Razor Girl by Carl Hiaasen Page B

play, you pay.’ I told him he’s got three business days to bring me the rest of the cash he owes, otherwise I’m totally pawning that thing.”
    Burton said, “You’re positive that it’s not the person in the sketch or photograph?”
    Giselle cackled. “Not unless he fell asleep on a tanning bed for about six months.”
    “Your gentleman acquaintance was of dark complexion?”
    “Very much so. He said he found the money clip just layin’ in the dirt under one of those big trees on Whitehead, which I’m so sure.”
    “Ever seen him before?” Yancy asked.
    “He buses tables at the Bull. Name’s Winchell.”
    Yancy slipped the silver clip into his pocket. “Police evidence,” he said to Giselle. “Sorry.”
    “Yo, wait—how do you even know it’s the same Captain Cock?” She glared indignantly at Burton, who laid down another fifty.
    “If Winchell comes back,” he said, “tell him I need to speak with him right away. Give him my cell number.”
    “Oh right, he’ll be so chatty.” Giselle stooped to put on a pair of nosebleed heels. She glanced up at Yancy and said, “Quit starin’ at my tits, Inspector.”
    “I’m not staring.” And he wasn’t, either. He was practically a hundred percent certain.
    “Make him stop,” Giselle said to Burton, who laughed.
    “Don’t you be flirtin’ with my boy. He’s got enough problems.”
    Back in the car Burton told Yancy to give him the money clip.
    “Don’t worry, Rog, I’m not gonna lose it.”
    “Hand it over. I need something to show the sheriff.”
    “So he’ll think you’re hot on the trail, right?”
    “Just give me the damn thing,” Burton said.
    Yancy reached over and attached the silver piece to the driver’s-side visor so that the inscription was visible.
    “What if winsome Giselle is right?”
    Burton, who was wrestling a balky seat belt, said, “You mean if there’s more than one Captain Cock?”
    “It’s Key West, Rog. There might be a franchise.”
    “I’m gonna drop by Sonny’s office and fill him in on what we’ve got. What
I’ve
got.”
    “Good old Sonny,” Yancy said. “It’ll be nice to see him.”
    “You’re not coming.”
    “What could it hurt? Just a quick hello.”
    Burton cut the wheel hard and pulled away from the curb in a manner that ended the conversation.
    “Then drop me on Duval,” said Yancy. “Now that Rosa’s bid farewell, Buck Nance is my new obsession.”
    “Why don’t you go home and lie around feeling sorry for yourself until she comes back? Tell Lombardo you can’t work because you caught hantavirus from breathing all those rat hairs. Drink heavily. Smoke too much dope. Sleep late and don’t bathe. I’ll swing by to check your pulse every few days.”
    “The human bloodhound is what they call me.”
    “A pain in the sphincter is what they call you. Please don’t screw up my case.”
    Yancy stepped out of the car at the corner. “You’ll be the first to know when I track down this character,” he said to Burton. “Keep your ringer on, amigo.”
    —
    Winchell wasn’t working at the Bull that night, but the barmaid gave Yancy an address in Bahama Village. It was Winchell’s wife who answered the door. In a clamorous scrum behind her Yancy counted four small kids. Winchell emerged from a back room wearing a towel and a frown. He looked much older than his wife and stood at least six-two, though his arms were thin and his gut was flabby.
    “Who are you, man? Get outta my house.”
    “Police business,” said Yancy, which was true enough. It was police business to which he was contributing his expertise, solicited or not. “Put on some clothes and let’s take a walk.”
    Winchell did what he was told and never asked to see a badge, so convincing was Yancy’s cop-like comportment. Nor did Mrs. Winchell raise a challenge as her husband was led out the door, instead scalding him with a glare that made clear she presumed him guilty of any and all accusations.
    Yancy waited