Free Razor Girl by Carl Hiaasen Page A

paid Merry, who counted the bills by the light of her iPhone.
    “What about the other guy you grabbed? The first guy?” Big Noogie asked.
    Zeto looked tightly at Merry.
    “The mistake,” Big Noogie elaborated.
    “Oh, him. He’s gone,” Merry said.
    “So that’s all took care of?”
    “Like it never happened.”
    “Good,” said Big Noogie. “You two can go now.”
    They did.
    The moment the duct tape was removed from Trebeaux’s Trump-ish lips he blurted the story about the redheaded crash driver and her sexy shaving ploy. “It’s fucking brilliant!” the swindler gushed to Big Noogie. “Was that your idea?”
    Big Noogie said, “No,
this
is my idea.”
    He took out a pair of ten-inch surgical hemostats, which he clamped onto the crotch of Martin Trebeaux’s linen pants.
    “Not my nut sack!” wailed the sand man.
    “What’d you expect?” said Big Noogie.
    The Tesla was still in the alley beside the house, but Merry didn’t hear any of Trebeaux’s screams because Zeto was blasting Pit Bull on the radio. When she asked Zeto for a lift back to Miami, he said the car didn’t have enough juice for the trip. The charging station in Key West was still under construction, so he drove down Simonton until he found a house with hurricane shutters on the windows. After backing into the driveway, he hopped out and plugged the Tesla’s cord into a socket on the outside wall.
    “How long will this take?” Merry asked.
    “I’m gonna get a room at the La Concha. Two beds.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Then you’re on your own, babe.”
    Merry was too tired to deal with Zeto sneaking his hairy ass between the sheets in the middle of the night. She had a strict rule against cuddling with potential co-defendants.
    “What do you think’s going to happen to Martin?”
    “Ever see
The Godfather
?” Zeto asked.
    “Nope.”
    “You’re shitting me. Not even Part One? Okay, then Tony Soprano.”
    “Who?” said Merry.
    “Do you live in a cave on Mars, or what?”
    “Don’t be a dick. I know about the Mafia. All I asked you is what’re they going to do to Martin, since you’re the expert on everything.”
    “Go rent the movie,” Zeto said, and walked away.
    While Merry waited to cross the street, three tow trucks rumbled past one after the other. The first two were hauling the same type of cars, late-model, silverish Buicks with rear-end damage. The third truck was hauling a Honda Civic with a mangled front fender. Merry smiled at her handiwork.
    She walked back to the bread-and-breakfast on Catherine Street where she’d booked a room. The place was packed with milky-limbed Austrians who innocently plodded around town in black nylon socks and sandals. Merry found it endearing, for the twenty-first century. She had the same reaction to Mennonites, who made no wardrobe concessions despite Florida’s heartless humidity.
    The next morning she checked out and headed toward Truman Avenue with the thought of hitching a ride, thereby avoiding four hours in a car with Zeto. Yielding to a procession of Duval-bound tourists she spotted a familiar face.
    “Yo, Bob!” she called out.
    Lane Coolman leaped sideways, landing with both shoes in the road. Merry yanked him clear of an oncoming moped and told him to chill, for God’s sake.
    “Have you been following me?” he asked shakily.
    “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s a small island.”
    “I’m going straight to the police!”
    She said, “Cool, I’ll come with you. Let’s see whose story they believe. You want to hear mine? All the perverted stuff you made me do after you tricked me into getting in your car? The ropes, the hot glue, the roller blades.”
    “Know what? You’re a terrible human being. I mean a total sociopath.”
    “And you’d be dead if it wasn’t for me, don’t forget. What are you still doing here is the question.”
    “Where’s your thug boyfriend?” Coolman glanced in both directions, then over his shoulder.
    “I took care of