Bad Monkey

Twenty-two

Tillie remembered him!

Yancy shouldn’t have been so surprised. Once he’d dated a veterinary assistant who told him that dogs never forget a person’s odor, even after one fleet sniff. She said the canine memory was headquartered in its nostrils, and this was as true for arctic wolves as it was for designer diva breeds. Still, with Stripling poised to blow his guts out, Yancy had been caught off guard when, in a show of improbable athleticism, Tillie bounded into his arms. He sentimentally accepted the animal’s forwardness as affection, possibly even gratitude for Yancy plucking her from shark-filled waters on his faux fly-fishing visit to Bannister Point.

For him now to employ Tillie as a shield against the loaded Beretta was understandably distressing to Eve, but not for a moment did Yancy believe Stripling would vaporize the family pet in order to kill him. It wasn’t a measure of compassion but rather the fear of domestic bedlam; Eve never would have forgiven Nick, and without her loyalty he couldn’t sustain the complicated artifice of his new life.

Still, instead of a dog Yancy would have preferred to be holding the Glock, which he’d left at home in Florida knowing the Bahamian Customs officials took a dour view of firearms in one’s luggage. Even with Tillie in his arms Yancy’s kneecaps remained vulnerable to a shotgun blast. The pup would be airborne before Yancy hit the ground, giving Stripling clear aim for a kill shot.

That option seemed to dawn on Nick just as his wife stepped in front of Yancy and the dog. The span of her hips, worthy of Rubens, made it practically impossible for her husband to shoot around her. “Tell him to drop the gun,” Yancy said to Eve, “or I’ll pop poor Tillie’s head off.”

For drama he flexed his fingers around the stem-like neck of her pooch.

“He’s lying!” Stripling boomed.

“What do you care about her, anyway?” Eve cried. Then, spinning back to Yancy: “Don’t hurt her, please, she has a renal condition. Let’s talk this through.”

“You heard what I did to Dr. Clifford Witt, the noted dermatologist. It was all over the Internet.” Yancy wanted her to believe he was capable of blithe atrocities. “Eve, I’m going to ask one more time—where is Rosa?”

“Rosa’s fine. Maybe we can make a trade.”

“Shut your goddamn trap!” Stripling said to his wife, an unproductive approach.

She flipped him off, a robust salutation over one shoulder. Then she told Yancy that she’d lead him straight to Rosa if he freed her treasured companion.

“Only when I see Rosa alive,” Yancy countered. It was difficult to preserve a threatening countenance, as Tillie was now licking his knuckles.

Craning to see past his wife, Stripling swore wildly and proclaimed that Yancy was a lying cocksucker. Stripling was hollering to be heard over the wind, which in a matter of moments had accelerated to a gale that wobbled all of them. Yancy firmed his hug on the dog to keep her from sailing away. Eve was backlit by one of the floodlights, her reddish hair dancing like an electric mop; she cupped both hands binocular-style around her eyes, for protection. The rain beat down in gusting, horizontal lashes.

“Get out of the way!” Stripling bellowed at Eve.

“No, Nicky, we’re gonna do a trade!”

“The hell we are!”

Yancy wasn’t surprised that Stripling refused to go along with the hostage exchange. His thoughts shifted toward escape, knowing he could outrun the lopsided mook. The shotgun had a limited range of lethality that wouldn’t be improved by the fierce weather conditions.

Yet Yancy hesitated to flee, thinking: Once I get away from here, how do I save Rosa? Most likely she was being confined somewhere inside the Striplings’ house.

If they hadn’t already killed her.

The opportunity to bolt was lost when Stripling, on the edge of rage, used the twin barrels of the Beretta to somewhat firmly prod his wife. She slipped on the wet grass and fell, the sight causing Tillie to begin yipping in dismay.

Stripling shouted his intentions to shoot Yancy’s legs off, at which point Yancy lowered the miniature dog from chest level to groin level. Nick’s expression never changed, even as he strained with his lone arm to keep the weapon level. He seemed fully committed to pulling the trigger, Tillie or no Tillie.

Meanwhile Eve was on her knees frantically clapping at the dog, imploring her to jump. The waterlogged lump began to wriggle and whine in Yancy’s arms.

“Oh fine,” he said, and he placed her on the ground.

Tillie faithfully scrambled into the emotional clinch of Eve, who shouted up at Yancy: “Thank you!”

Then, to her husband: “Okay, Nicky, now kill him!”

Among Yancy’s final regrets, the most unforgivable was allowing Rosa Campesino to meet alone with a pair of known murderers. She’d been so amped about going undercover like a real cop, so calm and radiantly sure of herself—still, he should have said forget it, baby, we’ll try something else. But he’d never learned to say no to the women in his life, even on those occasions when he was right—a fatal weakness, it turned out.

One lame, last stall for time: Yancy pointed at the dripping Beretta and yelled through sheets of rain: “Nick, I bet the shells got wet!”

“Let’s find out, asswipe.” The man looked unfazed, unworried.

Taking a breath, Yancy braced for the flash of the shotgun. He considered shutting his eyes, but that seemed like something a doomed monk would do. Yancy wasn’t so spiritual or serene; nothing about death appealed to him.

So he folded his arms, directed a necrotic glare at Stripling and said: “Fuck you, Stumpy.”

The response from Eve’s husband was a gummy grin that showcased flawless white veneers, top and bottom, doubtlessly paid for by the Medicare trust fund. As an honest restaurant inspector Yancy could never afford a smile so luminous, and he dolefully assumed this would be the last thing he ever saw—the ill-gotten, high-end dentition of his killer.

Next came a loud crack, though it wasn’t from the Beretta.

And it wasn’t Yancy who went down hard in the rain.

The Lipscombs had decided on real oak floors, a thrilling development for Evan Shook. He wrung a sweet price from an outfit in Deerfield Beach, the owner himself schlepping all the way to the house to measure the interior. Evan Shook let the construction crew take an early lunch, clearing the place for the flooring dealer and his helper. Evan Shook stood in the doorway smiling to himself because he knew the square footage so precisely that he’d already calculated his inflated surcharge to the Lipscombs.

A car he didn’t recognize pulled up in front. A broad-shouldered man in a dark suit got out and approached the house. Evan Shook hoped he wasn’t a new building inspector. The one he’d been dealing with for months was a very reasonable guy who, in exchange for two nights at the Delano and box seats at a Marlins game, had agreed to overlook the unlawful height of Evan Shook’s spec house and other flagrant code violations.

“My name is John Wesley Weiderman,” the visitor said. “I’m with the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation.”

A dry handshake followed. Evan Shook couldn’t imagine what a lawman from the Midwest might be doing on Big Pine Key, on the unfinished brushed-marble doorstep of the soon-to-be estate of Ford and Jayne Lipscomb.

“I’d invite you inside,” Evan Shook said, “but, as you can see, it’s not quite finished.”

“Nice place,” said Agent John Wesley Weiderman. The temperature outdoors was ninety-one degrees and he was sweating through his suit jacket. “I came here to ask if you’d seen your neighbor lately. Mr. Yancy.”

“Not for a couple days.” Evan Shook thinking: Oh shit. What now?

“Are you two friends?” the agent asked.

“Actually, I don’t know him very well.” Evan Shook was tempted to say Yancy was a stoned flake, but trashing one cop to another cop could be dicey. The blue brotherhood and all that.

John Wesley Weiderman said, “I have reason to believe he might be in danger.”

“You’re joking. Danger from who?”

“A fugitive I’ve been hunting.”

Evan Shook felt a familiar tremor of apprehension. First wild dogs in the streets, now a murderous psychopath on the loose.

“Let’s chat in the Suburban,” he said to the lawman. “It’s got killer AC.”

The interior of the vehicle was quiet and cool. John Wesley Weiderman commented upon the ample leg room and the suppleness of the leather. He inquired about the gas mileage and seemed undaunted by the EPA estimates.

“Will you be driving north,” he asked Evan Shook, “if the hurricane comes?”

“Nah. We’ll have some rain and wind from it, no biggie. The Bahamas are getting clobbered, for sure.”

Evan Shook had been tracking Hurricane Françoise’s progress as relayed by the high-strung meteorologists on Miami TV. In the unlikely event that the storm made a hard westward turn toward South Florida, the spec house would have to be zippered up hastily. The fretful Lipscombs had been phoning Evan Shook every few hours seeking reassurance that the place wouldn’t be reduced from villa to slab.

To the agent from Oklahoma he said, “Tell me about this fugitive.”

Evan Shook wasn’t worried about Yancy’s safety but rather the tranquillity of the neighborhood and, by extension, the finalization of his real estate deal. As excited as they were about their new house, the Lipscombs would probably walk away from the closing should a gruesome homicide occur at the residence next door. Evan Shook wondered what Yancy had done to place himself in mortal jeopardy—maybe some low-life gangster he’d once busted had escaped from prison and now was vengefully pursuing him.

“Her name is Plover Chase,” said John Wesley Weiderman, “most recently using the alias of Bonnie Witt. You know her?”

“I don’t.” Evan Shook thinking: Yancy’s desperado is a chick?

“They were romantically involved for a while,” the agent added.

“Oh no,” Evan Shook said, though it was hardly shocking that his neighbor would date a nut job.

“Here’s a photograph provided by her husband. Did Mr. Yancy ever introduce you to any of his girlfriends?”

“Never.” Evan Shook looked at the picture and said, “She was here the other day. Some younger guy was with her, not the sharpest knife.”

“They’ve since parted ways,” reported Agent John Wesley Weiderman.

“They were squatting in my house—tent, sleeping bags, the whole deal. She said they drove all the way from somewhere and got ripped off. I gave them money for a motel.” Evan Shook looked once more at the photo before handing it back; definitely the same woman. “But she never once mentioned Yancy,” he said.

The lawman told him that Plover Chase had jumped bail from a sex-crimes conviction in Tulsa County.

“What kind of sex crime?” Evan Shook’s imagination began to tingle.

“Sir, I’d rather not get into that.”

“But she’s dangerous, you say?”

“Evidently she’s upset with Mr. Yancy because he’s dating someone new, a doctor. It’s possible she intends to harm both of them,” said John Wesley Weiderman. “However, you should also know Ms. Chase doesn’t have a history of violence. Her past offense was one of … I guess you’d call it exploitation.”

Evan Shook clicked his tongue in fake consternation. In fact he was deeply intrigued. Never had a woman exploited him in a sexual way, but it sounded exhilarating compared to the listless bedroom comportment of his wife and even, in recent months, his mistress.

“These triangle situations can get messy,” the agent from Oklahoma was saying, “and you can never predict how individuals might react. I was told Ms. Chase might be coming here to settle a score. Arson is a possibility.”

“Holy Christ,” Evan Shook said, although privately he felt that losing Yancy as a neighbor would be good for the subdivision; the man’s dumpy-looking house definitely dragged down property values. Should the fugitive set the place ablaze, Evan Shook would manufacture a milder story for the Lipscombs—it had been a sad accident, Yancy falling asleep with a lighted cigarette or whatever.

“Please let me know if you see anything unusual going on next door,” said Agent John Wesley Weiderman.

“Absolutely. Do you have a card?”

“Of course.”

“And may I see her photo again? Just in case.”

“Here, keep it. I’ve got copies.”

“Thank you,” said Evan Shook, trying to mask an excitement he knew was inappropriate.

Neville couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t stop thinking about the man named Yancy, hurrying off to the house rented by Christopher Grunion and his woman. Why had Yancy gotten so worked up when Neville told him about finding Christopher’s shirt sleeve? Neville had been hoping that the American policeman—if that’s what he really was—would be an ally in the fight to save Green Beach.

Yet what could Mr. Yancy accomplish tonight, all by himself, with a damn hurricane coming? Was his intention to go arrest Christopher? Egg would beat him senseless first, maybe even kill him.

So Neville put on his clothes and took Yancy’s fly rod and left Joyous’s place through the back door. He borrowed her daughter’s bike and pumped as fast as he could toward Bannister Point. Soon headlights appeared in front of him—a car weaving recklessly, forcing Neville to veer off the road.

It was Christopher’s yellow Jeep. In the driver’s seat sat Egg; one massive hand was holding the steering wheel while the other gripped the hair of a frightened dark-haired woman. Neville thought she looked Cuban or maybe from Puerto Rico.

By the time he reached Christopher’s place, Neville was wind-beaten and drenched to the skin. Silvery needles of rain cut sideways through the broad wash of floodlights. The coconut palms heaved and shook like wild-maned giants. To Neville these visions appeared otherworldly though not hellish, for he’d been through hurricanes before. Drawing closer he heard back-and-forth shouts and he darted forward, careful to remain in the shadow lines.

At the north corner of the house stood three figures holding a triangular formation while the weather raged around them. One was Mr. Yancy; he was facing the others. The second person was a woman, Christopher’s woman, clutching a piglet or some sort of small critter. The man with his back to Neville was large enough to be Egg but he had too much hair. It had to be Christopher, and the thing he was pointing at Yancy had to be a gun.

Unfolding in a slice of light, the scene confirmed to Neville the ruthless criminality of Christopher and also the importance of the American. Christopher wouldn’t go to the trouble of shooting a man unless he posed a serious threat.

Neville had no time to search for a heavy rock or a limb. He snapped Yancy’s fly rod over one knee, rushed up behind Christopher and stabbed him hard with the broken stub. The impact splintered the rod’s graphite tubing down to the cork grip and unseated the reel, which fell into a puddle.

Neville wasn’t a young fellow, but his arms were strong from years of conching and boat work. And while the fly rod was designed to wiggle at the tip, the butt segment was stiff and inflexible. Christopher Grunion dropped face-forward with the smallest of cries, the shotgun pinned beneath him. His woman began to caw and hop about on her knees.

Neville grabbed Yancy by the arm and said, “Come along, mon.”

“I can’t.”

“Run!” Neville was now pushing the American ahead of him, through the hedges and trees, away from the floodlit house, down the road into the teeth of the wind.

After a hundred yards Yancy halted abruptly and bent at the waist.

“Rosa,” he gasped.

“Who’s dot?”

“My girlfriend. She’s still back there.”

“No, she ain’t,” Neville said.

Yancy straightened. “But she’s alive?”

“Yeah, mon, I seen her.”

“Okay. Okay.” The cop was still panting, fists on his hips. In the sky lightning flared, giving Neville a metallic glimpse of the American’s face, exactly what he was thinking.

“Tell me where she is, Mr. Stafford.”

“I tink I know,” said Neville, waiting for more thunder.