Ray found Orlon standing in front of the primate cages saying, "Shit, shit, shit, shit." Another orang was lying on its belly, facedown in the straw, not breathing. Which left only one. And the siamang gibbon looked like shit, sitting up, stuffed into a corner of his cage, his eyes blank, yellow foam on his lips.
"It got dehydrated," Ray said. "Or something."
"Well, it's too late now."
Orlon turned and leaned in, getting up into Ray's face.
"Whatta you looking so sad about?"
" 'Cause it died, that's why."
"It's just a fucking animal," Orlon said. "Squirrel without a tall. Lower life form."
"I'm thinking about the goddamn money we just lost, is all. Leave me the hell alone."
Ray took out his keys, unlocked the cage, hauled out the dead orang, dropped its body in a heavy-duty garbage bag. Orlon stood nearby and began to chant a ditty he'd made up years ago. Liked to quote it at moments like this. He called it the animal dealer's national anthem.
***
"When in doubt, ship it out.
If it's sick, make it quick.
If it's dead . . . well,
Aw, shit, go ahead."
***
Ray opened the last orangutan's cage, sprinkled some monkey chow in the dish, filled his bowl with water. The thing was making noises, cheeping like a dime-store bird. It stared into Ray's eyes forlornly and didn't make a move toward its food, so Ray took it out, held it a minute, let it crawl over him.
He understood why people liked these things. Of course, it was partly because they were damn cute. But there was something more, something mystical about them. The little guy hugged Ray same as a baby would do, but at the same time his eyes were old. Older than old. Like he'd sat through this movie a few times already, accumulated a shitload of wisdom from being reborn over and over like the Buddhists believed, or was it the Hindus?
The hair on its head was all wild, permanently windblown like a redheaded Albert Einstein. Eyes with emotions flitting around in them: one minute sad, the next bored, the next worried, then excited — all kinds of looks. The orang raised his right hand to his forehead, scratched at that silver patch, then took a grip on his head and squeezed it hard, hunkered over like that bronze statue "The Thinker," like the little guy was working out some calculus problem.
When Ray finally went to put the orangutan back, the thing wouldn't let go of his wrist. He had to peel the fingers off one by one. Three or four years old and already the beast was nearly as strong as Ray.
Back in the cage, the orangutan picked up a fistful of straw in each hand and stared at Ray for a minute.
"Eat," he said. "Eat your chow, you little hair ball."
The orangutan studied Ray as he locked the cage door with his key. Then the ape dropped the straw, stared at Ray a few moments more, and turned to the dish and started scooping up the chow, gobbling it down. Slurped every drop of his water too. Ray waited till all of it was gone, then dumped more food in the dish, filled up his water bowl.
He found Orlon in the reptile-amphibian room feeding the creatures. Ray watched him going around the room, dropping white mice into the cages. The monitor lizard, Grand Cayman iguana, the skinks, the geckos, Surinam toads, bearded dragons, the owls, the eagle, the crocodiles, young gators, rat snakes, fox snakes, king snakes, rattlers, the albino cobras, the mamba, the racer, Cape puff adder and diamondbacks. Four dozen white mice gobbled down in twenty minutes. Five handfuls of crickets.
They were on the way out, Orlon locking the front door, when a taxi rolled slowly into the lot, parked next to the Vette. A guy climbed out of the back, came strolling over.
In his early forties, blond, sunburned, wearing khaki shorts and a blue work shirt. Looked like a surfer out for a stroll in the warehouse district.
"Help you?" Ray said.
"You the White brothers?"
"That's right."
"Dr. Franklin asked me to stop over. I'm his associate, Dr. Thorn."
A month ago Kurt Franklin showed up at the front door, said he was interested in purchasing a gorilla or an orangutan, heard the White brothers might be the people to talk to. Right away Ray was suspicious, thinking he was a spy from the ape-kissers, trying to trap them, though even for those people it seemed like a stupid-ass approach, a guy right in off the street.
Ray said they didn't deal in apes, never touched them, though the truth was they had a chimp caged in the back at the time, the thing throwing up every five minutes since he'd come in from Gambia. And the skinny man said, fine, okay, but if they ever came across either one, give him a call, he was in the market. And he handed Ray his business card, Franklin's Veterinary Clinic, an address in south Dade. Card had a picture of a chimp up in one corner of it. PRIMATE SPECIALISTS, it said below the chimp.
Ray said, whoa, there. You a doc?
I am, the guy said. Why?
Ray told him to wait right there a minute and went to find Orlon, run this past him. But Orlon wasn't anywhere around, so it was up to Ray to decide. He stood around in the warehouse for a minute considering it, looking over at the sick chimp, then went back up front.
Well, it just so happens, Ray said, I'm keeping a chimpanzee for a friend of mine who had to go out of town for a week, and the little bastard's been puking his guts out for the last few days. Mind taking a look at him?
Twenty minutes later the vet had it figured out, studying vomit specimens, asking Ray a bunch of questions. Wrong brand of monkey chow, simple as that. They were buying the cheap stuff, too much ash content, it was upsetting the ape's stomach. And they should've been supplementing the chow with a fig now and then, an apple even. Soaking the chow in warm apple juice to soften it up.
Ray gave him a hundred-dollar bill and told him he'd call him again if he ever heard about an orangutan for sale.
"I thought maybe you forgot our appointment," the blond guy said. "I came by earlier, but you weren't here. I was about to give up."
"Where's Franklin?"
"He's out of town on business. He asked me to come. I'm his associate."
"Well, it's too late," Ray said. "The sick orangutan got sicker and died. The one that was well is still well."
"Is the healthy one for sale?"
"It's spoken for," Orlon said.
The blond guy looked over at Orlon the way everybody did the first time they met him. Like hey, what the hell happened to this guy, completely hairless, he taking radioactive suppositories?
"Your orangutan may be healthy now, but you never know," the guy said, turning back to Ray. "Could have a bug of some kind, parasites. I should probably have a look while I'm here. Play it safe."
"I don't know about this guy," Orlon said.
"He's okay," said Ray. "Don't worry about it."
Orlon shook his head, but Ray budged past him and led Thorn back into the warehouse, let him take a look at the healthy orang. The ape crawled all over him. Thorn pried open the ape's mouth, peered inside, looked at his eyes, squeezed his joints.
Orlon stood on the side looking suspicious.
"He's dehydrated, but beyond that, he's in pretty fair shape. When'd he come in?"
"Come in?"
"When'd he arrive?"
"A week ago, ten days," Ray said. "Why?"
"Sumatra or Borneo?"
"What's with the questions?" Orlon said.
"He's captive-born," said Ray. "On his way to a zoo out West."
"Who're his parents?"
"How the hell should I know who his parents are?"
"If he's captive-born," the vet said, "he's listed in the stud book, the lady at the Smithsonian keeps it, tracks the bloodlines of every captive-born orangutan in America."
"Wait a fucking minute." Orlon stepped up, getting into Thorn's face, taking a stance. "You interrogating us? You making some wild, unsubstantiated claims here?"
Ray said, "Cool it, man. He's okay."
"Shit, Ray. This is fucked. I don't trust this guy."
; Orlon was up in his face, but Thorn didn't budge.
"Back off, Orlando. Come on, back off."
"Who you calling Orlando?"
"I said back off, man."
Orlon kept glaring into Thorn's eyes, but he obeyed Ray, moved back a half step. It felt like the room was packed with steam, all the male hormones being discharged.
"Okay, if you want to know, we'll check tomorrow," Ray said. "See who his parents are, call you. That be okay?"
Thorn said yes, that would be fine.
"Hey, thanks for stopping by," Ray said, and maneuvered the big guy toward the hallway, getting out his billfold and finding a twenty for him. Which the guy looked at for a second or two, then took.
Ray led him on outside, over to his car. Orlon standing back at the front door looking like he was about to draw his hardware and open fire.
"You know," Thorn said. "That orangutan needs a lot of physical contact. It's only three or four years old, way too young to be separated from its mother. So you should pick it up, handle it on a very regular basis. They can die from emotional deprivation."
"Yeah," Orlon said. "Can't we all."
"Right, doc. I'll sure do that, play with the little hair ball, yes, sir."
"You should definitely do that."
The guy got back into the taxi and drove out of the parking lot. Ray went back to the front door where Orlon stood scowling.
"That guy's no vet. He's an ape-kisser. A fucking spy."
"Yeah? How the hell you know that?"
"There's ape stink on his breath."
"Bullshit, Orlon. Bullshit."
"I got a sixth sense about ape-kissers. I can spot them a mile off. Like Leonard Nimoy in the second Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It's the way he walks, way he twitches. Maybe you can't tell the difference, but I can. It's an intuitive thing."
"Yeah, a sixth sense," Ray said. "Only thing is, Orlon, you can't have a sixth sense till you get the first five."
"Fuck you."
"Not tonight. I got a headache."
***
The taxi driver was a New Yorker who gave Thorn his life story in the first ten blocks from Snapper Creek Marina. They'd run out of things to discuss a half hour ago, and were now seriously getting on each other's nerves. Guy wasn't used to spending more than a half hour at a time with anybody. Didn't have but thirty minutes' worth of bullshit. Long enough to get you from anyplace to anyplace else in Miami. Beyond that, the guy was out of material and started getting testy.
Thorn told the driver to pull into the parking lot of the Burger King. He told him exactly where to park, then they waited. The driver told him this was costing money, sitting like this. Costing the same as if they were driving. Thorn said fine.
He stared out at the avenue across from the Burger King, kept watching till the White brothers' black Corvette appeared. It stopped at the light, then when it turned green, the Vette burned a few seconds of rubber and fired out onto Bird Road.
Thorn told the taxi driver to follow the Corvette.
"What? Like in the movies? 'Follow that car.' "
"That's right," Thorn said. "Like in the movies."
"What're you, a cop?"
"I'm a veterinarian," Thorn said.
The taxi driver swung the Ford out into traffic, kept the Corvette in view.
"A vet?"
"That's right."
"Hey, I got a couple of toy poodles myself. Very smart little things. My wife's got them trimmed real nice. So tell me, you know anything about fleas?"
"Not really."
The taxi driver glanced in the rearview mirror.
"What kind of vet are you, you don't know about fleas?"
"I'm just a vet for tonight."
The New Yorker took a long look at Thorn in the mirror, then went back to following the Vette. Quiet now. Completely out of talk.
***
They didn't speak on the ride home. Ray was irritated, depressed. Orlon seemed pissed, probably from Ray pulling rank on him back there, calling him Orlando, having his way in front of the vet.
Orlon kept the Vette to the speed limit, which was unusual for him. Out the Palmetto till it emptied onto Dixie Highway, then pulling in behind the Publix at Suniland, Orlon tossing the orang into a Dumpster, then squealing down some backstreets, east over to Old Cutler. North to Gables by the Sea. Their half-million-dollar house on the bay, bought just last year with the profits from their new business partnership.
Orlon went straight into the living room, turned on the TV. Eleven o'clock news. Ray watched for a second or two till Orlon plunked a tape into the VCR and took a seat on the couch. The news blacked out, and some opening credits came floating onto the screen.
Ray went up to bed. Washed his face, flossed, brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, then lay there and listened to the TV going downstairs. A gangster movie he and Orlon had sat through a half dozen times. Humphrey Bogart shoots his way out of prison, then starts running from the law, driving across the badlands, Death Valley, somewhere like that, cactus and sand. While Bogart and his gang were staying in some cheap motor court, he meets a crippled girl and her family.
Right away the girl turns Humphrey sappy. He winds up giving the girl's father a bunch of money he'd stolen. Gave it to him so the pretty daughter could have a leg operation, walk around normal like everybody else. Ray listened to bits and pieces of the dialogue as it floated up from the living room. He thought about the story as he was getting sleepy. A bad guy, tough and mean, prison hard, who'd machine-gunned bank guards without blinking. If he had to, Humphrey Bogart could chew the ears off somebody he was fighting, suck out an eyeball. But along comes a crippled girl with blond hair and big eyes, and the bad guy turns into Saint Bogart.
Ray didn't believe the story for a second. Typical moron drool leaking out of Hollywood. Didn't square with what Ray knew of bad people. A guy who'd spent most of his life robbing or killing, committing mayhem and assorted evil, he's not going to have a damn sentimental streak anymore. The bad just takes over, like cancer cells squeezing out all the decent cells. A man who'd devoted himself to decades of depravity wasn't going to get gushy over some cripple.
No, sir, Ray was sure of that. And he was sure it'd take a hell of a lot more than some pretty girl in a wheelchair to convert the White brothers. In fact, when he thought about it, Ray believed he and Orlon were already too far gone. Cancer spread everywhere. He couldn't imagine anything at this point in his life that could get them back on the fucking straight and narrow.
He lay there for a while and tried to think of something he hungered for so bad he might be willing to give up his crooked life for it. But he couldn't think what it would be. The more he thought, the sleepier he got, until finally he drifted away.
A little while later the cops started blasting their machine guns at Bogart hiding up in the rocks. Ray was dead asleep by then, the gunfire sounding to his dreamy mind like popcorn exploding in his mom's heavy black iron skillet.
Sometimes when the popcorn was done, their mother would pour it directly into a grocery sack, and the three of them would go off to the movies, sneak the greasy brown bag inside. Back then it was anything to save a quarter.
CHAPTER 17
Close to eleven, Patrick was done with his second brandy. Sean was nursing a White Russian, while Harry stayed with gimlets, his fourth, fifth, who could say? He could feel himself smiling, looking at Sean, at Patrick, the two of them chatting easily, joking, laughing, telling stories about Brunei, that year, events Harry couldn't remember, parties he hadn't seen. Seven years ago and it felt like a different century. A different Harry.
All around them the restaurant was buzzing with quiet elegance. Updated art deco, chrome sconces, burnished steel sculptures like exploded pretzels, carpets and walls in muted grays and salmons. A rock star sat at a table nearby, somebody Sean recognized. Patrick had heard his music, but never imagined seeing him in person. Harry looked around. Everybody in the room seemed famous.
&nb
sp; Harry sat in the glow of his vodka, a glorious twilight washing the room. Feeling a sweet remorse for this evening at Mark's Place, the bonhomie with his daughter and Patrick. It was a mood that had been overtaking Harry with greater and greater regularity lately, especially after three or four gimlets. A sappy Irish melancholy. Sean had once named the condition prenostalgia. Sadness for a moment that wasn't even over yet.
Harry saw his drink was low, started looking for their waiter. All of them looked alike at Mark's Place. Slim young men, the same razor-cut hair, unpretentious manners. Great waiters really, always there but not there. All very skilled in food matters.
People raved about Mark's, but the food inevitably gave Harry heartburn. Knocked his digestive system out of whack for days. Blame it on his deprived childhood, never learned to stomach rich food. Hell, how could anybody develop a subtle palate after spending their first eighteen years eating West Virginia pork and beans?
As he searched for the waiter through the vodka blur, Harry had a quiet psychological revelation. A Stoli insight. All at once seeing the connection between his digestive tract and his character. How there were certain aspects of his personality that no amount of education or training could root out. Seven nights a week Harry could eat at Mark's Place, refine his palate all he wanted, learn the name of every sauce, but his goddamn small intestines were never going to adjust. He simply wasn't bred for the life he was leading. Would always be an impostor.
Harry floated back to the table as Sean said "Golf."
Both of them were looking at him. Harry smiled. A big, loose-lipped grin that felt slippery on his face.
"Golf?" Harry said.
"Patrick asked what you and I had in common. I said golf."
"Yes," Harry said. "We play together most every Sunday. She beats my pants off. Not literally, of course."
Gone Wild (Thorn Series Book 4) Page 16