caesars and a bottle of white wine. Amp and Rachel sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in front of the food cart, which was draped with a linen tablecloth. Rachel kept most of her clothes on and out of nowhere began to complain that Amp appeared to be taking Lane’s side in the divorce. She implored him to make Lane return to Los Angeles, so that court proceedings could resume.
To salvage his chances for a quickie, Amp assured Rachel he would speak with her husband as soon as he got to Key West.
“And you’ll tell him to do the right thing? Promise?” She unfolded her legs.
“Baby, I will order him to be on the next flight home,” Amp said.
Rachel smiled and took a pursed nibble of salmon. “Nobody wants a long, drawn-out trial. Be sure and tell him that, too, okay? Hurry back to L.A. and let’s get this thing settled, then both of us can go our separate ways.”
“That makes total sense.” Amp assumed the judge had refused to issue a contempt order against Lane, forcing Rachel to try a new strategy.
“A trial would be completely exhausting,” she went on. “I wouldn’t have the energy for anything else, I’d be so burned out.”
Amp got the message, and accepted his role in the Coolmans’ court fight. He didn’t want to give up his lunchtimes with Rachel. She was so damn hot.
“Going to trial would be crazy,” he agreed. “A total nightmare for everyone except the goddamn attorneys. I’ll get Lane on board, don’t worry.”
“I knew you’d understand.” Rachel put down her fork and with her bare heels pushed the food cart away from the bed. “How about some dessert? You still look hungry.”
—
After Blister shot the mailbox they sped back to the house on Fleming Street and turned off the lights. The next morning Lane Coolman ordered a different limo. When a white super-stretch arrived, he sent it away. “We’re not going to a prom,” he said to a downcast Blister. “Let’s get something shorter than a city block.”
They ended up in a standard black Yukon with non-pimp rims. The new driver was another Cuban, which elicited from Blister a vile monologue on America’s self-destructive immigration policies. He got bummed when Buck wouldn’t chime in.
Eventually the driver had enough, and spoke up: “Sir, I was born in New Jersey. I’m a U.S. citizen just like you.”
Blister hurled himself halfway over the front seat snarling, “Hey, Pablo, you ain’t just like me! And your people sure as hell ain’t like my people. Tell him, Buck!”
“Quiet,” said Captain Cock.
“What?”
“Just shut up.”
Blister sat back fuming and confused.
Buck was no fan of Hispanics, but he couldn’t bear listening to Blister berate the driver. When Buck was a boy he’d overheard his father speak to a Puerto Rican auto mechanic the same way, and he remembered feeling uneasy and possibly ashamed. True, he and his brothers had grown up to be racist dickheads like their old man, but they weren’t in-your-face racist dickheads. Had Buck not been so flustered that night onstage at the Parched Pirate, he would never have blurted those crude jokes, not with muscular gays and Negroes in attendance.
“What’d you say your real name was?” Blister asked him gruffly.
“Matt Romberg.”
“Is that Jewish? You a Jew?”
“German Lutheran,” Buck replied.
“Sure about that?”
Buck wondered how Blister Krill had survived to middle age in a place as ethnically diverse and gun-crazy as Florida. He was confronted with the possibility that Blister had been a different person before becoming obsessed with Bayou Brethren. It was one thing to market a television program to attract low-class shitkickers; it was another thing to create them. Buck surmised that the pirated outtakes of his sermons were an inflammatory factor, and he felt fairly shitty about whatever Blister did to the Muslim on the Conch Train. It was no better than murder. According to the newspaper, the victim had a thriving business and loving family back in New York. That didn’t prove he wasn’t a closet jihadist, but the article said he was carrying souvenirs at the time he was attacked. There was no mention of the police finding any weapons, a suicide vest, or even one crummy ISIS recruiting flyer.
“Get Amp on the phone right now,” Buck said to Coolman.
“We’ve been texting. He promises to come.”
Blister said, “Hold on. I wasn’t done talkin’ about the Jew thing.”
Th
e stolen pistol came out, once again. Buck was over it.
“Shoot me or anybody else in this car,” he told Blister, “and you fail the world’s easiest IQ test. Instead of a TV deal you get life in prison.”
Coolman said, “Come on, Spiro. Put the gun away.”
“Then stop messin’ with me!”
The driver interrupted to ask if they wanted him to turn around and do it again. They’d been riding back and forth on the Seven Mile Bridge because Blister was entranced by the ocean hues. This would be their seventh crossing of the morning. Buck put a halt to it, saying he was starving. The driver pointedly took them to a Cuban joint for lunch. Blister didn’t complain, because he was hungry, too. They stuffed themselves with arroz con pollo and picadillo. Coolman brought a sandwich to the driver in the parking lot.
On their way back, traffic on the famous bridge slowed to a halt when an Airstream coach blew a tire. Buck and Coolman remained pegged to the backseat while Blister got out of the Yukon and leaned over the bridge rail, trying to see if there were any hammerheads swimming around the pilings.
Stopped in the opposite direction, blocked from Blister’s view by the broken-down Airstream, was a nondescript Subaru driven by a Sanitation and Safety Specialist for the state Division of Hotels and Restaurants. Andrew Yancy was on his way to Marathon for a walk-through of a Tuscan-style bistro that had a spotless inspection record, so he was in a good mood despite the delay. He turned up the radio and rolled down the windows to catch the gusts off the ocean.
A cop finally showed up and laid out a pylon path for the northerly traffic to squeeze past the disabled RV. Yancy was moving no more than ten miles an hour when he passed by Benny Krill, sprawled witlessly on the hood of a black southbound Yukon. In the backseat sat two figures that looked very much like Lane Coolman and Buck Nance.
There was nothing for Yancy to do but keep driving, for there was no place on the long bridge to turn around. He was basically stuck on a conveyor belt going the wrong way. He didn’t grab his phone and call Detective Rogelio Burton, although at some point he would. Maybe. Yancy was irked that Burton hadn’t told him that Blister and the others were not aboard the gray executive jet that had departed the night before; by now the detective surely had obtained the passenger manifest from the pretty silver-haired woman at the airport.