The Monkey's Raincoat

by Robert Crais

  Pike nodded approvingly. “Nice view.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  He killed the engine but left the radio on.

  We waited.

  At ten minutes to seven a Park Service Bronco came out of the tunnel and turned up toward the pipe gate. A woman in a brown Park Service uniform unlocked the gate, swung it out of the road, then climbed back into her Bronco and disappeared through the tunnel. I ate a processed chicken on white and drank coffee. Ellen didn’t have anything. Neither did Pike.

  The world brightened even though the sky remained dark gray. The clouds pushed lower, now sitting halfway down the mountains, slowly bleeding moisture. Traffic grew heavy down on the boulevard, and people began to gather at the bus stop, mostly short, stocky Chicano women carrying large purses. Some of them had umbrellas, but some didn’t, and not everybody looked willing to share.

  In the back, Ellen pulled her feet up, leaned against the cab wall, and slept. Or pretended to. Pike slouched down behind the wheel, his eyes closed to little slits. That Ellen, that Pike, what a couple of wet blankets. Just when I was going to suggest charades.

  At seven-thirty, a white Cadillac turned in off Los Feliz and rolled down past the picnic tables to park across from the rest rooms. Ten minutes later, a cruising police prowl car stopped beside the Volkswagen microbus. Two cops in black slickers got out. One of them rapped on the bus’ side door with his nightstick while the other stayed by their black-and-white with his hand on the butt of his Smith. A young guy in jeans and no shirt climbed out of the bus and talked to the cops for a while and did a lot of nodding and a lot of shivering. Then the cops got back in their car and the kid went back into his bus and the cops drove away. I drank more coffee and ate a sweet gherkin and watched. Two lean women in racing tights pedaled fancy bicycles up through the park from out of the Hollywood traffic and zinged back through the tunnel, their bikes throwing up sprays of water, their fine legs churning. An occasional car took the same path but turned up the mountain instead, passing us moments later. Probably people who worked at the observatory. A tall Hispanic man in tight black pants, plaid shirt, and down vest came up from Hollywood under a pale pink umbrella. He stopped under the restroom awning, shook out his umbrella, then went inside. After a minute, the Caddie opened and a middle-aged white man in designer jeans, tweed sport coat, and glasses hustled across, hands over his head against the rain, and also went into the restroom. More cars passed, more cyclists, some runners. The kid came out of his bus, this time wearing a shirt and shoes and rain jacket, wiped off the Norton’s seat with a piece of newspaper, fired it up, and took off. The middle-aged guy came out of the restroom, hustled back to his Caddie, and drove away. Then the tall man came out, looked at the sky as if expecting it might have cleared, opened his umbrella, and headed back to Hollywood. I ate four jalapeño olives and drank more coffee. Life is drama.

  Just after nine, the clouds let go. Rain banged down in big heavy drops that sounded like hail against the Jeep. Pike took a sandwich from the bag and ate it without saying anything. Ellen stirred and sat up but neither ate nor drank.

  Just before ten, a Mercury Montego turned into the park and stopped by the picnic tables. There were three men inside, two in the front, one in the back. I said, “Joe.”

  “Got’m.”

  Ellen Lang leaned forward.

  Five minutes later two more sedans pulled up next to the Montego, and five minutes after that, two more cars came. The second-to-last car was the blue Nova.

  “He’s fielding a goddamned army for this,” Pike said.

  “Sure. He’s heard of us.”

  “I don’t see Perry,” Ellen said.

  “There’s still time,” I said.

  Pike frowned and looked back out the window.

  The Tattooed Man got out of the third car and walked up to the Montego. You couldn’t see his tattoos because of the rain jacket he wore, but Ellen said softly, “He’s one of them.” I nodded and finished the jalapeño olives. No one else had had any. Pity.

  The Tattooed Man leaned into the Montego, spoke briefly to its driver, then it pulled away, heading toward us. It slowed at the mouth of the tunnel, then swung onto the gated road and came up. The rain had slacked to a dull gray drizzle again. The Montego climbed past us, probably all the way to the observatory, then came back down and pulled up by the other cars. The Tattooed Man got out of his car again, spoke with the Montego, then gestured at the other cars. Men stepped out into the rain. The Tattooed Man pointed to different spots along the parking perimeter, then to different spots along the hills surrounding the tunnel, then at the kid’s microbus. A chunky guy with slicked-back hair put his right hand in his coat pocket and went over to the bus. He knocked, then went around to peer in the windshield. He said something to the Tattooed Man and shook his head, then joined the others. Close for the kid on the Norton. Very close. Pike took field glasses out of the glove box and watched them. Some of the men took long guns out of their cars and walked into the woods holding the guns close to their bodies. When everyone was out and armed, the drivers spread their cars, parking two by the restrooms, two more by the picnic tables, another at the mouth of the park by the entrance. The Tattooed Man spoke to Sanchez, who nodded and trotted off to an olive grove in the low hills behind the restrooms. Then the Tattooed Man got back in his own car. After a while you could see him sipping something. Rank hath its privileges.

  At twenty-two minutes before noon, a black stretch limo turned in off Los Feliz Boulevard, cruised the length of the park road, and parked under an elm tree by the mouth of the tunnel. Kato was driving. Ellen Lang dug her fingers into my shoulder like pliers’ jaws and made a noise in her throat.

  Pike sighted down through the Weatherby’s scope, then lowered the gun and shook his head. “Can’t see. Back in ten.”

  Pike left the Cherokee with the Weatherby, easing the door shut with a soft click, then disappeared down the hill. Ellen said, “Where’s he going?”

  “To see if Perry’s in the limo.”

  She edged sideways in the seat. “Of course he’s down there. He has to be, doesn’t he? They want to trade for the drugs, don’t they?”

  I didn’t say anything. With the artillery they’d deployed it was clear that Duran’s plan was what I thought it would be: let us in, but not out. The only question was whether they would do the boy here, with us, or later, after we were gone. If the boy wasn’t here we’d have to find him.

  I ate a ham hock sandwich. I ate more sweet gherkins. I drank most of an RC 100. Halfway through the RC, Pike opened the door and climbed in, wet and muddy. He got a Kleenex from the glove box, took off his sunglasses, and cleaned them. It was the first time in weeks that I had seen Pike’s eyes, and I’d forgotten how blue they were, so clear and rich and deep that they looked artificial. When the glasses were clean and dry again, he refitted them. “No kid,” he said. “Gook behind the wheel, a couple of bruisers in back. One looks like he could be your Eskimo.”

  Ellen began to shake. Her face tightened and turned red and her lips came away from her teeth and her eyes filled. Not pain this time. Anger. I squeezed her arm hard and said, “He’s alive. They have to keep him alive in case this fails. If he were dead and they blew this, they’d have nothing. So they’ll keep him alive. See?”

  She nodded, neck rigid.

  Pike said, “Any ideas?”

  I said, “Yeah. The guy who owns the blue Nova, Sanchez, he’s in the trees behind the john.”

  Pike nodded. “I’m better in the bush than you. I’m also better at getting people to talk.”

  “Woods, Joe. Here in America it’s called the woods, not the bush.”

  Pike put the Weatherby back by the HK, then left the car again. I dug up under my rain shell, took out the Dan Wesson, and gave it to Ellen. “We’re not going to be long,” I said. “If we’re not back in twenty minutes or if you see something bad happen, drive out of here, back the way we came. Use the gun if you have to. Go to the
North Hollywood P.D. and see Poitras.”

  She stared at the gun in her hands.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, then said, “Yes. Yes, I’m all right.”

  The rain had eroded deep grooves into the hillside and made the earth slick and the footing treacherous. I slipped more than Pike, but the rain splattering on leaves and grass and rocks and road masked our sounds. Dry leaves were wet and spongy and no longer crackled. Whip grass gave way easily, heavy with water. Twigs bent without breaking. We moved down off of our ridge onto a low rise that bottomed out behind the picnic tables and the restrooms, staying low under scrub oak and olive and the occasional elm, Pike moving like something from another age, like part of a medieval mist, slewing down over the ground and between the trees with no apparent effort and without apparent effect. The jabberwock. When we were most of the way down the prowl car came back, driving smoothly back toward the tunnel, oblivious, then turning up the mountain to cruise the observatory.

  When we saw Sanchez, sitting on a paper bag beside an olive tree sixty yards down the slope, he was not alone. Pike, out front, held up a hand, pointed at them. I nodded. The man with Sanchez was short and squat with a beaked nose and a pockmarked face. He was picking a Styrofoam cup to pieces and murmuring to Sanchez, who grunted every once in a while. There was a 12-gauge Ithaca pump gun across the squat man’s legs.

  I caught Pike’s eye and made a fist. He nodded. We waited. After a few minutes, the prowl car came back down off the mountain, continued on through the park and back out into the Hollywood traffic. Pike looked at me. I eased out the 9mm, then nodded.

  We separated and worked our way through the trees until we were on opposite sides of them. Then I stood up, walked out from behind a tree that was to their left, and showed them the gun.

  Sanchez gasped, eyes bulging, but stayed where he was. The other guy rolled sideways, scrambling to come up with the Ithaca and saying “¡Hueta!” quite loud. Pike grabbed his face from behind, twisted it hard to the side, and jammed his Marine Corps knife into the base of his skull, angling up and twisting. It sounded like empty peanut shells when you step on them at the ball park. The man collapsed, his body jerking and trembling, but no longer trying to yell or trying to shoot us. Pike eased the body down, and put a knee on its back to keep the jerking from getting too wild. His bowels and his bladder went at the same time. On TV, a guy gets knifed or shot and he’s dead. In the world, dying takes a while and it smells bad. Sanchez stared at his friend. Pike stared at Sanchez, the reflective lenses blank. I touched Sanchez with the pistol, and when he looked at me, put a finger to my lips. His face was the color of wheat. He nodded.

  When Pike pulled out the knife it made a wet sound.

  I said, “If you lie to me, he’ll do that to you. Do you speak English?”

  Sanchez answered without taking his eyes off Pike. “Sí. Yes.”

  “Is Duran sending the boy here for the trade?” Sanchez shook his head, watching Pike wipe his knife on the dead man’s shirt.

  “Where do they have the boy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I put the barrel of the 9mm under his eye. He jerked, then looked away from Pike to me. “I don’t know. They been keeping him at a place in Silverlake but they moved him this morning. I don’t know where.”

  Pike gestured at the surrounding area. “Would any of these guys know?”

  “If one of them drove. If one of them heard. I don’t know.”

  “The Eskimo would know,” I said.

  Sanchez nodded. “Luca,” he said.

  “Yeah, Luca.”

  Pike said, “He in the limo?”

  Sanchez nodded again. Pike looked at me. “You want Luca, it’s going to be loud and messy. We’re going to have to go through a few of these guys.”

  “Duran would know,” I said.

  Pike’s mouth twitched.

  I touched Sanchez gently with the gun barrel. “Is Duran at home?”

  He nodded.

  I looked back at Pike. “All his soldiers are here.”

  Pike squinted out through the misted trees. “It’s ten of, now. Pretty soon these clucks are going to figure out they’ve been stood up. Then they’re going to go back home. Not much time.”

  I slid the muzzle of the 9mm down the length of Sanchez’s nose and rested it at the tip. “How many are left at the house?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “The patrón has guests. Important people.” Sweat on his forehead mixed with the drizzle.

  “If he’s got guests,” I said, “he won’t want a bunch of pugs standing around his living room. There’s twelve here. How many soldiers can he have?”

  Pike’s mouth twitched again. “Didn’t somebody say that about the Viet Cong?”

  The three of us started back up the hill. By the time we made the Jeep, the drizzle had evolved back into rain—heavy, gravid drops that beat at you, and thudded into your head with a sound I imagined to be like that of the hooves of bulls, pounding damp earth, earth damp with blood.

  36

  The Cherokee was thick with the smell of wet clothes and mud and sweat and fear. We eased down off the mountain under the canopy of rain, Ellen under the dash up front, me and Sanchez squeezed onto the rear floorboard, Pike driving. I’d wrapped Sanchez’s wrists behind his back with duct tape. I’d once kept a car running for years, held together by duct tape. There’s nothing like it. I put the 9mm between Sanchez’s legs and told him if he made a sound he could kiss them good-bye.

  When the road finally leveled out down by the tunnel, Pike said, “Uh-oh, the Eskimo just jumped out and is waving at us.” I shoved the gun harder into Sanchez’s crotch and felt the drop-stick feeling you get from adrenaline rush. Then Pike said, “Ha ha. Just kidding.”

  That Pike.

  The Cherokee moved steadily forward for several minutes, then slowed and Pike said, “We’re out of the park. You can get up.”

  “Is this another joke?”

  “Trust me.”

  We turned left into the heavy lunch-hour traffic on Los Feliz. When we were up in the seats, I stripped the tape from Sanchez’s wrists and rebound them, taking time to make sure the job was done right. Ellen watched Sanchez as I did it, her face empty. Maybe she was studying to be like Pike.

  She said, “What did you do to my son to make him scream like that?”

  Sanchez looked at me. He’d probably never seen her face. Just a woman with a bag for a head.

  “She’s the boy’s mother,” I said.

  Sanchez shook his head.

  Ellen continued to stare at him as we eased to a stop at a traffic light. The pounding rain had slacked to a misty drizzle. A black kid in a big yellow Ryder truck pulled up next to us with his radio blasting out Mozart’s Piano Concerto in D Minor. Probably trying to found a new stereotype. Pike took a sandwich out of the bag under Ellen Lang’s seat, ham and white bread, and ate.

  Ellen lifted the Dan Wesson and pointed it at Sanchez’s face. “Are you the one who murdered my husband?”

  Sanchez straightened. I didn’t move. Pike took another bite of sandwich, chewed, swallowed. His lenses were blank in the rearview mirror. Sanchez said, “I swear to God I know nothing.”

  Ellen looked at me. “I could kill him.” Her voice was calm and steady.

  “I know.”

  The .38’s muzzle didn’t waver. Pike was right. She had a quiet body. She said, “But we might need him to get Perry.”

  “Unh-huh.”

  She lowered the .38. Something like a smile pinched the corners of her mouth. She turned around and sat forward, resting the gun in her lap. Joe reached across and patted her leg.

  I said, “We should drop these two off somewhere.”

  Pike said, “Where? Your Eskimos probably tapping his watch right now. Maybe they’ve already found the body.”

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” I said. “It might go wrong.” Pike shrugged. “She can handle it. Can’t you?”

 
; “Yes,” Ellen said. “Let’s get Perry.”

  Five minutes later, we came to the massive mortared wall, followed it up past the gate, turned around at the side street, then drove back down. We parked the Cherokee off the road about a block from the corner of Duran’s estate. Pike got out, said, ‘C’mere, you,” and pulled Sanchez out into the street. Pike turned him around, then hit him behind the right ear with the flat of his pistol. Sanchez smacked against the Cherokee and collasped. Pike hoisted him into the rear seat again, then dug out the duct tape and put strips over his mouth and eyes, and bound his ankles.

  I helped Ellen into the driver’s seat, then closed the door and spoke to her through the open window. “If anyone comes, get out of here and go for the cops. If they stand in front of the car, run over them. If you hear shots, go for the cops. If Sanchez tries to make trouble, shoot him. When you see us coming, start up and be ready to go.”

  “All right.”

  Pike slammed the rear door, then came around and looked at Ellen. He looked at her the way you examine something that you don’t want to make a mistake about. “There’s going to be killing,” he said.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “You might have to do some.”

  Another nod.

  “You got a lipstick, something?”

  She shook her head.

  “Look in the glove box.”

  Ellen bent across the seat. Sanchez moaned and shifted in the back of the Jeep. “Joe,” I said.

  Ellen leaned back into the window. She had a brown plastic tube. Estée Lauder Scarlet Haze. Pike ran the color out, then drew a bright red line down his forehead and along the bridge of his nose and two parallel lines across each cheek under his eyes.