NATIONAL BESTSELLER • A lovable con woman and a disgraced detective team up to find a redneck reality TV star in this raucous new novel from the New York Times bestselling author of Squeeze Me . “Carl Hiaasen’s irresistible Razor Girl meets his usual sky-high standards for elegance, craziness and mike-drop humor.” — The New York Times Merry Mansfield, the eponymous Razor Girl, specializes in kidnapping for the mob. Her preferred method is rear-ending her targets and asking them for a ride. Her latest mark is Martin Trebeaux, owner of a private beach renourishment company who has delivered substandard sand to a mob hotel. But there's just one problem: Razor Girl hits the wrong guy. Instead, she ends up with Lane Coolman, talent manager for Buck Nance, the star of a reality TV show about a family of Cajun rooster farmers. Buck Nance, left to perform standup at a Key West bar without his handler, makes enough off-color jokes to incite a brawl, then flees for his life and vanishes. “Carl Hiaasen’s irresistible Razor Girl meets his usual sky-high standards for elegance, craziness and mike-drop humor.” — The New York Times “Vintage Hiaasen, in the very best way: darkly funny, unapologetically crazy, and more Florida than a flamingo eating a Cuban sandwich while singing a Jimmy Buffett song.” —NPR Books “Raucous ... It’s a classic Hiaasen setup, and Razor Girl delivers on it with seasoned, professional ease.” — The Washington Post “One of the wildest, funniest Hiaasen novels yet.” — The Daily News “In Florida it’s usually too hot to move very fast, but Carl Hiaasen, a native son of the Sunshine State, likes to hit the ground running.... The secret is Hiaasen’s premium, high-grade comic prose, which keeps everything at the right temperature. In Florida, you have to know how to stay cool.” — The New York Times Book Review CARL HIAASEN was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of thirteen previous novels, including the best sellers Bad Monkey, Star Island, Nature Girl, Skinny Dip, Sick Puppy, and Lucky You, and five best-selling children’s books, Hoot, Flush, Scat, Chomp, and Skink. His most recent work of nonfiction is Dance of the Reptiles, a collection of his columns from The Miami Herald.   www.carlhiaasen.com   CHAPTER ONE On the first day of February, sunny but cold as a frog’s balls, a man named Lane Coolman stepped off a flight at Miami International, rented a mainstream Buick and headed south to meet a man in Key West. He nearly made it. Twenty-seven miles from Coolman’s destination, an old green Firebird bashed his car from behind. The impact failed to trigger the Buick’s airbags, but Coolman heard the rear bumper dragging. He steered off the highway and dialed 911. In the mirror he saw the Firebird, its grille crimped and steaming, pull onto the shoulder. Ahead stood a sign that read: “Ramrod Key.” Coolman went to check on the other driver, a woman in her mid-thirties with red hair. “Super-duper sorry,” she said. “What the hell happened?” “Just a nick. Barely bleeding.” She held her phone in one hand and a disposable razor in the other. “Are you out of your mind?” said Coolman. The driver’s jeans and panties were bunched around her knees. She’d been shaving herself when she smashed Coolman’s rental car. “I got a date,” she explained. “You couldn’t take care of that at home?” “No way! My husband would get so pissed.” “Unreal,” said Coolman. The woman was wearing a maroon fleece jacket and rhinestone flip-flops. On her pale thigh was the razor mark. “How about a little privacy?” she said. “I’m not quite done here.” Coolman walked back to the Buick and called the man he was supposed to meet in Key West. “I’ll be a few minutes late. You’re not gonna believe what just happened,” he said on the man’s voicemail, leaving it at that. The cops arrived and wrote up the red-haired pube shaver for careless driving. Naturally, she had no collision insurance; that would be Avis’s problem, not Lane Coolman’s. A tow truck hauled away the Firebird, which needed a new front end including a radiator. The woman approached Coolman and asked for a ride. “Tell your ‘date’ to come get you,” he said. One of the police officers had pried the damaged bumper from the Buick, and Coolman was trying to fit it into the backseat. “He doesn’t have a car,” said the woman, who’d buttoned her jeans. She was attractive in a loose and scattered way. Coolman had a weakness for redheads. “See, I work for an escort service. We go to where the client’s at,” she said. “Yes, I understand the concept.” The woman’s fleece was unzipped and beneath it she wore a black sequined top. Her toes must be freezing in those flip-flops, Coolman thought; the temperature was 55 degrees with a biting north wind, arctic conditions for the Florida Keys. “My name’s Merry,” she said, “spelled like Merry Christmas.” “My name’s Bob,” said Coolman, “spelled like Bob.” “Does that mean you’ll give me