Apeshit

  Mac appeared within seconds, a chrome snub-nosed .32 gripped in his tail. He dropped the pistol in Steve’s hands, flipped in the air and landed on his feet. His fingers moved quickly.

  “Slow down a little. You’re talking too fast.”

  Mac’s expressive face wrinkled into a frown, as he slowed his hand gestures. “Really,” Steve arched his eyebrows. “The roof air vents. Could someone my size climb up there and crawl through them to the outside?”

  Mac shook his head. Steve pressed the cylinder release and counted the loads. One bullet had been fired. “Could I reach the vent?” Mac shook his head again.

  “Can I help you?” A thick man with a crooked nose, wearing a plaid shirt and bib overalls leaned against the barn door. “I saw your car and figured you might be lost or something.”

  “Naw, we’re working for Mr. Smithson.” Steve slipped the .32 in his jacket pocket. “We’re looking into the Drummond murder. Who are you again?”

  “David Russell. I own the orchard about a mile up the road.”

  Steve nodded. “Do you remember where you were when Drummond got whacked?”

  “Levi, his first name was Levi.” Russell stared at Mac. “What kind of monkey is that?”

  “Black-headed Spider.” Steve answered. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “It was harvest season. I was getting my crop gathered. I had my pickers out in the field.” He rubbed his nose with a scarred hand. “I saw a few Monkeys when I was stationed in Africa during the war. They’re smart. You can train them to do almost anything.”

  “How well did you know Levi?” Steve used the dead man’s first name.

  “He was one of my best pals. We grew up together, went through school and joined the military after Pearl Harbor. Man really knew his way around an orchard.”

  “What’re your feelings toward Smithson?”

  “He’s a sorry piece of trash. My orchard is my life. Smithson offered to buy me out and I wasn’t in the mind to sell. He bought the place next to mine and hired all the most experienced hands.” Russell shook his head. “He paid better wages; really put me between a rock and a hard place.” He turned to leave. “You know what the kicker is? Smithson doesn’t care if he shows a profit. It’s his hobby.”

  “He told me his granddad had an orchard when he was a kid.”

  “Yeah, he did, used it as a cover to run bootleg whiskey.” Russell hesitated at the doorway. “After Clara died, Levi wasn’t the same anymore; he drank too much, started reliving the war, seeing dead people in his dreams. I hope you find his killer.” He disappeared into the bright sunshine outside. “But I’d pull out of this job if I were you.”

  Steve eyed the door for several seconds. “What do you think?” he asked Mac.

  The monkey shook his head and made a series of hand movements.

  “Me, too, and if I couldn’t get through the roof vent, he damn sure couldn’t.” He pulled a peanut from his pocket and passed it to Mac. “What say we find a good restaurant and sit down and talk this over?”

  Mac nodded, displaying his teeth. He brought his hand to his open mouth several times.

  “You’re always hungry.”

  The sign above the wood frame building read ‘Shirley’s Fine Food’. Steve parked his old Chrysler next to a new model Ford Edsel, one of the hardtop convertibles. The roof lifted up from the body and slid into the double hinged trunk. “Looks like someone hit the big time around here.”

  Mac nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s get some lunch, before we go to the police station. What are you hungry for?”

  The monkey shrugged.

  “Well, you can make up your mind when we get inside.” A small bell above the door chimed as they escaped the afternoon sun. Three men sat at a wall booth drinking coffee. A burly cook wearing a greasy hat and a dirty white apron busied himself at the grill. A dowdy blonde waitress leaned on the counter.

  “Hi, Guys,” she said. “Grab a seat and I’ll be right with you. What are you drinking?”

  “Coffee for me and a small glass of water for my friend,” Steve answered. He chose the table opposite the coffee drinkers, so he could keep everyone in sight.

  “What the hell is that thing?” The cook gawked at Mac. “What the hell are you bringing that chimp in here? Damn thing probably has fleas.”

  “Mac is a black-haired Spider Monkey. He takes his hygiene very seriously. He’s a lot cleaner than a lot of people I know.” Steve slid into the booth. Mac stood in the seat across the table.

  “Pipe down, Roscoe. Old Mullins brings his dog in here every other day.” The blonde approached the table with a steaming cup of coffee and a glass of iced water. “Who gets what?” She asked a dimpled smile on her face.

  “Damn it, Shirley, we’ll get a bad reputation, if we let everyone bring their pets inside,” Roscoe shouted.

  “Hell, Roscoe, that little critter may bring a little class to this joint.” A chorus of chuckles came from the far table.

  Shirley placed a menu on the table. Mac snatched it up. He ran his fingers down the page, stopping at the salads. He pointed to an item and hopped up and down. “Looks like he made his choice,” Shirley said. “What about you?”

  “Cheese burger, no lettuce, extra pickles.”

  “You bet. Have it ready in a few minutes.” Shirley removed the menu and took the order to the cook.

  One of the locals left the table and approached them. “Is the circus coming to town? You fellas some kind of act or something?”

  “Nope,” Steve smiled. “We’re detectives. I’m Steve Cooper. This is McBride. He likes to be called Mac.”

  “I’m Mike Taylor. You’ve got to be kidding me, you two are detectives. Where’s Joe Friday?” The old timer laughed. “What are you boys investigating?”

  “Good joke.” Steve joined in the laughter. “We’re looking into Levi Drummond’s murder.”

  An ashen pallor colored Mike’s face, his eyes widened in surprise. He closed his open mouth and swallowed. “Levi Drummond,” he repeated. “Mind if I ask who hired you?”

  “Justin Smithson.”

  His eye quivered with a nervous tic. Mike leaned on the table. “Take my advice. Eat up and get the hell out of here. We don’t cotton to your kind around here.”

  “And what kind is that?” Steve blew the steam away from the cup and sipped the hot brew.

  “The kind that snoops around where they ain’t wanted.” Mike regained his composure. “Give Smithson his money back and get out of here quick. Don’t find yourself here after sundown.” He turned and stalked back to his table.

  Steve glanced at the opposite table. Mike quickly engaged in whispered conversation with his buddies. Within seconds, hostile stares were directed their way.

  “The locals don’t care for us,” he whispered to Mac.

  Mac nodded, his fingers tracing symbols in the air.

  “We can’t pull out. We need the money.” Steve shook his head. “Why is the food taking so long?”

  Shirley carried a battered coffee pot to the far table. “Care for a refill, boys?”

  The man they spoke to earlier motioned her over and whispered in Shirley’s ear. She immediately cast Steve and Mac a hard look. Turned to the pot-bellied man and nodded. The group rose from the booth. The large man pulled a five dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it on the table.

  Shirley crossed the floor toward them, her face pinched in a frown. “You two finish your drinks and get out.”

  “What about the food?” Steve asked.

  “Kill the order, Roscoe,” she shouted. “Our guests ain’t staying.”

  “Damn it, Shirley. It’s nearly done.”

  “You eat it then, our customers are leaving.” Her left hand fisted on her hip. “Get out of here, now. Get out of Preston.”

  “I always heard that country people were a friendly bunch.” Steve reached for his wallet.

  “We are mostly. Keep your money. You got that from Smithson and
his money ain’t wanted around here.” Shirley turned away, striding toward the counter.

  Three shotgun blasts erupted outside. Steve dropped to the floor, his hand circling the grip of the .32 snub. The sounds of car doors slamming and gravel thrown from rear tires soon followed. “What the hell is going on here?” Steve climbed to his feet, the revolver gripped tightly in his fist.

  “The boy’s are just giving you a little extra incentive to leave. Take it from me, next time they won’t shoot in the air.” Roscoe circled the counter, an old fashioned double barreled twelve gauge with cocked hammers centered on Steve.

  “I get the message.” Steve stuffed the pistol in his pocket. “We’re pulling out.” Mac hopped to his shoulder as they walked toward the door.

  “Don’t hang out around here,” Roscoe shouted. “Did you hear me, Boy? Get out while you can.”

  The bell chimed above Steve’s head as the pair left the café. He walked slowly to his car. Mac jumped from his shoulder and scampered to the passenger side while Steve climbed behind the wheel.

  Mac turned to face him. His fingers moved with lightning speed.

  “Yeah, they know who killed Levi Drummond, and they don’t want us to find out who did it.”

  The monkey flashed more intricate patterns in the air.

  “No, we’re going to stick with this case. I want to find out what they’re hiding.”

  Mac opened his mouth. He touched his lips three times in quick succession.

  “Yeah, I know you’re hungry.” He pulled several peanuts from his pocket and tossed them on the seat. “That should hold you until we find a place to get some chow.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  “We’re lucky we found a grocery store that hadn’t heard about us, or we’d be going hungry.” Steve parked the Chrysler in front of room thirteen of the Regents Motel, a run down building on the outskirts of town. He’d spotted the Edsel in his mirrors on three occasions since they left the café.

  Mac climbed through the car window and perched on the roof. A grunting noise came from his lips.

  “Yeah, I saw them, too.” He lifted two bags of groceries and carried them to the door. “Hey, unlock this, will ya.” He dangled the key from his left hand.

  The monkey snatched the key away and slid it in the lock, the door swung open easily. A musty odor filled Steve’s nostrils. He fought back a sudden urge to sneeze. “Get my pistol out of the glove box. Might need it if visitors come calling.”

  Mac scampered to the vehicle. He returned moments later with Steve’s .38 and his jacket. He hopped to the bed with both items and laid them on the pillows.

  “We’ll drop the .32 off at the police station tomorrow. Talk to Mansfield, see if he has any useful information.”

  Mac shook his head, his mouth open teeth showing. His fingers moved swiftly.

  Steve glanced at the open door. Mike and his buddies from the café blocked the late afternoon sun.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Maybe, I didn’t make myself clear down at Shirley’s. It’s not healthy for you here.” Mike moved into the room. He swung a ham sized fist at Steve’s head.

  He ducked under the looping blow and landed a hard strike to the intruder’s bulging gut. The breath burst from the big man’s lungs. He bent double holding his stomach. Steve drove a knee into Mike’s flabby chin. The pot-gutted man fell forward on his face, blood bubbling from his split lip.

  A brass-knuckled right landed on Steve’s cheek. Stars exploded in his head, the flesh split to the bone, gushing blood. A man wearing thick glasses grabbed his hair and drove a fist into Steve’s nose.

  Mac leaped on the third man’s shoulder. His sharp teeth closed on his cauliflower ear, biting a chunk away. Steve fell to his knees, unable to see through the tears misting his eyes. Blood covered his cheek and face. Thick Glasses kicked him hard in the jaw. Steve flopped to his back and lay still.

  Mac jumped to the bed, his hands closed around the pistol grip. A solid fist landed on his jaw, knocking him to the floor. “Damned Monkey.” The man wiped blood from his ear. “Bruce, get Mike on his feet and get him to the car.”

  Rough work-scarred hands fisted in Steve’s hair and pulled his head off the floor. “Take this as a friendly reminder. Forget this Drummond business and get out of town in the morning.”

  “Ernie, give me a hand. I can’t budge this tub of lard,” Bruce shouted. “Hurry up. We need to get out of here.”

  “Remember what I said. Forget about Preston, and get out while you’re still able.” Ernie released his grip. Steve’s head bounced on the pastel linoleum.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Steve gritted his teeth as Mac stuck the needle through his flesh and stitched the split cheek together. “We’re definitely on to something,” he said. “I need to talk to one of those good old boys.”

  Mac tied a knot in the string and bit the remainder of thread away. The monkey’s fingers weaved into motion.

  Steve nodded. “Some lettuce and cabbage in the bag; eat all you want.” Steve winced as he gained his feet. “I’m gonna clean up. Make me a sandwich, will ya.” He stumbled to the restroom.

  He gazed at his reflection. The beginning of a fresh bruise colored his chin. Dried crimson circled his mouth. Steve wet a washcloth and dabbed the blood away. He opened his mouth and pressed his bottom teeth gently. “That one’s a little wobbly.” He tossed the red stained cloth into the sink.

  “Finish eating.” He emerged from the bathroom. “We’re going to cruise town for a little while. We might run into those guys again.”

  A chill wind blew from the north, as they drove the main drag of Preston. Steve spotted the Edsel parked with three other vehicles in front of Sonny’s bar. He flipped a U at the city limits and circled back through town.

  “Those fellas are likely in there enjoying a cold beer and drinking to our health.” Steve passed the tavern and turned right at the next corner.

  Mac grunted, his tongue protruding from his mouth. His fingers moved in precise gestures.

  “We’re not going in. We need to park somewhere and keep an eye on the door.” Steve licked his bruised lips. “I want to talk to one of those boys one on one.”

  Mac nodded. His small hand closed on Steve’s sleeve and tugged. He pointed across the street. A gas jockey was locking up the DX station for the night.

  “Good idea. We’ll park next to the building.” Steve nodded. “That’ll give us the perfect vantage point.”

  They parked in the shadows next to the red and white structure. Steve patted his pockets wishing for a cigarette and reminding himself he quit for a reason. He sat quietly as dusk turned to full dark.

  Mike staggered outside an hour later. The fat man nearly fell when he stepped off the curb and leaned on the hood for support. Finding his keys hiding in his pocket, he opened the door and settled behind the wheel.

  Mac grunted, his hands swatted the dash.

  “I see him.” Steve turned the key, the Chrysler’s engine roared to life. He popped the clutch and burned rubber across the empty street. “Get in.” He pulled the .38 from the seat and leveled it at Mike’s head. “We need to talk.”

  “What…” Mike gulped. “What are you doing here?”

  “Get in, fat boy, or I’ll drop you right where you are.” Steve cocked the hammer. “Move, right now.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about what we did, but we can’t have someone poking their nose into this. Levi Drummond is dead. Let him rest in peace.” Mike lifted his hands. His drunkenness vanished in an instant. “We can’t let the truth come out.” His hand lingered on the door handle.

  “Shut up and get inside,” Steve mumbled. “We’re going for a little drive.”

  Mike swallowed nervously and lowered himself into the car. “Look, we had a reason for what we did. You don’t need to be dredging up any information on Drummond.”

  “Mac, get in the back seat. Grab the .32, if he moves, blow his head off.” Steve watched as the mon
key clambered over the seat, the double click of the pistol sounded a second later. “He can’t miss at that distance. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  Mike closed his eyes and nodded. “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the fruit barn.” The car backed into the highway, Steve pressed the gas pedal to the floor leaving a trail of burned rubber and smoke behind.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Get inside,” Steve prodded Mike’s ribs. “We need to talk.” The Chrysler’s headlights illuminated the open door and twenty feet inside.

  “Look, you need to back off. I’m sorry we beat the hell out of you, but you need to forget about Drummond’s murder.” Mike leaned against a mid-span support.

  “You know who killed Levi Drummond, and you’re going to tell me.” Steve slipped the .38 into his waistband. He drove a hard fist into Mike’s ample gut. The big man fell to his knees, gasping for breath. “Now, who killed Drummond?”

  “I can’t tell you that. We promised, all of us. Isn’t it enough that the man’s dead?”

  Steve kicked the man’s ribs. A barely audible snap came to his ears. Mike gritted his teeth. He rolled on the ground holding his side. “Who killed Levi Drummond?” Steve shouted.

  “I can’t tell. I can’t.” Mike cried out. He rolled over and pushed himself up to his knees.

  Steve unleashed a straight right that caught the larger man in the mouth. He collapsed in a heap, spitting blood and teeth. “No more, no more,” Mike sobbed. “Please, no more.”

  A warning howl erupted from Mac’s lips. Steve turned to see Bruce and Ernie inside the door. The latter trained an automatic on his middle.

  “You two don’t take hints well.” Ernie snarled. “You were told to leave Preston. Take that pistol from your waist and put it on the ground.”

  Steve moved his hand slowly. His thumb and forefinger squeezed the grip and lifted the .38 clear. He bent and placed the revolver on the uneven soil. Behind him, Mac moved silently into the shadows.

  “What are we going to do with these two?” Bruce asked. “What?”