Bad Monkey

Nineteen

Claspers thought it was crazy to leave the Caravan chocked on the tarmac at Moxey’s in the path of a hurricane. He wanted to fly it back to Florida, but Christopher Grunion said no way, amigo, are you stranding me and my old lady on this fly-turd island. When Claspers had suggested they all leave Andros before the storm drew close, Grunion said he and Eve weren’t going anywhere. He said their house was built like a goddamn fortress.

“Where I’m staying, it’s a death trap,” Claspers had remarked.

Either Grunion hadn’t gotten the hint, or he didn’t want Claspers as a guest. In any event, Claspers was stuck. Maybe the storm would miss Lizard Cay entirely, or maybe it would smash the place head-on, in which case that lovely seaplane would end up as scrap aluminum.

Claspers said, “But what do I know, sweetie? I’m only the pilot.”

“Yeah, mon, dot’s you. Sky King.” The pretty bartender brought him his third drink of the evening.

“Is it still a Category Two?”

“Dey say trey, mebbe four.”

“Lively,” muttered Claspers.

The wind clawed at the palm thatching over the conch shack. No music was playing but the radio remained the center of attention because it was tuned to the Nassau weather station. The gusty conditions had disabled most of the TV dishes in Rocky Town—Claspers had seen one lying upturned in the roadway—and many residents seeking storm updates had come to the outdoor restaurant. The young Androsians, who’d never been through a hurricane, laughed and joked. The older ones positioned themselves closer to the radio and kept their voices low. Françoise was reported to be roaring along the Exuma chains; even if Andros escaped a direct hit, the island would take a battering. By daybreak it would be over.

Claspers held his glass with both hands, admiring the miniature wavelets on the coppery surface of the scotch. He was one of a half dozen white customers, including the rangy American he’d met at Moxey’s airport. Andrew, the fly fisherman. Sitting next to him at the bar was a Latin woman who probably smelled as heavenly as she looked. Claspers had a serious buzz going, a down-island buzz.

The woman at the fisherman’s side made Claspers think of another beauty he knew in Barranquilla, back in the old times, a woman he would have married if she hadn’t already had a husband and if the husband hadn’t been a macho hothead who liked to shoot people in the mouth.

Which Claspers well knew because he was working for the man at the time, running loads of grass up to South Bimini.

Donna had been the wife’s name. By now she’d be in her fifties and more lovely than ever. A few years ago Claspers picked up a rumor that her husband was machine-gunned on his way to a bordello, which is what happens when you hire a half-wit cousin to armor your Escalade. On some nights Claspers fantasized about flying back to Colombia, showing up at Donna’s doorstep with a grin, a hard-on and a bottle of Dom. The airstrip he remembered well, and also the Moorish-style villa at the north end; in particular, a second-floor bedroom with a balcony overlooking the valley.

To the bartender Claspers said: “Buy those two sweethearts a round on me.”

Afterward the couple returned the gesture and motioned for the pilot to move down the bar and join them. Andrew introduced the Latin woman as his wife, Rosa, and said she’d arrived on a flight that afternoon.

Claspers chuckled. “Your timing sucks, no offense.”

“Oh, we’ll find something to do,” Rosa said. “You ever flown through a hurricane?”

“Naw, but I’ve slept through a few. It’s easier than you think.” Claspers took a hearty sip, demonstrating his pre-storm preparations.

The woman said she was a surgeon. “Hopefully nobody’ll get hurt, but I always travel with a kit of instruments.”

“On this island,” said the pilot, “that makes you the whole freaking hospital.”

Somebody turned up the radio. The somber voice from Nassau reported that Hurricane Françoise was now “packing” winds of 105 miles per hour. Movement of the storm continued north-northwest.

The fisherman set a hand on Claspers’s shoulder. “Can I ask you something? We heard your boss is the one who’s building Curly Tail Lane. Grunion is his name?”

“That’s him,” said Claspers.

Leaning in close, Rosa confided that she and her husband were looking to buy in the Bahamas. “Andrew really loves this place,” she added, “and I do, too.”

“You should see it when the sun comes out.”

“Point is,” the husband went on, “do you think Mr. Grunion would mind if you introduced him to a potential customer?”

“I think Mr. Grunion would be fucking thrilled.”

“We’d rather not deal with any Bay Street realtors. And we’d be paying cash, if that matters.”

“Cash is never bad.” Claspers liked these people, and briefly he considered telling them the truth: that Grunion’s resort project wasn’t exactly advancing at a breakneck pace; that Grunion was still getting hassled and tossed by the bureaucrats in Nassau; that a vandal had targeted the job site; that only two other buyers—one from Taiwan and the other from Dubai—had put down actual deposits for time-share units.

However, even in a semi-trashed condition the pilot perceived there might be something juicy in it for himself, a commission from the boss, if a sale was forthcoming. Who was Claspers to stand between this earnest young couple and their balmy vision of paradise?

Rosa said, “What about tonight? It’s not raining anymore.”

Claspers cast a skeptical eye skyward. There would be a few hours of lull until the next storm band, but he wasn’t in the deferential mode necessary to deal with Grunion. “Now’s not a real good time,” he said.

The man shrugged one shoulder. “We’ll be on the first plane outta here after the hurricane. I got the whole damn trust committee waiting on me back in Boca. Maybe it’ll work out on another trip, if there’s anything left of this place.”

Claspers stood up. “Let me make a quick call. Sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Gates,” said Yancy, “as in cousin Bill.” He flinched when Rosa jabbed his ribs.

The pilot didn’t notice. He took out a waterproof radio phone and stepped through the puddles toward the tall pile of conch shells by the boat ramp. Eve, the girlfriend, answered on the other end. After listening to Claspers’s pitch, she accused him of being wasted.

“What are you doing? There’s a hurricane coming, you idiot.”

“It’s just I think these folks are for real. I didn’t want Mr. Grunion to miss a good opportunity is all.”

“How would you know if they’re real or not?”

Claspers said, “I didn’t know such things, I woulda been dead a long time ago.”

Thinking: Jesus, I am drunk.

Next Grunion got on the line and chewed him out.

“Okay. Forget I called,” the pilot said.

“This guy, so where does he get his money?”

Claspers told him about the trust-committee remark. “His name is Andrew Gates, as in Bill.”

“Horseshit,” Grunion said.

“Fine, I’m going back to the tiki bar. See you after the apocalypse.”

“Wait, tell me about the wife.”

“Cuban girl, a solid nine-point-eight out of ten. Rosa’s her name. Seems super smart.”

“They all seem smart when you’re toasted.”

“Not all of ’em, trust me,” Claspers said with a damp hack. “This one’s a doctor.”

“Whatever. You think you can find the house or should I send Egg down?”

“Christ, don’t send Egg.”

When the pilot returned to the bar, he informed the couple that the meeting with Grunion was on. “If we can find a damn cab,” he said.

Andrew said no problem and waved to a fellow in a Rasta cap who was playing dominoes at a side table. “That’s Philip, my wheelman.”

Claspers recognized him from the regulars at the airport. Philip was unenthusiastic about making the run to Bannister Point, but a twenty-dollar bill from Andrew improved his outlook.

The taxi van was parked in the fluttering halo of a streetlight. Claspers sat down in the second row and Mrs. Gates got in beside him. Her husband, the fly fisherman, didn’t.

“What’s up?” Claspers asked.

“Rosa’s taking it from here. For now I’d prefer to hang back. Don’t worry—she knows what’s what in the real estate game.”

The pilot grunted. “Mr. Grunion will be pissed.”

“Mr. Grunion will have his hands full.” The fisherman winked and shut the door.

Philip stomped the accelerator and off they went. Claspers sipped from a go-cup and chatted with Mrs. Gates and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the ride.

It had been Rosa’s idea to meet the couple alone because Yancy couldn’t possibly accompany her. Nick Stripling’s widow would recognize him face-to-face. Yancy hadn’t argued about Rosa’s decision though he should have. Possibly his judgment had been softened by tequila; Rosa had brought a bottle of Cuervo from Miami, and they’d had a celebratory taste in the motel room while she treated his monkey wounds. She’d been so jazzed about getting a chance to play cop, selecting for the occasion a pair of egregious Christian Louboutin sandals that were certain to catch Eve’s eye and establish Rosa as a serious shopper for condos.

“Go big or go home,” Rosa had said. “That’s my motto.” For earrings she’d chosen teardrops of pure jade, a past-life gift about which Yancy knew better than to inquire.

The plan was far from foolproof, but the start had been promising. It didn’t take an FBI profiler to predict that Grunion’s lonesome pilot would be down at the conch shack—where else in Rocky Town would he go when grounded by weather?

As for Grunion’s receptivity to a cold call, Yancy had counted on a condition known among developers as acute hurricane anxiety. If Françoise flattened Lizard Cay, the Curly Tail Lane project would be in deep trouble. Grunion would have a wretched time trying to attract new buyers—especially those willing to overpay, a key demographic in the vacation-home market. Hurricanes being only slightly less damaging to real estate values than volcanic eruptions and leaky nuclear plants, Grunion was now probably glued to the Weather Channel with his gut full of refluxed acid, wondering how in God’s name to build and promote a five-star island retreat if the island’s one-star infrastructure was destroyed.

Yancy didn’t know whether Eve and Grunion had tapped out Stripling’s Medicare loot and paid cash for the Green Beach property, or whether they’d been brazen enough to apply for a bank loan. It didn’t really matter; without pre-construction sales, Curly Tail Lane would fail, which is why Grunion didn’t hang up on Claspers and blow off the young American couple who were waiting out the storm in Rocky Town.

Rosa’s mission was to set a trap. An acting job, as she said; no superhero shit. She’d simply let it be known that her “husband” Andrew was determined to own a piece of this gorgeous tropic isle, no matter what the hurricane did. Better still, the couple was interested in purchasing two or three condos, not just one.

Then she’d explain to Eve Stripling that, because of the family’s complex asset structure, the fund transfers and contract signings must take place back in Florida. There Yancy’s pal in Homeland Security would have agents waiting to detain Eve and her boyfriend, based on allegations of previous illegal border entries. The incriminating testimony would come from none other than K. J. Claspers, desperately hoping to save his pilot’s certificate from revocation. It would be Yancy’s task to see that Eve and Grunion remained in custody until prosecutors could assemble at least one of the murder cases.

That was the plan, anyway. By now Rosa was at the house on Bannister Point, and Yancy was worried.

Ever since the night she seduced him on the autopsy table he had wondered how to satisfy such an appetite for excitement. Sending her off to meet with a pair of murderers was one way to spice up a date weekend, but experimenting with variable-speed sex toys in a bounce house would have been safer.

Yancy knew nothing about Christopher Grunion beyond his homicidal capacities; there wasn’t a trace of the man in the public records or state crime computers. That Eve Stripling’s companion might be using an alias wasn’t surprising, but it heightened Yancy’s anxiety about Rosa meeting with the man. If she didn’t return by ten sharp, Yancy would go to Grunion’s place and check on her. His watch now said eight forty-six.

The wind blew a fat palmetto bug from the thatching and it landed on the opposite bar, next to a plate of cracked conch. A tourist woman who’d been enjoying the native entrée emitted a shriek and nearly tumbled backward. Her companions, all sporting ripely sunburned cheeks, joined in the squealing and pointing. The six-legged intruder composed itself and with probing antennae began to stalk the drippings of a half-finished piña colada. Hysterically the patrons appealed to the bartender, who indicated an unwillingness to intervene.

Yancy couldn’t stand the racket. He walked around to where the first woman had been sitting, and with a bare palm he flattened the insect. The crunch sounded like a boot heel on a pistachio. There was a smatter of tipsy applause and one or two supportive shouts, which Yancy didn’t acknowledge. If it had happened back in Florida, he’d be writing up the place.

He used a cocktail napkin to wipe the roach bits off his hand as the aggrieved female patrons gathered up their pocketbooks and scrunchies. They departed in an ungrateful flock just as a frayed-looking older fellow walked in and propped a fully assembled fly rod against the bar rail.

“Who is that gentleman?” Yancy asked the bartender.

“Dot’s Neville Stafford. Poor mon bin out all night lookin’ for his monkey.”

“We’ve all been there. Let me buy him a beer.”

The American sat down beside him and Neville said thanks for the Kalik.

“Rough time?”

“Yeah, mon.”

“I ran into your flea-bitten buddy,” said the American.

He showed Neville the bite marks and scratches on his legs. Neville felt bad. The American said the monkey had run off in a rainstorm after a fracas at the abandoned house.

Then he said: “Mr. Stafford, I believe that’s my fly rod.”

Neville nodded and set it by the man’s stool. He told him the errant monkey’s name was Driggs and mentioned the Johnny Depp connection. The American said he’d first seen the animal riding a motorized wheelchair with the Dragon Lady.

“Queen,” Neville corrected him. “Dragon Queen.”

“She sort of freaked me out.”

“She freak everbotty out.”

“Isn’t her boyfriend that huge bald dude works for Christopher Grunion?”

Neville said, “How you know Mistuh Chrissofer?”

“I heard he’s building a fancy tourist resort down on the beach.”

“Yeah, mon. My beach.” Neville stopped talking and finished his beer. The American ordered him another one.

“You sell him that land?”

“He tore down my house and put up a fence with a got-tam padlock. Ain’t no hoppy situation, mon. It was my hoff sister made the deal. Nobody axe me.” Neville went through the story of the sale. He couldn’t tell if the American, like others, thought he was crazy.

The man finished listening and said, “That’s a lot of money, Mr. Stafford. You could have been rich.”

“In wot way?”

The American broke into a warm smile. “Exactly. My name’s Andrew.”

His grip was firm when he shook Neville’s hand. He said he lived on Big Pine Key, in the southernmost part of Florida. Neville said he had been twice to Miami and once to Fort Lauderdale, to have a mole on his neck removed. The American told him about his own house, about the hot-pink Gulf sunsets and the small wild deer that roamed the island. The deer were no larger than dogs, the man said, which Neville found fascinating.

“Every evening they’d come into this clearing to eat sprouts and twigs,” the man named Andrew said. “I’d sit on the deck and watch them do their thing until it got dark.”

“Ain’t no deer on Andros dot I ever saw,” Neville remarked. “Only pigs.”

“But then some guy named Shook from upstate New York, he bought the lot next to mine and started putting up a huge house, a ridiculous fucking house. It’s way too tall for the building codes but obviously he paid off somebody,” the American went on. “Worst part? He doesn’t even intend to live there, Mr. Stafford. Can’t abide the heat and mosquitoes. All he wants to do is unload the monstrosity on some clueless sucker, take the money and go back north.”

The American seemed deeply bothered by what his neighbor was doing to the land. Neville had never run into a tourist like Andrew, although he’d met a few like Mr. Shook.

“Wot ’bout dose lil’ deer?” Neville asked.

“They don’t come anymore. They can’t eat plywood.”

The man went still. Neville asked him what he was going to do.

“What are you going to do?” the American said.

Neville told him about recruiting the Dragon Queen to put a voodoo hex on Christopher Grunion. “But it dint woyk,” he added. “And, at de end, she trick me outta my monkey.”

“I’m not sure she got the best of that deal.”

“Dot’s true.” Neville had to laugh.

“Movie stars, right? Nothing but trouble. Can I show you something?” The American took out a gold badge and held it close to his lap, below the bar counter, so that no one but Neville could see it.

“You police?” Neville whispered.

The man named Andrew put the badge away. He said, “Law enforcement authorities in the U.S. are very interested in Mr. Grunion—and that’s not his real name. We believe the Curly Tail Lane project is being financed with moneys obtained illegally, by fraud. We also believe he’s quite dangerous.”

Neville nodded. “Yeah, dot asshole shodda gun at me.”

“Really? When did this happen?”

“Big fucking gun, mon. Outside his house up Bannister Point.”

“Shit.” The man anxiously glanced at his wristwatch.

Neville drained his beer bottle thinking he and the American had something in common. Both were beset by greedy intruders destroying something rare, something that couldn’t be replaced.

The light bulbs hanging from the beams of the conch shack flickered and dimmed; soon the island would lose electricity. Neville wondered where Driggs would take shelter during the hurricane. Not with the voodoo witch, he hoped. What kind of demon skank would teach a monkey how to smoke?

“Foyst time I gon see de Dragon Queen, I bring a private ting belong to Chrissofer.”

“What was that?” the American asked.

“A sleeve from a fishin’ shoyt like you got on dere, ’cept it was blue. Dragon Queen supposed to pudda coyse on de mon and take care my prollem on Green Beach. But den notting hoppen—”

“It was a sleeve?” The man named Andrew planted his elbows on the bar and pressed the knuckles of his hands together. To Neville he looked a bit pale.

“Yeah, a sleeve dot been toyn off. It was in Chrissofer’s garbage.”

“Torn off or cut off?”

“I tink cut.” Neville made a scissor motion with his fingers.

“Oh Jesus.”

“Wot’s mottah?”

“Do you have a car, Mr. Stafford?”

“No, mon. I got a boat, but—”

“Never mind.” The American slapped some cash on the bar and disappeared up the road, into the swaying shadows.

Neville picked up the man’s expensive fishing rod and made his way to Joyous’s apartment where after a quick poke he lay awake, listening to the coconut trees shake and wondering if the American was really a policeman, and if the things he’d said were true.