“Marty, I hate it when you talk to me like I’m just a stupid piece a ass.”
He didn’t think she was stupid, yet in his experience even worldly, hard-edged women went overboard with the social media. Juveline was likely the first in her circle of girlfriends to visit Cuba, and it would require extraordinary self-restraint not to share her tropical experience online. Even if Big Noogie didn’t follow his mistress on Facebook, the mistresses of his Mafia cohorts might be keeping tabs. Trebeaux plotted to disable Juveline’s phone once she arrived on the island, in case they wandered into a Wi-Fi hotspot.
Otherwise he was excited about their exotic assignation. Up to now the relationship had existed only in a hotel room, brief trysts made more thrilling by the danger. That first night in Havana would be their first together with no hurried departures. Although there was much Trebeaux didn’t know about Juveline, he wasn’t concerned. Having gotten past the fact her boyfriend was a murderous gangster, the sand man couldn’t imagine any other revelation that would scare him away. He didn’t care if she was bisexual, bipolar or biohazardous. He didn’t care if she wanted to draw Mike Huckabee’s face on his balls.
She rocked his sleazy little universe. That’s all that mattered.
Unfortunately, as Trebeaux later discovered, Juveline did have one particular habit that would have iced his ardor and panicked him into primal flight. In his defense, it was nothing he’d overlooked; rather it was something he couldn’t possibly have known about her, since the two of them had never spent more than an hour in bed, always awake.
Which left him unaware, catastrophically unaware, that Juveline talked in her sleep.
And that the previous night she had unconsciously blurted three words, repeating them loudly enough to awaken the man lying beside her, an individual known to state and federal authorities as Dominick “Big Noogie” Aeola.
The three words exclaimed by Juveline in slumber were: “Harder, Marty, harder!”
Had he known of this occurrence, Martin Trebeaux would have traded his ticket to Cuba for a seat on the next flight anywhere else. Haiti. Paraguay. Fucking Yemen. The farther away, the better.
But the sand man, unaware, proceeded toward his secret island rendezvous.
Thirty minutes out of Miami, as the plane began to descend, Trebeaux was at peace. He smiled to himself at first sight of the island—miles and miles of white-ribbon shore. Somewhere below, in some drab cubicle of that leaden communist bureaucracy, sat an enterprising bureaucrat who would hook him up with all the sand he could barge, for the right bribe. Trebeaux was sure of it.
After clearing Immigration he changed his dollars to Cuban currency, collected his suitcase and hopped in a two-toned taxi, a ’52 Chevy convertible. With a couple hours to burn he asked the driver for a road tour of Old Havana, which was spectacular but also a little depressing. The whole place cried out for a pressure-washing, and many of the magnificent grand old buildings were falling apart in chunks. Laundry was strung everywhere across the balconies, while the peeling walls bannered faded revolutionary slogans. The taxi took Trebeaux speeding along the legendary Malecón, under a spray of crashing waves, and then through a tunnel to the other side of Havana Bay. From there the city looked timeless and unworn. He did a selfie at the Morro Castle, and another in front of Che Guevara’s house.
On the trip back the driver stopped on the Prado, where Trebeaux bought a handful of Cohibas from a chatty street vendor. The loose-fitting bands betrayed the cigars as counterfeit but the sand man didn’t care; he simply liked the way they looked in his breast pocket. He planned to give one to Big Noogie back in the States.
At a café near Parque Central, Trebeaux ordered a cubata made with seven-year-old Havana Club. It went down silky so he ordered another. The place was packed with foreigners, including many Americans. In English the barman complimented Trebeaux on his attire, a bone-colored linen suit. The café featured many photographs of Ernest Hemingway at play. Trebeaux said he’d read every single one of the great man’s books, a line of bull the bartender heard no less than a dozen times a day.
Another antique cab—a blue Dodge Royal Lancer—carried Trebeaux back to the airport, where he waited with a carnal buzz for Juveline. When her flight landed, he stationed himself at the forefront of the throng outside the terminal building. A half-hour passed, then an hour. Arriving passengers, tourists and Cubans, streamed out the doors—but where was Big Noogie’s mistress? The way she was dressed, she’d be impossible to miss. Trebeaux was more irritated than worried. Maybe there was a problem with her paperwork at Immigration. Was it possible she lost her damn visa? He’d watched her place it in her handbag before they said goodbye in Miami.
Unfuckingbelievable. The sand man checked the time on his watch.
As he looked up, the last passenger from the Miami flight walked out of the airport. It wasn’t Juveline.
It was, however, somebody Trebeaux recognized. He wished he didn’t.
“Hello, Marty,” said the man with the ivory toothpick. “Let’s you and me take a ride to the beach.”
—
Brock Richardson lunched alone at the Casa Marina, then drove back to Miami Beach. The warm and pretty day was wasted on him. Even the muscle-whine of the newest Porsche in his fleet failed to raise a smile; on Card Sound Road he hit a mirthless one-thirty-five with no spike in his pulse.
Upon arriving home Richardson stalked into the bathroom and clawed free of his suit. The shirt flew off next, revealing a rampage of acne across his chest and back. While examining the cock-like skin tag under his arm, he was shocked to observe the bluish downward trail of a vein. In true junkie form he scrambled for more Pitrolux.
By the time Deb walked in, violet gunk oozed from every crevice and Richardson stank like a truckload of rancid Granny Smiths. Deb snatched the Soft-Glide applicator from his fist and said, “Brock, we need to talk.”
“Bad news, babe. My meeting in Key West, it didn’t go too well.”
“Shocker,” she said. “Want to hear what happened to me last night?”
“How about a quick one? I’m a wreck.”
“Clean yourself up and put on some clothes, for God’s sake.”
They reconvened later in the dining room, at opposite ends of the rosewood table.
Richardson went first: “The diamond ring’s history. Dominick took it. He gave it to his son’s fiancée.”
“And you couldn’t change his mind? You with your legendary powers of persuasion.”
“That I don’t need, the sarcasm and snark. It took bull-sized cojones for me to brace this dude. You should look him up on Google. He’s badass, squared.”
Deb chuckled coldly. “And his name’s actually Dominick?”
“What’d you expect—Rory? Sven? He’s in the goddamn Mafia!”
“So this means you’ll be buying me a new rock, right?”
“I guess so,” was Richardson’s barren reply.
The boner under his bathrobe throbbed, oblivious to his melancholy. He knew of no other big-time TV lawyer in such a sorry predicament—hooked on the very substance that was the target of his own commercials. If the truth got out, Richardson would be sensationally discredited, if not disbarred. The legitimate law firms to which he farmed his Pitrolux clients would cut off all contact, creating a savage drop in his cash flow. Potentially it could cost him millions. By comparison the loss of the engagement ring was negligible, a blip on Richardson’s bank statement.
Deb said, “Well, here’s my news: Forget about that vacation place in Big Pine, ’cause I’m not going back there. Not ever.”
“Really? All right.”
“Don’t you want to know why? I didn’t tell you this ’cause I didn’t want to piss you off, but yesterday I drove down to see that a-hole Yancy. About selling us his place? I was ready to make him a better offer—”
“Let me guess what that was,” said Richardson.
“—but his house is full of monster rats, the nastiest things you ev
er saw. All the way from Africa, swear to God, and they’ve got like zero fear of humans. It wouldn’t matter if we bulldozed everything, Brock, those hairy bastards would come back. See, they live in the woods. Yancy says they’re all over the islands. Two of the damn things were chillin’ in his living room, okay? Like they owned the place. And big enough to carry off a baked ham! I got so freaked, I drove straight home, took two Valiums and crashed—and still I had the worst dreams. Bottom line, I am so done with the Keys.”
Richardson was stunningly calm. “Actually, I’m relieved to hear you say that, because I’ve decided to sell our lot.”
“Wow. Really? Wow.” Deb’s mind raced ahead. She’d heard good reports about Captiva, on the west coast. Boca Grande, too. Supposedly there was a five-star spa at the Gasparilla Inn. She asked Brock how much they could get for the Big Pine property.
“I’ll be taking a hit,” he replied, a miserable understatement.
“How big a hit? You paid what for it—ninety?”
“A hundred and ten, Deb.”
“And we’re listing it for how much?”
“I’m not listing it. There’s already a buyer.”
Deb was happily amazed. “When did all this happen? Do they know about the Indian teeth? That they can’t build on the land?”
“Not a problem. Not for this guy.”
“Unbelievable. Who is he?”
“A friend of Dominick’s, apparently.” Richardson wore a smile of sickly resignation.
“You mean like a good friend?”
“Dominick wants me to close the deal as fast as possible.”
“For how much?”
“Twenty-five hundred dollars.”
Deb felt like throwing up. “What the fuck! He cannot be serious.”
“He most definitely is.”
“But what about your mortgage on the lot?”
“Oh, I’ll be paying that off next week with a cashier’s check to the bank.”
“This isn’t a sale, it’s a robbery! Just tell the man no, Brock. What if you said no?”
“You’re a bright person. Use your imagination.”
She tipped her head into her arms. “So who is this creep,” she said, “that’s getting our dream lot for practically free? Another gangster probably. You ever heard of him?”
“He’s not a gangster, Deb. It’s worse than that.”
“What are you talking about? How could it be worse?”
—
The Sprinter handled like a coupe. Yancy purposely chose the slowest, most convoluted route to the Key West airport. Benny the Blister sat up front in the passenger seat. His window was open, and the gun was still on his lap.
Yancy used the rearview to keep an eye on the others. The wounded bald bodyguard sat upright and glum, a bloody handkerchief pressed to his cheek. Lane Coolman remained hunkered in the last row conferring in low tones with the man called Amp. Buck Nance appeared ashen and deflated, for good reason; Blister was his creation, the ultimate white-trash nightmare.
As the van passed a Hassidic family on Elizabeth Street, Blister leaned out and screamed something horrible. Buck’s reaction was instant and scalding, though Blister’s ensuing tirade sounded to Yancy like a spoof of Buck’s own YouTube sermons at the First Chickapaw Tabernacle of Hope and Holiness.
Blister’s next target was two men holding hands on Truman Avenue. Coolman and Amp pleaded with him to stop yelling, though for some reason they called him “Deerbone” instead of Benny. Yancy didn’t bother to ask why. Buck’s stubbled chin had dropped to his chest and his breathing had become heavy, as if he was willing himself into a stupor.
“I can’t wait to get my white ass up to that bayou,” Blister seethed, “where they ain’t no Jews or faggots!”
Yancy said, “You are quite a specimen.”
“Yo, this ain’t the right way to the airport.”
Yancy said he was taking the back roads to steer clear of the cops. They ended up trailing one of the slow-moving Conch Trains, which gave Yancy an opening to bring up the death of Abdul-Halim Shamoon.
“Doesn’t it bother you even a little bit?” he asked Blister. “I should show you some pictures of him and his family.”
“Shut the hell up right this second.”
“What’s the matter, Benny?”
“Turn here. Get offa this street!”
From the rear of the van, the man called Amp asked if they could stop to get medical aid for Prawney the bodyguard. Blister said no way, José, but Yancy made a few slick moves and minutes later they were on Stock Island, rolling up to the hospital. Blister was going ballistic until Yancy pointed out a police cruiser idling in the lane behind an ambulance. Clutching his shoulder, Prawney got out of the Sprinter and trudged toward the emergency room.
“I’ll email a plane ticket!” Amp shouted after him.
Hiding low behind the dashboard, Blister ordered Yancy to hit the gas. “I don’t see the airport in five minutes,” he rasped, “I’m gonna blow your damn brains out.”
“Can I ask where you wild and crazy guys are going?”
“Los Angeles.” Coolman’s voice, from the back of the van.
“On a private jet plane,” Blister added, “but first they droppin’ off me and Buck at the chicken farm. Clee Roy and Buddy and Junior, they gotta meet their new kin.”
Yancy said it was safe to get up. Blister hopped back in the passenger seat and positioned the semiautomatic between his legs. Amp reported a text from his pilot—the Gulfstream was fueled and ready to go. Yancy was struggling to come up with a plan that wouldn’t end with more gunshots. He knew Coolman and Amp would be useless in a group struggle for Blister’s weapon, while Buck was totally out of the game, listless and glassy-eyed.
They were on South Roosevelt, maybe a mile from the airport, when Yancy said, “Benny, you’re not leaving Key West. I’m just telling you up front. I can’t let you go.”
“You don’t see this pistole aimed right at your ear hole?”
“Yes, it’s a concern.”
“Then what the fuck?” Blister’s face twisted like a dirty mop. “How you gonna stop me from gettin’ on that goddamn jet plane? Tell me how, motherfucker?”
Yancy shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”
“Dude, I already stabbed you. Now you’re gone make me shoot you, too? And all ’cause of one skinny dead Moose-lum.”
“This is difficult for you to grasp, I know.”
“What—you sayin’ I’m the stupid one?”
“That’s how you’re acting,” said Yancy. “It would be the opposite of smart, for instance, to shoot your driver. Why? Because a driver with a gunshot could easily lose control and crash. This van’s going forty-nine miles per hour and you, Benjamin Krill, aren’t wearing a seat belt.”
“Then stop right now, so I can put a bullet in your skull and get it over with.”
Yancy in his doom-state almost cracked a smile—in the mirror he saw Amp and Coolman scrambling to buckle up.
“I said pull offa this goddamn road!” Blister roared.
“Now that would be stupid,” said Yancy, slapping at the gun barrel.
There was a bang. The van spun sideways and rolled a full 360.
There was a louder bang when it struck a palm tree. A coconut fell from the branches spidering Yancy’s side of the windshield.
He knew instantly that the first loud noise wasn’t the semiautomatic, because his ears weren’t ringing and he didn’t smell gunfire. It was only a traffic accident. Nobody appeared to be injured except Blister, who was spitting raw chunks of tongue. His nose was mashed, his jawline gashed from ear to chin. Bright blood dappled the stud rooster inked on his belly. The pistol, knocked loose by the impact, was nowhere to be seen.
Yancy unbuckled, stepped from the van and managed to slide open one of the doors. Blister was the first to clamber out, charging toward the car that had caused the crash. It was an old gold Chrysler 300. He saw that the driver was a good-looking woman with d
ark red hair. Her skirt was hitched up around her waist.
Blister quit ranting and gaped.
“Super-sorry,” the woman said sheepishly. “I’m late for a date. Are you okay? You don’t look so okay.”
He stepped closer, his eyes riveted on one special zone. He didn’t notice the razor in the woman’s right hand. Not a cheap disposable, either—a shiny old-fashioned barber’s blade.
Blister’s mangled mouth said, “Jethuth Chritht, you are hot.” He took two more foggy steps before Yancy roughly yanked him away, saving him from a more serious laceration.
Amp and Lane Coolman stood on the side of Roosevelt inspecting themselves for injuries. Buck Nance stayed back, leaning almost casually against the rear bumper of the damaged van.
“Hey, Bob!” the redheaded driver shouted to Coolman, who raised his arms incredulously.
“You?” he called back. “Seriously?”
To Yancy the woman said: “I bumped you guys too hard, didn’t I? It wasn’t supposed to be a rollover, swear to God, but this was my first time doing a Sprinter. The center of gravity on those suckers is ridiculous.”
Yancy took the blade from her hand. “You probably ought to get out of here.”
“I don’t believe in leaving the scene, Andrew. That’s not my style.”
He bent down and kissed her.
She grinned. “But you were surprised, right? Never saw me coming.”
“I’m truly blown away. You can pull your dress down now.”
“Like you’re not loving the view.”
They heard a siren in the distance; somebody who’d seen the accident had called 911. Yancy kicked Merry’s razor underneath the Chrysler.
Another car pulled over. The driver, a muscular young Hispanic man, said he was a paramedic. His wife and two small children were with him, a beach trip. He grabbed a medical bag from his trunk and ran to Blister, who shoved him away bellowing, “Ain’t no goddamn beaner gonna thtick a needle in me!”
Yancy walked over and knocked Blister flat. He flashed his roach-patrol ID at the paramedic and said, “The man attacked you for no reason. That’s what I just witnessed, and that’s what I intend to tell the police. He was completely delirious, a menace to everyone. I’d appreciate it if you back me up on that.”