Razor Girl Read Online Free

you’ll be at. No victim, no crime scene, no evidence. Arrest us for what, Einstein?”
    Merry gave Coolman’s head a commiserative pat. “His mind’s made up, Bob. Sorry.”
    “No, wait, wait please,” said Coolman, and without further delay began to beg. “You want money? Because the people I work for will pay big bucks to get me back safe and sound.”
    Zeto seemed mildly interested.
    Merry said, “Define big bucks.” She dialed another number on Lane’s phone, and he heard her say, “Hello, is this Mr. Mark Wahlberg? You’re shitting me! Mark freaking Wahlberg?”
    A shark attack might be less painful,
Coolman thought despairingly.
    “Sir, a speed-dial
compadre
of yours is in major trouble,” Merry went on. “Mr. Lane Coolman, okay? The talent agent. There’s bodily harm in his future unless somebody comes up with, I don’t know—half a million dollars by noon tomorrow? I see…well, yes…allrighty then. Sorry to trouble you, sir. By the way, you were amazing in
Boogie Nights.
That last scene at the mirror? Fucking awesome!”
    Coolman’s chin was on his chest by the time Merry hung up. That was some heavy number—five hundred thousand—to pull out of her ass.
    “It was really him?” Zeto asked. “
The
Marky Mark?”
    “It was,” said Merry.
    “So, what’s the story?”
    “First he said, ‘Lane Coolman’s
not
my friend.’ ”
    “Figures.” Zeto glared at his captive.
    “He said Mr. Coolman is a worthless douche bag, his exact words,” Merry related, “and we’d be lucky to get five fucking cents for a ransom.”
    Zeto cackled and put a round into the chamber. “This is from the movie star, right? Unbelievable. A worthless douche bag, he says.”
    “Hold on, just wait! Please!” Coolman cried. “Scroll up to the A’s and I’ll tell you which name to call.”
    Merry said, “Now we’re getting somewhere, sugar.”
    —
    Clippy was Irv Clipowski. His partner was Neil Gluckman, who happened to be the mayor. That’s why Lombardo had summoned Yancy so late at night—nothing turns you into a responsive civil servant faster than a phone call from the mayor. Hop in your car and go.
    Neil and Clippy weren’t downhome island bubbas but rather New Yorkers who’d hit a home run on Wall Street and then semi-retired to Key West. At first they were distrusted because of their sobriety and competence, but in time the locals accepted them. Clippy was a long-distance runner who had a goatee that he dyed goose-white. Neil narrowly won the mayor’s race after his opponent got busted in the Marquesas cramming two thousand Mollies into a SCUBA tank.
    The restaurant they owned was only a few blocks from the Hemingway House. Lunch and dinner were offered, brunch on Sundays. The designated cuisine was “heart healthy,” a menu gimmick designed to ward off the cruise-ship crowd. Clippy could be a snob at times.
    He led Yancy to a stainless-steel vat in the back of the kitchen.
    “That’s quinoa, Andrew. Please don’t tell me you’ve never had it.”
    “I eat it twice a day, sprinkled with kale.” There must have been twenty-five pounds of the stuff, which to Yancy resembled bullfrog eggs.
    “They call it a supergrain,” Clippy said dully. “It’s got lysine, B 2 and manganese, the mortal enemy of free radicals. Not to mention it’s a natural laxative—”
    “So is rum.”
    “—and totally gluten free.”
    “I love gluten. I always order extra.”
    “This is in no way funny, Andrew.”
    Yancy pointed at something in the vat. “That’s your emergency, correct?”
    Clippy nodded somberly. “We were slammed tonight. He must’ve snuck in the back door when the chef was busy. You need a bag?”
    “I brought my own, thanks.” Yancy donned a pair of latex medical gloves. Rosa had smuggled him two boxes from the E.R.
    “What kind of monster would do something like this?” Clippy said with a world-weary groan. “Neil took one look and got ill. I sent him straight home.”
    Yancy