Razor Girl by Carl Hiaasen

hadn’t already fled the Keys. Possibly he’d lost a screw and turned paranoid after the uprising at the Parched Pirate. Nor could a drunken jag be ruled out, though it wouldn’t explain the shoplifting spree. Another possibility was that Buck’s “disappearance” had been a manufactured drama, a fake breakdown meant to mitigate his controversial performance at the bar. TV psychiatrists would be happy to theorize that poor Buck had cracked under the pressure of starring in a hit show, that his self-destructive outburst was the proverbial cry for help. Later he would be found in calculated dishevelment, a squinting haggard figure hustled away by family members in a cortege of anthracite SUVs. A hushed period of rehab would be followed by a weepy public contrition, always a ratings booster.
    It was all speculation because, at this point, Yancy knew nothing about the man’s motives or his state of mind. Over beers at Pepe’s, Rogelio Burton informed him that Buck’s real name was Matthew Romberg.
    “Fantastic!” Yancy exclaimed. “I love it.”
    “He and the brethren are from Wisconsin, of all places. They had an accordion band, I swear to God. Nobody’s supposed to know. There were some videos on the Internet but they all got yanked, once the boys signed their TV contract.”
    “But I watched the show. They all talk Cajun, sort of.”
    “Big deal. You should hear my Ringo Starr, and I’ve never set foot in Liverpool.”
    Yancy told Burton about the string of lame shopliftings, and the witnesses’ description of the suspect.
    “That could be half the bums on the island,” the detective remarked.
    The waitress brought an order of fried plantains. While eating, Burton delivered a mild lecture about Yancy firing a twelve-gauge shotgun in front of civilians.
    “Hey, it’s perfectly legal,” Yancy asserted. “Guy down the street from me has a pistol range in his backyard! All I did was murder a few beer bottles.”
    “Sonny found out. He’s not thrilled.”
    “Who the hell told him?” Yancy feared that the Stella massacre would be added to the file of perceived fuckups that the sheriff unsheathed whenever Yancy came pleading for reinstatement.
    Burton said, “One of the dudes you scared shitless is a lawyer from Miami named Brock Richardson. He’s got ads all over TV, which doesn’t mean anything except that Sonny’s heard of him.”
    “He bought the lot next door. Wants to build a McMansion for his girlfriend who, by the way, offered me a BJ.”
    Burton nodded. “I get that all the time.”
    “No, she really did. You’ll be proud to know I declined.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I want to stay faithful to Rosa,” said Yancy.
    “No, asshole, I meant why did this total stranger offer you sex?”
    “Who knows. Maybe it’s just her way of being neighborly.”
    “A carrot cake is neighborly,” Burton said. “A blowjob is a plan.”
    Yancy didn’t tell his friend that Deb wanted him to help find her lost diamond, which happened to be hidden inside his refrigerator. He knew that, like Rosa, Burton would advise him to return the ring as soon as possible.
    “Tell me about this ace attorney,” Yancy said.
    “He’s way too important to dial 911, so he calls up Sonny’s office direct, screaming that some crazy bastard’s shootin’ up Big Pine Key.”
    “How did this jackoff pass the bar if he doesn’t even know the firearms statutes?”
    “As usual, you’re missing the point.”
    “Well, guess what? This is Florida, the land of batshit, trigger-happy motherfuckers. Love it or leave it is what I say.”
    “Dial it down, Andrew, if you want your badge back. That’s the takeaway.” Burton ate the last plantain, pushed the plate to the side and ordered a cup of coffee.
    Yancy said, “Does he really want to live next door to a whack job like me? That’s what this guy ought to be asking himself.”
    “Or he could just go to a gun show and buy a bigger cannon than yours. It
is
Florida, like you