Lane Coolman walked in the front door, his face clouding at the sight of Yancy.
“There he is—my Hollywood agent!” Blister boomed.
Yancy said they’d already met. “What are you geniuses up to?” he asked Coolman. “I can’t wait to hear the big plan.”
Blister ordered Yancy to stand, lift his shirt and show the others where Blister had stabbed him—“in case they think I ain’t a serious individual.”
The sight of Yancy’s sutures properly alarmed Buck and Coolman. Blister seemed satisfied.
Buck asked Coolman for an update on Amp.
“He’s flying in to meet with us,” the agent said, “as promised.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Blister said, “Soon ain’t fast enough.”
“Who’s Amp?” asked Yancy.
Somewhere Blister came up with boat rope and duct tape. He bound and gagged Yancy before sliding him under a bed. Yancy was impressed by the cleanliness of the floor—not even a dust bunny. The polished pine planks felt cool against his cheek. He shut his eyes and strained to hear the conversation of the carping fuckwits in the adjoining room.
Coolman was telling Blister it was a really bad move, tying up a possible cop. Blister asked if anyone had a better idea. Buck said he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of Florida.
Yancy rolled from beneath the bed thinking it was a good thing that Rosa couldn’t see him now. He struggled to his feet and tumbled himself through an open window, his fall cushioned by a row of lush greenery. Once upright, he advanced pogo-style to the nearest cottage, where he used his forehead to bang on the door. The woman who answered was the blond model from the vodka commercial being filmed on the beach. Yancy blinked and grunted beseechingly. Miraculously the woman let him hop inside, where he toppled sideways onto a divan. After she peeled the tape from his mouth, he said, “You have the golden heart of an angel.”
“Dude, who did this to you? I’m gonna call the cops.”
Her name was Miso and she couldn’t find her phone. Yancy asked her to get a knife and cut the ropes from his wrists and ankles. She hurried to the kitchen but returned emptyhanded saying, “Sorry, but I’m really stoned.”
“Please go look again.”
“I like you. What’s your deal?”
“Any sharp object will do the job,” Yancy said.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re a serial killer.”
“This would be an odd way to stalk my victims.”
“That’s true.” Miso shrugged. “Look, I was supposed to meet up with some people. You know, from the crew?”
Yancy said, “I really need your help.”
She went back to the kitchen, returned with a steak knife, and commenced sawing on the ropes. Because of her loopy condition, Yancy feared for his veins and arteries. The sash on her robe came undone, presenting a caramel flash of skin that distracted him from her bladework. Once freed, he positioned himself by a window with an unimpeded view of the cottage occupied by Blister and the others. Yancy lowered and cracked the blinds. Miso sat beside him. He told her she’d looked great on the set of the vodka commercial.
“I totally don’t even drink that crap,” she said. “What is a guava, anyway?”
“You’re on your way to something bigger. That’s all that matters. Your life trajectory.”
“Dude, I’m twenty-one and a half.”
“Hang in there,” Yancy said.
“What’s your story? Why don’t you call the cops on those assholes?”
“I left my phone in the car. Also, I am a cop.”
“You are not!” She laughed and frogged his arm. “I said I was stoned, not stupid.”
“Respect, por favor. I used to be a hotshot police detective, for real. Now I’m just a humble hardworking health inspector.”
“Yeah, right. I totally know what you inspect.”
“I’m Andrew, by the way. Andrew Yancy. I’d show you my ID, except—”
“It’s in the car with your phone, right? I’m so sure.”
Yancy smiled. She smelled like pot and coconut butter. “You who are so quick to judge,” he said, “let me point out that ‘miso’ is a Japanese soup.”
“It’s just plain old Jane on my driver’s license.”
“A perfectly lovely name.”
“Not for modeling it isn’t,” she said. “You want a drink? If I can even find the damn liquor. I totally smoked the last doob, so don’t ask.”
Yancy put a finger to his lips as he parted the blinds. “Take a look,” he whispered.
Benny Krill, Buck Nance and Lane Coolman had emerged from the nearby cottage. They stood conferring on the porch, in no discernible state of panic, which meant they were unaware Yancy had escaped from the bedroom.
“Those three fellows,” he said to Miso, “aren’t exactly master criminals.”
“Uh, yeah, I get that, Andrew. Why’d they tie you up?”
“I’ll tell you everything later. Would you mind getting dressed?”
“Where are we goin’? Are jeans okay?”
“Jeans are excellent.”
She stood up and shed the robe saying, “This is crazy. What am I doing?”
“You’ll have a good story to tell your friends.”
“Promise?”
“Totally,” said Yancy.
—
Vance Banks stood on the slender balcony of his apartment wishing he had a view of Biscayne Bay instead of the Miami Beach public-works garage. He wore a Hurricanes hoodie and dark glasses to hide his face—an act of prudence, not paranoia. Vance Banks was only thirty-one, but he’d accumulated more enemies than most men twice his age. This was the result of failing to repay certain debts associated with a roaring appetite for cocaine, gambling and high-end escorts. One such obligation had in only a few brief weeks mushroomed with interest from $6,000 to $22,500, a sum currently unavailable to Vance Banks. Being not entirely dim-witted, he understood that the men from whom he had borrowed the $6,000 were more humorless and violent than any of his other creditors. His divorced sister in Jacksonville was unsympathetic, Vance Banks having tooted away a sizable inheritance. His brother in Gulf Shores had long ago stopped returning his calls, while his mother communicated seldom and only through attorneys. Having few options, Vance Banks accepted the fact that, once again, it was time to leave town.
So, late that night, he vacated his apartment, placed his gray tabby cat in the car, drove across the MacArthur Causeway and moved in with his cocaine dealer in Coral Gables. The men to whom Vance Banks owed $22,500 had never seen such a lazy attempt at evasion. They felt insulted.
In return for providing Vance Banks a place to crash, the coke dealer asked him to drive a 2008 Toyota Camry from the Port of Miami to a motel in Hialeah. Vance Banks had no experience on the supply side of drug transactions, but the coke dealer assured him that none would be needed for this job. If he’d known that Vance Banks was in debt to the Calzone crime family, he would not have handed him the keys to that particular vehicle.
The instructions given to Vance Banks were simple: obey the speed limits, observe all traffic signals, and do not open the trunk of the vehicle unless ordered to by a uniformed police officer. Leaving nothing to chance, or so he thought, the coke dealer selected on MapQuest the simplest route of travel and placed a printout in the hands of Vance Banks. Upon arriving at the motel, Vance Banks would simply back the Camry into a parking spot and walk away. There would be no verbal or visual contact with the individuals awaiting the delivery.
Vance Banks hoped to be well paid for this risky chore, but that didn’t happen. He never made it to the motel. On Northwest 62nd Street, only five blocks off the interstate, the Camry was struck from behind by an old black pickup that had been following him unnoticed since he’d left his cocaine dealer’s apartment. The crash didn’t injure Vance Banks or his cat Sawyer, which he’d brought along to calm his nerves. With Sawyer safe in his arms he got out of the Camry and obser
ved with dismay that the impact of the accident had sprung the trunk lid. Frantically Vance Banks tried to close it, but the crumpling was too severe.
Upon approaching the pickup truck he saw behind the wheel a red-haired woman in a tan low-cut sweater. When she rolled down the window he became aware of a disposable razor in her right hand. A dark skirt was bunched around her waist, and there was no outline of panties. The driver’s long creamy legs led to feet adorned by gem-encrusted flip-flops.
“Super-duper sorry,” she said.
“Are you seriously shaving your…?”
“Bikini zone? It’s worse than texting, I know. Completely took my eyes off the road.”
“Freak city,” muttered Vance Banks, nervously eyeing the passing traffic.
The woman tossed the razor and lowered her skirt. “I was on my way to Rocky’s. That’s my boyfriend. He likes a smooth landing zone, if you know what I mean. Your kitty’s quite handsome, by the way. He’s got what they call a noble countenance. What’s his name?”
“Sawyer. And it’s a she.”
“I’m Merry,” the woman said. “Spelled like Merry Christmas.” She held her hand out the window so Vance Banks could shake it. “Honest, I’ll pay to fix your car.”
“It doesn’t belong to me, unfortunately.”
“Well, let’s have a look-see at the damage.” She reached to unbuckle her seat belt.
“No!” Vance Banks blurted. “Stay right there.”
The red-haired woman wore a sexy perfume, which further diminished the chances of Vance Banks making a wise decision. What he should have done was get the hell out of there, before a cop drove up, but a pleasant sort of paralysis had set in.
She said, “Now my dumb truck won’t even start. I’ve got some cash at home if you’ll give me a ride. That way we don’t have to call the police or insurance company. Please?”
“I guess. Sure.” He figured he could use a shoelace to tie down the trunk lid of the Camry. “How far away is your place?”
“Oh, just a few blocks.”
“You should text your boyfriend and tell him you’ll be late.”
She smiled. “You think he doesn’t trust me? You’re right.”
“My name’s Vance Banks.”
The woman reacted with wide eyes. “Dude, are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head in the accident?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you gave me your real name,” she said. “Most guys lie.”
“Wait—what? Do you know me?”
“Poor baby,” she said.
A white Lincoln coupe rolled up and a stocky well-dressed man got out. He had an ivory toothpick in his mouth and a small silver revolver in one hand.
Vance Banks said, with belated perception, “I am so fucked.”
“My suggestion? Give ’em whatever they want.”
“But I don’t have their money! I’m tapped out!”
“Get creative,” the redhead said. “Come on, Vance, step it up.”
She offered to take care of his cat, but the transfer was vetoed by the man with the toothpick. Within moments the Lincoln departed at high speed carrying Vance Banks, the purring Sawyer and a gym bag holding forty-eight one-ounce bags of premium cocaine that had been removed from the Camry’s trunk. Merry Mansfield abandoned the black pickup on 62nd Street and Ubered back to her hotel on the beachside. She did forty minutes on the treadmill, took a shower and then sat down with a book called Treasures of the Spanish Main, which she’d checked out of the library on Alton Road.
At half-past six she put on blue-jean overalls and clogs. Her hair was still wet so she opted for pigtails. A yellow cab dropped her at the News Café, where the man with the ivory toothpick was already waiting. When Merry sat down at the table, he passed her an envelope containing eleven one-hundred-dollar bills, more than she expected.
“You did real good. That’s how come there’s extra,” the man said. “The dope in the car was a bonus.”
“So you and I can talk direct from now on, right? No more Zetos in between.”
“Jesus, what a retard. He really fried himself to death with a Prius?”
“It was a Tesla,” Merry said.
“Is the voltage higher on them?”
“That’s a darn good question.”
The man took a drink of coffee, the toothpick still lolling in his mouth. He said, “Swear to God, long as I been in this business, it still blows my fuckin’ mind.”
“The stupidity, you mean.”
“You never been to prison, but let me tell you this for a fact: Every new generation of these shitheads is dumber than the last. It’s harder and harder to find good people.”
Merry pushed the envelope full of cash back across the table and said, “The job I did today is free if you promise not to hurt the cat.”
The man with the toothpick chuckled. “Keep it, babe. One call to momma and Mr. Banks came up with our money. Really it was more like eight, nine calls. Point is he got to keep his kitty and his nuts. You up for another gig?”
“Depends on when and where.”
“Boca. Tomorrow afternoon. West Boca, actually. The guy’s a major pussy hound, so it should go easy. He drives a gray Audi. I’ll text you the tag.”
Merry said, “Not tomorrow. I’m going out of town.”
“What for?”
“Friend of mine down in the Keys—it’s a long story. He’s in over his head.”
The man with the toothpick said, “Can’t he wait a day, this friend?”
Merry shook her head. “I’ve got a feeling he can’t.”
—
The three men walked across U.S. 1 to a restaurant called Morada Bay. They took a table outside, supposedly to watch the sunset.
Benny the Blister announced he’d changed his mind; he no longer wished to be called Spiro when he joined the cast of Bayou Brethren.
“I come up with somethin’ way better,” he said. “Deerbone.”
“Deerbone. Deerbone Nance.” Coolman repeated it several times. “I think I’m loving it.”
Buck said, “What does it even mean? Besides that deers have bones.” Listlessly he stared out at the mangrove islands. Coolman could tell he was thinking about his ex-mistress, Miracle, grinding on his brother.
“Make sure it’s fixed in the legal papers,” Blister went on. “Call your damn boss and tell him Spiro’s out. Deerbone’s in.”
“Great name, bro. Authentic,” Coolman said. He didn’t care what the cocksucker called himself when he got to jail, which is where he was going as soon as they nailed down the deal memo for Buck’s contract. Coolman had stored on his phone the number of the local Crime Stoppers hotline.
A more immediate worry for Coolman was “Inspector” Yancy, hogtied under a bed in the bungalow. Conspiring in an abduction was not in the Platinum Artists agents’ playbook. Even if Yancy wasn’t a cop, he probably had cop connections. Coolman decided to offer him some money to forget about what happened. The payoff could be layered into Buck Nance’s deal, as a one-time “consultant’s fee.”
Blister continued yammering throughout dinner, while Buck spoke barely a word and snubbed his broiled lobster.
Coolman finally said, “Look, I had nothing to do with Miracle switching to Junior. That wasn’t my call.”
“So it was Amp?”
“The bitch was pissed off at you, dude. Vengeance-wise, she had worse things in mind, trust me. This was a compromise.”
“What about the condo? I want her out of my goddamn condo.”
Blister piped, “Hell, I’ll take it. Is there a hot tub?”
“Jacuzzi,” said Buck through clenched teeth.
“What’s the motherfuckin’ difference? I’m gone hang a big-ass Rebel flag and blast Molly Hatchet all night long.”
The Pensacola condominium was titled in Miracle’s name, and there was already a Confederate flag on the bathroom wall.
“Legally she owns the place,” Coolman said to Buck. “That??
?s how you wanted it, remember?”
Buck slammed a fist on the table, which was so heavy it barely moved. Tears pooled in his eyes as he nursed his throbbing hand.
Blister was sympathetic. “You was blinded by the pussy, that’s all. I been there, brother. Say hi to pussy, say bye-bye to common sense.”
“Just shut up,” Buck groaned.
A pair of ibises landed nearby and began walking the beach side-by-side, probing here and there with their curled beaks. Coolman wondered why he and Rachel could never get in sync like that.
Blister was now babbling about the iconic significance of the Stars and Bars, how the proud white race shouldn’t let those damn Northern faggots and communist Negroes tear down that sacred old flag. Having minored in American history at UC–Davis, Coolman was tempted to pop a Civil War quiz on Mr. Krill; the moron probably didn’t know Manassas from Manitoba. However, since the moron had a loaded gun and no sense of irony, Coolman kept quiet. As a manager of so-called talent he was demoralized to find himself in such low company, sitting between an armed crackpot and a fake chicken farmer known to millions as Captain Cock. Back home in Beverly Hills, rival agents were dining with classy A-listers like Javier Bardem and the Coen brothers, or so Coolman bitterly imagined.
If I ice this deal, he thought, I should start my own agency.
After sunset the three men walked next door to Pierre’s and took seats at the elegant wooden bar. Coolman began feeling more positive about his professional situation. At one end of the room a curly-headed guitarist played killer flamenco, applauded by a couple sitting together behind a potted palm. A tall brunette who had mistakenly dressed for St. Barts emerged from a thrumming cluster of women and approached Buck Nance. She handed him a cocktail napkin and asked for an autograph, which he signed “Jerry Jeff Walker.” Her request for a selfie was denied, but still she was beaming as she rejoined her friends.
When Blister called out for a Pabst, the bartender looked at him as if he were speaking Togolese. Coolman ordered Jack-and-waters for all of them.
“Where are we meeting Amp?” Buck asked, the Cajun accent still exiled.
Blister said, “Someplace safe. Those fuckin’ Key West cops is still lookin’ for me.”