The Monkey's Raincoat

by Robert Crais

  I nodded and sipped the beer and listened to Springsteen’s courage flow into Mellencamp’s raucous honesty. “Joseph, what have you learned from me?”

  “Good things.”

  “Like what?”

  He didn’t answer. I finished the Falstaff, then crimped the can square and crushed it. “A guy like Duran, worth a couple hundred million, a hundred K can’t be worth the hassle.”

  “He’s not doing it for the money.”

  “That’s what I don’t like. Maybe we’re all just running out of time. Maybe Duran says to hell with it and smokes the kid and the rest of us.”

  Pike finished his beer, set the can on the deck. Pike never crushes cans. I guess he’s man enough without that. “Maybe you should find the dope before that happens.”

  A big splat sounded behind me, then again to my left, then something wet hit my forehead. Joe stood up. “Good time for a walk.”

  He went in through the living room and let himself out the kitchen door, locking it behind. I picked up our cans and went in out of the rain. My father, rest him, would’ve been proud.

  The rain slapped at the deck and ran down along the glass. When I was little, I would sit in my window and watch the rain and feel easy and at peace. I didn’t feel that way often anymore, though I kept trying out windows and rainstorms and probably always would.

  I turned the stereo off, put on the lamp at the head of the couch, stretched out, and finished Valdez. Much later, Pike let himself into the kitchen, moving like a dark shadow across the edges of the lamplight. He put muddy Nikes in the sink, peeled out of his wet shirt and wet pants and went into the little bathroom. “You up?” A voice in the dark.

  “Yeah.”

  He came out of the bathroom in jockey shorts with a towel over his shoulders. “I found the spotters. Two guys in the yellow house ten o’clock east, just up from Nichols Canyon. Asshole in a lawn chair on the back deck, squinting through a pair of field glasses.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Sacked out on a waterbed.”

  There was more. “You took them?”

  “Yes.”

  Pike sat down on the floor beside the glass doors, his back to the wall. He sat sukhasen. Yoga. A sitting pose that allows relaxation. Did Pike do yoga before he met me? I couldn’t remember.

  I said, “Your knife?”

  “A house contains all sorts of useful appliances, Elvis. You know that.”

  “Duran won’t like it, Joe. He’ll take it out on the kid.”

  Joe’s eyes were pinpoints of light in the dark. They did not move. “He won’t know what happened, Elvis. No one will. Ever. They’re gone. It’s like they never were.”

  I nodded, and felt cold.

  The rain beat down, hammering noisily on the glass and the roof and Pike’s Jeep parked out past the front door. I thought about the cat, holed up under a car somewhere. After a while I slept and dreamed about the Eskimo and Perry Lang and my friend Joe Pike. But what I dreamed I did not remember.

  31

  The sky was still gray the next morning when I drove back to Garrett Rice’s house. All down the mountain, little rivulets of debris and mud veined the roads. Traffic moved quickly, as it always did during the rains, with the Angelenos’ innate belief that driving in rain is the same as driving in dry, only wetter.

  Maybe Barry Fein would be able to turn a lead on Garrett Rice, but maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Garrett and the dope and Cleon Tyner were long gone. If they were, I had to know. If the dope was gone, I’d have to come up with another way to deal with Domingo Duran. Maybe severe public reprimands.

  I left my car on Sunset Plaza and walked up the little cul-de-sac, gun loose in the holster and ready for the housecoated woman and her killer Yorkie.

  Everything looked just as it had yesterday, only damp. No sign of Cleon’s Trans Am or any other car. No one had moved the letter tacked up by the cops. No lights or sounds came from the house. I walked straight up the drive, across the little motor court, and into the narrow alley alongside Rice’s garage as if I knew exactly where I was going and as if the gentleman of the house expected me.

  There were three large plastic garbage cans, wet from the rain, with a heavy musty smell, and a chest-high chain-link gate knotted with ivy and bougainvillea. A little Master combo lock secured the latch. I looked back toward the street. Still free from dogs and neighbors and armed response patrols. I hopped the fence, walked the length of the garage, turned right past a pool pump and filter, then out a redwood gate to Garrett Rice’s pool deck. The pool was a tasteful oval, small, but still filling most of the backyard. The deck and the patio areas were flagstone. A flagstone retaining wall followed the curve of the pool where Rice’s lot had been carved out of the hillside, and the hill angled and rose away up behind the house. Little piles of pebbles and silt were on the back deck where they’d run off the hillside with the rain.

  The back of the house was mostly glass, landscaped with ferns and bamboo and something that looked like a mimosa tree. There was a nice, gladelike feel to the place. Secluded. Probably just right for skinny-dipping with starlets and playing grabass.

  The musty smell was stronger, the way a dark room in an old house might smell, wet and moldy and slightly sour. I kept trying to put it on the rain. Only it wasn’t the rain. Cleon Tyner was face down under a giant fern at the back of Garrett Rice’s house.

  I slipped out my gun and went up to him, watching the windows and big glass doors. One of the big glass doors was open.

  There was no pulse in his neck. His skin was cold and pliable over stiff muscles. He was lying mostly on the right side of his face, the left looking up and back toward the pool. His left eye was open but droopy, and rolled back in his head. I tried to close it but the eyelid wouldn’t go down. There were no pools of blood or bullet holes in his back. I tilted him up, saw chest wounds, then lowered him. Cleon had been out here quite a while, out here while I was ringing the front door bell yesterday, out here while the rain came down and churned the ground beneath him to mud. That Cleon, what a stick-in-the-mud.

  I went into the house. It was damp and cold and wet on the floor where the rain had driven in under the soffit and through the open door. There was a Westec Alarm box just inside the draw drapes. All the lights showed green. It had been turned off.

  Garrett Rice was on the kitchen floor beside a cook island. He was naked, and even in death his flesh hung loose and crinkly and pale, his sunlamp tan ending abruptly on his upper chest. There were contusions on his face and dried blood on his mouth and nose, and a single small-caliber bullet hole above his right ear. On the back of his left thigh was an ugly spiral burn the size and shape of the largest burner on the cooktop. There was another burn like it on his stomach. He’d voided himself.

  I went back out through the living room to the open glass door, sucked in wet air, then searched what used to be Garrett Rice’s house for the dope. It didn’t take long, mostly because I knew I wouldn’t find anything. If the dope had been here, Garrett Rice would’ve turned it over long before his clothes were yanked off and he was pressed down onto a red-glowing stovetop.

  Perry Lang!

  I made an anonymous report to the cops, then tore down a shower curtain, took it outside, and covered Cleon Tyner’s body. I squatted by him, trying to think of something to say, but all that came to mind were questions. Sorry, Cleon. I’ll check on Betty, time to time. I went back to my car and drove into Westwood.

  By the time I reached 11001, the clouds had broken the way they break when they’re going to seal up again. I used Barry Fein’s card key to get into his building through the parking garage. The cars were still in his parking slot, only they were reversed, the DeLorean on the inside now, the Porsche behind. I put the Corvette in the No Parking zone in front of the elevators, used the card key again, and rode up to 6.

  Jonathan opened the door but didn’t step back, playing it tough. He stood a little crooked, as if his back bothered him. I wa
s in the right mood to make it bother him a little more. I said, “Fuck with me I’ll kill you.”

  Barry Fein’s voice came from inside. “For Christ’s sake, Jonathan. Jesus Christ, in the goddamn hall.”

  A little smile broke crookedly on Jonathan’s face. He stepped out of the door, lifting his hands to show me they were empty. We went inside, him first.

  Barry Fein was fidgeting around the big room. Charles sat on the couch, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees and his hands empty. A large gauze bandage was taped along his left jawline and another smaller gauze patch spotted his left cheek. His neck and the lower half of his face were shiny, as if he were wearing suntan lotion. His eyebrows were gone.

  He said, “One day.”

  I ignored him. “Where’d Rice move the dope, Barry?”

  Barry paced. He said, “Listen, I asked everybody I could think of, right?, where Garrett might try to unload?”

  Jonathan moved away from me to sit on the arm of the couch next to Charles. He rubbed Charles’s shoulders, then let his hidden hand drift down behind Charles’s back. I took out my gun and pointed it at Barry’s furry stomach. I said, “I’ll shoot him, Barry. And you, too.”

  Barry rubbed at his hair. “Jesus Christ, Jonathan, would you get outta there. Shit!”

  Jonathan went to stand beside the bar. I suggested Charles stand with him, and when he got up you could see the butt of a piece sticking out from behind the cushion. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I didn’t know!” Barry screamed. He picked up a couch pillow and threw it at them. “You shits, you shits trying to get me killed!”

  Jonathan and Charles looked sullen and mean, like a couple of fourth-grade psychopaths caught sticking pins into puppies.

  I put the gun back on Barry. “You asked everyone you know,” I reminded him.

  He hopped around, rolling his eyes and trying to pick up the thread. Ten in the morning and he was already in another universe. “Yeah, right. Look, you gotta open your mind, see? I called around. I asked. Everybody I ask, and believe me, I know everybody Garrett Rice would know, they say Garrett ain’t called. He ain’t been trying to move nothing.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not what you’re supposed to tell me, Barry. You’re supposed to tell me who Rice sold it to and when he made the trade.” I dropped the muzzle down to his crotch, let it circle, raised it back to his eyes.

  He squirmed like he had to pee. “I swear to Christ. I called. I asked. Rice ain’t been trying to move anything.”

  I took short breaths, thinking. Jonathan and Charles glared. Barry hopped up and down. Jesus Christ, what if Garrett Rice hadn’t had the dope after all? What if, all along, it had been an inside job, the Eskimo taking down two keys to sock away for his retirement, or one of the Italian guests Kimberly Marsh described. Or a cat burglar, just passing by. I stopped breathing altogether, then took a deep breath using my stomach, held it, then let it out slow. Focus and relax. I put my head on Perry Lang and kept it there; anyplace else and everything starts to fall apart, and maybe Perry and Ellen and the two girls with it.

  I said, “You ask about two kilograms of lab-quality coke, it’s going to come up if anyone else has been trying to sell some.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Tell me.”

  “This guy I know, he says a friend of his wants to sell some. You know, called him up, shopping price.”

  “What and when?”

  “Key and a half. Said it was 99 percent pure. Said the guy called him three or four days ago, you know, like I said, calling around shopping price.”

  “Who’s the seller?”

  “Guy named Larson Fisk.”

  Great. Larson Fisk. “Who the hell is Larson Fisk?”

  Barry looked impatient. “He’s an actor. You probably seen his face a million times. Day player, you know. I sold him some stuff. Come here.”

  Barry hopped over to the bar past Jonathan and Charles. He pulled down a thick Academy Players Directory from a shelf beside the bar. “I got lotsa clients in here,” Barry said. “Shit, I get jokes all the time how I oughta have my own star on Hollywood Boulevard. Maybe one day, eh?”

  He showed me Larson Fisk. Sure, I’d seen him before. Larson Fisk was Larry, Kimberly Marsh’s boyfriend.

  32

  The house above Universal was empty but not abandoned. The little red 914 was gone, but a rumpled shirt lay on the living room floor and a couple of Carl’s Junior shake cups sat on the dining room table. Lights burned in a back bathroom. I parked my car out of sight above the house, then came back, picked the front door lock, and let myself in. I walked through the house once, gun out, to see if maybe the cocaine had been left lying out in the open. It hadn’t.

  I had ripped the rear bedroom apart and was starting on the little bath next to it when I heard car doors slam down below and a woman’s laugh, light and lutelike.

  Kimberly Marsh and Larson Fisk were climbing the steps. She was in shorts and rumpled cream safari shirt tied off beneath her breasts with the sleeves rolled up, carrying her sandals. Sexy. Fisk was in blue gym trunks, beat-up Adidas running shoes, and a black muscle shirt. He was carrying a bag of groceries in each arm and smiling. She was smiling, too.

  I went back to the front of the house, took out my gun, and stepped into the little coat closet behind the front door as their key went into the lock. The front door opened. Kimberly Marsh walked in. Larson Fisk followed her. When they were past me, I shoved open the closet door, took one step, planted my left foot, and kicked Larson Fisk on the outside of his left knee as hard as I could. His left knee was the one with the scars.

  There was a wet snap similar to what you hear when you joint a chicken. Larry screamed and fell, dropping the grocery bags to catch himself. Something glass shattered and the near bag turned dark and wet. Oranges and pippin apples rolled out across the floor. One made it all the way into the dining room. Kimberly Marsh gasped sharply, spun around to look at Larry, and saw me. Larry was rocking back and forth on the floor, sometimes gripping his leg, sometimes pounding the floor with his right fist. His face was purple.

  He called me a sonofabitch.

  I waved my gun at him. “Come on, Larry. A sonofabitch would’ve put one behind your ear. Besides, now you can add another scar to your collection.”

  He closed his eyes and rocked back, calling me a sonofabitch again, like a mantra, very softly. I shook my head. “You see,” I said to Kimberly, “some people are never satisfied.”

  She had backed away until the plank shelves were pressing into her back. The big green fish tank with the dead fish was to her right. Why do blondes look good with green?

  She didn’t appear particularly frightened. She said, “What are you doing?”

  “Removing Larry as an active threat. He may be stupid, but he is strong. And mean.” I smiled at her.

  Larry said, “It hurts!”

  She was relaxing. Her eyes never went to Larry, but her shoulders dropped just a hair, and her hands went down, and she stopped clenching her teeth. I imagined a window in her forehead, behind it little watchwork wheels and gears, spinning and rocking and making ticking sounds. I smiled wider.

  She smiled back. “Did you find out what happened to Mort?”

  “Unh-huh.”

  “Thank God. Can I move back to my apartment now?”

  “Nah. Not right now. Now, I want you to give me the cocaine.”

  Her eyes got a little bigger, and that was it. She just stood there. The gears spun faster. The ticking got louder. I think of the damnedest things.

  I wiggled the gun. I stopped smiling. “Dom wants his dope back, Kimberly.”

  Her eyes flicked to Larry then back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I cocked the gun and I pointed it at Larry. “She doesn’t know, Larry.” Larry was watching the gun and clutching the knee. I said, “She sees the stuff just sitting around over at Duran’s, right? And thinks, boy, wouldn’t that be great to have. Only she’s got
no way to get it out of the house. So she finds a phone and gives you a call and gets you involved. She throws it out the window and tells you where and you sneak over and pick it up. Risky, Larry. That took balls, with all the goons Duran keeps around. You do all that, and here I am pointing a gun at you, and now she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.”

  She flipped her head to get the blonde hair out of her eyes and smiled at me as if I’d just told her I thought she had sexy toenails. “That’s silly.” She stepped away from the shelves and cocked her head at me, lifting her ribs to pull her abdomen tight and pushing out her hips to the side. Moving on me. Like she’d seen gun molls do in a thousand movies.

  I said, “How about you tell me, Larry? Before I do your other knee.”

  Neither of them said anything, but you could hear the breathing.

  I said, “Right now you guys are in a survivable position. If the cops walked in, all they could hang on you is possession with intent to distribute and obstruction of justice. They might push for an accessory to murder charge because of Mort but they wouldn’t get it. You give me the dope, then you’re no longer possessing. You give me the dope, and even though you’re a couple of scumbags, I’ll put in a word with the cops.”

  Neither of them said anything, but the breathing was louder.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s go back to basics.” I pointed the gun at Larry’s good knee. “It’ll be a bone shot, Larry. You’ll limp.”

  Larry nodded. “Okay.” His voice cracked.

  “Don’t tell him.” Kimberly was calm.

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s not your knee.”

  Kimberly Marsh’s eyes got dark. “This stuff is worth a lot of money,” she said. “We could share. We could share a lot.”

  “What about the boy?”

  “What about him?”

  Something hot throbbed in my head and I felt my face grow tight. “No wonder Mort went for you, Kimmie. You’re all class.” I toed Larry’s bad knee. He went purple again. “The dope.”