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Razor Girl

Razor Girl

4.1 9
by Carl Hiaasen

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A lovable con woman and a disgraced detective team up to find a redneck reality TV star in this raucous and razor-sharp new novel from Carl Hiaasen, the bestselling author of Bad Monkey

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


A lovable con woman and a disgraced detective team up to find a redneck reality TV star in this raucous and razor-sharp new novel from Carl Hiaasen, the bestselling author of Bad Monkey

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. 

Now a routine promotional appearance has become a missing persons case. And Andrew Yancy, disgraced detective-turned-health inspector, is on the job. That the Razor Girl may be the key to Yancy's future will be as surprising to him as anything else he encounters along the way—including the giant Gambian pouched rats that are haunting his restaurant inspections.

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times Book Review - Terrence Rafferty
The farce machinery of Hiaasen's fiction is, as always, fearsomely elaborate, and a good part of the pleasure of Razor Girl is in the casual, no-sweat way he sets it all up. Once it's in motion, things happen fast, new people (and animals) keep turning up to play their parts in the comedy, and the whole complicated apparatus gives off a soothing hum, like a smooth-running motor on a fishing boat. You'd think the engine would overheat, but somehow it never does; it doesn't even sputter. The secret is Hiaasen's premium, high-grade comic prose, which keeps everything at the right temperature…By the end of this complicated story, some of his characters get what they want, many do not, an unfortunate few get what they deserve, and the great state of Florida remains just as it was, implacably weird. But, thanks to Carl Hiaasen, it feels kind of renourished.
The New York Times - Janet Maslin
Carl Hiaasen's irresistible Razor Girl meets his usual sky-high standards for elegance, craziness and mike-drop humor. But this election-year novel is exceptionally timely, too. It illustrates the dog-whistle effects of bigotry that take the form of entertainment, with a plot that revolves around a Duck Dynasty-type reality show, the sermons delivered by one of its stars and a crazed fan who decides to follow what he thinks are the star's teachings. Mr. Hiaasen—and probably only Mr. Hiaasen—could weave this into a book that's still so funny.
Publishers Weekly
At the start of Hiaasen’s breezy, enjoyable sequel to 2013’s Bad Monkey, Lane Coolman, a Hollywood talent agent, is driving from Miami to Key West to keep an eye on Buck Nance, star of Bayou Brethen, a reality TV show, when his rental car is rear-ended by an attractive crash-scam artist, Merry Mansfield. Coolman ends up kidnapped, while Buck incites a riot at a Key West bar. Meanwhile, a Bayou Brethren fan, desperate to impress his TV hero, goes too far when he attacks a tourist. Aided by Merry, Andrew Yancy, a lowly health inspector looking for a way to get his job back with the sheriff’s department, seizes the chance to solve a murder case in which Buck, who goes AWOL from his show, is a suspect. Add a few Gambian pouched rats, a New Jersey mobster, a businessman selling stolen sand, and reprehensible neighbors to the fast-paced plot, and readers will be hoping that Yancy and the other quirky denizens of Hiassen’s Florida will soon be back for another screwball adventure. Author tour. 300,000 first printing. Agent: Esther Newberg, ICM. (Sept.)
Library Journal
Since this is Hiaasen, expect wild characters, starting with Razor Girl (aka Merry Mansfield), perpetrator of car-crash scams and linked to Andrew Yancy, who lost his detective badge after confronting his ex-lover's husband with a Dust Buster but seeks to get it back by solving a murder. With a 300,000-copy first printing and a nine-city tour.
Kirkus Reviews
★ 2016-06-22
Rejoice, fans of American madness who've sought fulfillment in political reportage. South Florida's master farceur (Skink—No Surrender, 2014, etc.) is back to reassure you that fiction is indeed stranger than truth.Even though a prefatory note indicates that both the come-hither title and the stuff about giant Gambian pouched rats are rooted in reality, no one but Hiaasen could have dreamed up the complications arising from the collision of Merry Mansfield with talent agent Lane Coolman—a literal collision, since she rams his rented car while shaving her bikini area in the driver's seat of a Firebird. Make that multiple collisions, since Lane turns out to be only the latest victim of Merry and her partner Zeto's kidnap-for-hire schemes. In this case, he's the wrong victim, mistaken for beach-replenishment contractor Martin Trebeaux, whose swindling has put him on the wrong side of Calzone crime family capo Dominick "Big Noogie" Aeola. Since Coolman's being held captive, he can't be on hand to walk his client Buck Nance, the reality star of Bayou Brethren, though a personal appearance at the Parched Pirate, and Buck goes off script into a racist rant that sparks a demonstration and sends him fleeing, though he's still capable of inspiring Benny Krill, a murderous apprentice racist who dreams of joining him on his show. After laboring in vain to persuade Jon David Ampergrodt, his boss at Platinum Artists Management, as well as Merry and Zeto that he's worth ransoming, Coolman escapes, but it doesn't matter: he's still confined in the zoo that's Key West, where liability lawyer Brock Richardson's fiancee loses the $200,000 ring he didn't bother to resize after his fatter former fiancee returned it, and when his neighbor, health inspector Andrew Yancy, discovers it, he hides it in the hummus in the hope that an indefinite search for the bauble will stall Richardson's plan to build a McMansion that will obstruct Yancy's sea view. Etc. How can Hiaasen possibly tie together all this monkey business in the end? His delirious plotting is so fine-tuned that preposterous complications that would strain lesser novelists fit right into his antic world. Relax, enjoy, and marvel anew at the power of unbridled fictional invention.
From the Publisher
“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

Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
6.40(w) x 9.40(h) x 1.30(d)

Read an Excerpt


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 a lift?”

“Why not,” Coolman said, the worst mistake he would ever make.

At Mile Marker 22, Merry told him her last name was Mansfield, like the bombshell actress of the Fifties. Coolman stopped at a Circle K where he got a cup of coffee and Merry bought three eight-hour energy drinks, chugging the little purple bottles one after the other.

“You running a marathon?” Coolman asked.

“I’m all about performance.”

At Mile Marker 17, she told him she didn’t really work for an escort service.

“Wild guess—you’re a dancer,” he said.

“On my own time,” she replied. “Not one of those.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“Why didn’t you just say stripper? The games you guys play, I swear.” Her eyelashes were a paler shade of red than her hair.

Coolman said, “Why would you make up a lie about being an escort?”

“ ’Cause I needed a ride, Bob. If I said I was an artifacts appraiser you would’ve left me standing in the road.”

“What is it you appraise?”

“Sunken treasure. Doubloons and cannonballs and so forth. Business is slow right now. I’m an expert on eighteenth-century Spanish maritime.”

“Do you have a real date, or did you make up that part, too?”

Merry laughed. “He’s an Air Force pilot based at Boca Chica. Why else would I be doin’ my trim at sixty-five miles per hour?”

At Mile Marker 8, she blurted, “Did I say Air Force? I meant Navy.” She was buzzing like a flagpole in a lightning storm. “His name’s Rocky.”

“What about your husband?”

“He’s a Rocky, too.”

“Stop,” said Coolman.

“Don’t be judging me. I go for men with strong names.”

The closer they got to Key West, the more Southern her accent became. Coolman was foolishly intrigued.

“What about you?” she said. “What’s your field, Bob? Your expertise.”

“I’m in the entertainment business. I manage talent.”

“Your own, or somebody else’s?”

“Ever seen the show Bayou Brethren?” Coolman asked.

“Little Rocky watches it all the time.”

“That’s your son? Little Rocky?”

“No, it’s what I call my husband. Don’t make me spell out why.”

“Anyway, I manage Buck. You know—the family patriarch? Buck Nance.”

“No shit?”

“Leader of the clan,” said Coolman.

“Yeah, Bob, I know what a fucking patriarch is.”

The show was taped in the Florida Panhandle at a swampy location that somewhat resembled a Louisiana bayou. Buck Nance and his brothers were actually from Wisconsin, but the network paid for a Cajun dialogue coach.

Merry said, “So what brings you all the way down here?”

“Buck has a personal appearance.”


“Parched Pirate.”

“Doing what?”

“Just being Buck.”

Coolman hoped the guitar player had found the bar. Buck Nance had trouble speaking in public unless he was accompanied by a live musician. For his road gigs the writers at the network had come up with eight or nine amusing redneck stories, what you might call a monologue, and afterward Buck would take questions for ten minutes or so. The questions were printed on index cards distributed in advance to random fuckwits in the crowd.

Coolman offered to take Merry to the show. “We’ll hang backstage,” he added. Like there was a backstage.

“What about my date?” she asked.

“Bail,” Coolman said. “Tell him the truth—you had car trouble.”

“But then I shaved down there for no reason.”

“Not necessarily.”

The redhead smiled and shook her head. “For the Zac Brown Band I’d ditch my Navy boy in a heartbeat, but not for some yahoo from the bayou.”

“It’s only the top-rated cable program in the whole country.”

“I prefer the nature channels. You know—penguins and cheetahs. Shit like that.”

“Buck converted his Bentley to an ATV with rifle racks.”

“Why would a grown man do something so ridiculous?”

“America worships the guy. You should come hear him tonight.”

“Another time,” said Merry.

At Mile Marker 5, she made a call on her cell phone. All she said was, “Don’t wet yourself, sugar. I’m almost there.”

At Mile Marker 4, after they’d crossed the bridge into Key West, she flipped open the visor mirror and checked her makeup. Freshened her lipstick. Brushed her hair.

“You look terrific,” said Coolman.

“Damn right, Bob.”

At Mile Marker 3, she exclaimed, “Okay, pull in here!”

It was a small shopping center with a Sears as the high point. Merry directed Coolman where to park. He was surprised when a white Tesla rolled up beside them.

“That’s your boyfriend?” Coolman knew a couple of CAA agents back in L.A. who drove jet-black Teslas. The white model looked pretty sweet. Coolman himself leased a corpuscle-red Mercedes SLK 350 that required no electric outlet.

“I thought you said he didn’t have wheels.”

Merry shrugged. “Must be a loaner.”

The young man who got out of the Tesla was wearing a leather bomber jacket. If not for the gold earring and oily long hair he could have been a Navy pilot.

“It was nice meeting you,” Coolman said to the redhead.

“Oh, you’re coming with.”

“Me? What for?”

The man in the bomber jacket yanked open Coolman’s door and put a pistol to his neck.

“Let’s go, dipshit.”

“Just take my wallet,” Coolman said, breathless. “The Rolex, too, whatever you want.”

“You’re adorable, Bob,” the woman whispered. “Now get out of the fucking car.”


Meet the Author

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.


Brief Biography

Tavernier, Florida
Place of Birth:
South Florida
Emory University; B.A., University of Florida, 1974

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Razor Girl: A novel 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Love Carl Hiassen's books and if it was up to me, he would be forced to write 24/7. "Razor Girl" brings back disgraced former cop, now restaurant inspector Andrew Yancy from "Bad Monkey". Still trying to get his badge back, Yancy once again finds himself in the middle of a twisted scenario that could only come from Hiassen's insanely entertaining mind. Fantastically funny, as always!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
So funny I couldn't put it down, even during the event 7th game of the World Series!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
With a hilarious cast of characters and crazy plot line, this is Hiaasen at his funniest. I was sorry it had to end.
Anonymous 3 months ago
Like his other books, this one is pure brain candy. He has a nack for taking oddball characters and weaving them into a carnival ride of a read.
Anonymous 11 months ago
WriteReason More than 1 year ago
A fancifully entertaining book! A good read when you want something different, and amusing.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Razor Girl is a good read - a fun read, in fact. However, it is not a page turner and one really doesn't care how it ends.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago