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Carl Hiaasen : Razor Girl: A novel before purchasing it in order to gage whether or not it would be worth my time, and all praised Razor Girl: A novel:

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. blinded by the skirt hikerBy Russell E. ScottStar Island or Skink were the last novels by Carl Hiaasen I read. Can't really remember when that was. Up to that point I read all his novels on their release starting w/ and became an avid fan. He didn't fall out of favor so much. It's just I quit reading as much as/or changed the genre and substance of what got my time. Then like a flash I remembered, "what has Carl been up to". Razor Girl seemed a better pick than Bad Monkey so here I arrive...... the story took a little bit to hook me since so many cast were being introduced early on as fast as they could. I trudged on and once they seemed to settle in or get sifted off, the story settled down and I really liked the madcap comedy and interaction of the reaming dozen or so characters. Merry Mansfield as Razor Girl seemed as hip a chick as you would be lucky to meet. I like the action all located in the keys, plus the ex - cop looking for his badge back. I wouldn't consider this a return to the pentacle, but a worthy release worth my time, investment. You can't hit 100% every outing but this came in with positive big smiles. I really, really like the pairing of Yancy and Merry. Plus the backdrop of Wisconsin band of brothers going from cajun music into reality TV chicken coop goobers. Enjoy.0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Like All the Others - Light and Entertainig.By Wayne A. SmithRazor Girl is pure Carl Hiassen, at least judging by the previous four novels of his I have read."The" Razor Girl is another femme fatal charachter from the author of South Floridian sex-fueled suspense-comedies (is that even a category?). She has a memorable strategy for kidnapping that would allow one to quickly identify other Hiassen fans in any room by uttering the phrase "Razor Girl," or attaching that attribute to any descendants of Eve in the vicinity.In addition to the RZ, the cast of characters includes a -like family of invented cable bayou dwellers, their Hollywood entourage, mobsters (gotta like the name Big Noogie), and the returning Food-Inspector (and former detective) Andrew Yancy. Murder fuels the plot and in Hiassen style, all the story lines converge by the end of the tale. Funny, crude and filled with memorable if one-dimensional characters. The definition of escapist reading.1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Read because it is Hiaasen but it is different.By LarryI have read all of Hiaasen's books. I must confess this one is a little different. I am not really sure what word I am looking for but the book is a bit dark. There seems to me a lot of negativity. Many of Hiaasen's book move around and you feel like you are leaning about Florida, this book kind of stayed in one location. I usually enjoy books that have a multiple story line that weaves in and out. I did get that same feeling with this book, it seemed more like multiple story lines that stood alone. Though it was not my favorite book, I will read the next Hiaasen with anticipation. 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 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 waymdash;including the giant Gambian pouched rats that are haunting his restaurant inspections. ldquo;Carl Hiaasenrsquo;s irresistiblenbsp;Razor Girlnbsp;meets his usual sky-high standards for elegance, craziness and mike-drop humor.rdquo; mdash;The New York Timesldquo;Vintage Hiaasen, in the very best way: darkly funny, unapologetically crazy, and more Florida than a flamingo eating a Cuban sandwich while singing a song.rdquo; mdash;NPR Booksldquo;Raucous . . . Itrsquo;s a classic Hiaasen setup, andnbsp;Razor Girlnbsp;delivers on it with seasoned, professional ease.rdquo; mdash;The Washington Postldquo;One of the wildest, funniest Hiaasen novels yet.rdquo; mdash;The Daily Newsldquo;In Florida itrsquo;s usually too hot to move very fast, but Carl Hiaasen, a native son of the Sunshine State, likes to hit the ground running.nbsp;. . . The secret is Hiaasenrsquo;s premium, high-grade comic prose, which keeps everything at the right temperature. In Florida, you have to know how to stay cool.rdquo; mdash; The New York Times Book About the AuthorCARL HIAASEN was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of thirteen previous novels, including the best sellers Bad Monkey, , , , , and , and five best-selling childrenrsquo;s books, , , Scat, , and Skink. His most recent work of nonfiction is Dance of the Reptiles, a collection of his columns from The Miami Herald. nbsp; www.carlhiaasen.comnbsp;Excerpt. copy; Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.CHAPTER ONEOn the first day of February, sunny but cold as a frogrsquo;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 Coolmanrsquo;s destination, an old green Firebird bashed his car from behind. The impact failed to trigger the Buickrsquo;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: ldquo;Ramrod Key.rdquo;Coolman went to check on the other driver, a woman in her mid-thirties with red hair.ldquo;Super-duper sorry,rdquo; she said.ldquo;What the hell happened?rdquo;ldquo;Just a nick. Barely bleeding.rdquo; She held her phone in one hand and a disposable razor in the other.ldquo;Are you out of your mind?rdquo; said Coolman.The driverrsquo;s jeans and panties were bunched around her knees. Shersquo;d been shaving herself when she smashed Coolmanrsquo;s rental car.ldquo;I got a date,rdquo; she explained.ldquo;You couldnrsquo;t take care of that at home?rdquo;ldquo;No way! My husband would get so pissed.rdquo;ldquo;Unreal,rdquo; said Coolman.The woman was wearing a maroon fleece jacket and rhinestone flip- flops. On her pale thigh was the razor mark.ldquo;How about a little privacy?rdquo; she said. ldquo;Irsquo;m not quite done here.rdquo;Coolman walked back to the Buick and called the man he was supposed to meet in Key West. ldquo;Irsquo;ll be a few minutes late. Yoursquo;re not gonna believe what just happened,rdquo; he said on the manrsquo;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 Avisrsquo;s problem, not Lane Coolmanrsquo;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.ldquo;Tell your lsquo;datersquo; to come get you,rdquo; 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.ldquo;He doesnrsquo;t have a car,rdquo; said the woman, whorsquo;d buttoned her jeans. She was attractive in a loose and scattered way. Coolman had a weakness for redheads.ldquo;See, I work for an escort service. We go to where the clientrsquo;s at,rdquo; she said.ldquo;Yes, I understand the concept.rdquo;The womanrsquo;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.ldquo;My namersquo;s Merry,rdquo; she said, ldquo;spelled like Merry Christmas.rdquo;ldquo;My namersquo;s Bob,rdquo; said Coolman, ldquo;spelled like Bob.rdquo;ldquo;Does that mean yoursquo;ll give me a lift?rdquo;ldquo;Why not,rdquo; 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.ldquo;You running a marathon?rdquo; Coolman asked.ldquo;Irsquo;m all about performance.rdquo;At Mile Marker 17, she told him she didnrsquo;t really work for an escort service.ldquo;Wild guessmdash;yoursquo;re a dancer,rdquo; he said.ldquo;On my own time,rdquo; she replied. ldquo;Not one of those.rdquo;ldquo;I didnrsquo;t mean it in a bad way.rdquo;ldquo;Why didnrsquo;t you just say stripper? The games you guys play, I swear.rdquo; Her eyelashes were a paler shade of red than her hair.Coolman said, ldquo;Why would you make up a lie about being an escort?rdquo;ldquo;thinsp;rsquo;Cause I needed a ride, Bob. If I said I was an artifacts appraiser you wouldrsquo;ve left me standing in the road.rdquo;ldquo;What is it you appraise?rdquo;ldquo;Sunken treasure. Doubloons and cannonballs and so forth. Business is slow right now. Irsquo;m an expert on eighteenth-century Spanish maritime.rdquo;ldquo;Do you have a real date, or did you make up that part, too?rdquo;Merry laughed. ldquo;Hersquo;s an Air Force pilot based at Boca Chica. Why else would I be doinrsquo; my trim at sixty-five miles per hour?rdquo;At Mile Marker 8, she blurted, ldquo;Did I say Air Force? I meant Navy.rdquo; She was buzzing like a flagpole in a lightning storm. ldquo;His namersquo;s Rocky.rdquo;ldquo;What about your husband?rdquo;ldquo;Hersquo;s a Rocky, too.rdquo;ldquo;Stop,rdquo; said Coolman.ldquo;Donrsquo;t be judging me. I go for men with strong names.rdquo;The closer they got to Key West, the more Southern her accent became. Coolman was foolishly intrigued.ldquo;What about you?rdquo; she said. ldquo;Whatrsquo;s your field, Bob? Your expertise.rdquo;ldquo;Irsquo;m in the entertainment business. I manage talent.rdquo;ldquo;Your own, or somebody elsersquo;s?rdquo;ldquo;Ever seen the show Bayou Brethren?rdquo; Coolman asked.ldquo;Little Rocky watches it all the time.rdquo;ldquo;Thatrsquo;s your son? Little Rocky?rdquo;ldquo;No, itrsquo;s what I call my husband. Donrsquo;t make me spell out why.rdquo;ldquo;Anyway, I manage Buck. You knowmdash;the family patriarch? Buck Nance.rdquo;ldquo;No shit?rdquo;ldquo;Leader of the clan,rdquo; said Coolman.ldquo;Yeah, Bob, I know what a fucking patriarch is.rdquo;The show was taped in the Florida Panhandle at a swampy location that somewhat resembled a bayou. Buck Nance and his brothers were actually from Wisconsin, but the network paid for a Cajun dialogue coach.Merry said, ldquo;So what brings you all the way down here?rdquo;ldquo;Buck has a personal appearance.rdquo;ldquo;Where?rdquo;ldquo;Parched Pirate.rdquo;ldquo;Doing what?rdquo;ldquo;Just being Buck.rdquo;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. ldquo;Wersquo;ll hang backstage,rdquo; he added. Like there was a backstage.ldquo;What about my date?rdquo; she asked.ldquo;Bail,rdquo; Coolman said. ldquo;Tell him the truthmdash;you had car trouble.rdquo;ldquo;But then I shaved down there for no reason.rdquo;ldquo;Not necessarily.rdquo;The redhead smiled and shook her head. ldquo;For the Zac Brown Band Irsquo;d ditch my Navy boy in a heartbeat, but not for some yahoo from the bayou.rdquo;ldquo;Itrsquo;s only the top-rated cable program in the whole country.rdquo;ldquo;I prefer the nature channels. You knowmdash;penguins and cheetahs. Shit like that.rdquo;ldquo;Buck converted his Bentley to an ATV with rifle racks.rdquo;ldquo;Why would a grown man do something so ridiculous?rdquo;ldquo;America worships the guy. You should come hear him tonight.rdquo;ldquo;Another time,rdquo; said Merry.At Mile Marker 5, she made a call on her cell phone. All she said was, ldquo;Donrsquo;t wet yourself, sugar. Irsquo;m almost there.rdquo;At Mile Marker 4, after theyrsquo;d crossed the bridge into Key West, she flipped open the visor mirror and checked her makeup. Freshened her lipstick. Brushed her hair.ldquo;You look terrific,rdquo; said Coolman.ldquo;Damn right, Bob.rdquo;At Mile Marker 3, she exclaimed, ldquo;Okay, pull in here!rdquo;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.ldquo;Thatrsquo;s your boyfriend?rdquo; 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.ldquo;I thought you said he didnrsquo;t have wheels.rdquo;Merry shrugged. ldquo;Must be a loaner.rdquo;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.ldquo;It was nice meeting you,rdquo; Coolman said to the redhead.ldquo;Oh, yoursquo;re coming with.rdquo;ldquo;Me? What for?rdquo;The man in the bomber jacket yanked open Coolmanrsquo;s door and put a pistol to his neck.ldquo;Letrsquo;s go, dipshit.rdquo;ldquo;Just take my wallet,rdquo; Coolman said, breathless. ldquo;The Rolex, too, whatever you want.rdquo;ldquo;Yoursquo;re adorable, Bob,rdquo; the woman whispered. ldquo;Now get out of the fucking car.rdquo;

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