Bad Monkey

by Carl Hiaasen

  “How is that bad news? It’s exactly what we expected.”

  “The Key West police also think it’s marvelous,” Rosa said. “In fact, they’re so overjoyed they want to close the Phinney case, ASAP. They’re saying O’Peele shot the kid over drugs, then drove in a haze back to Miami. Once he sobered up and realized what he’d done, he blew his brains out. That’s their story and they’re sticking to it.”

  “Jackoffs!” Yancy sat up. “Is there any evidence that O’Peele and Phinney ever met?”

  “Nope. I asked the same thing.”

  “Or that the doctor was down in Key West that night? Did he buy a poncho and a sun mask? Did he rent a moped on Duval Street?”

  Rosa shook her head. “All they’ve got is the matching slug from the gun.”

  “And a dead boat mate that nobody cares about.”

  “How do you think I feel? I’m the one who sent them the bullet.”

  Yancy said, “They can’t close the Phinney case without you ruling that O’Peele was a suicide. Otherwise their lame theory falls apart.”

  “It’s easy to pull the plug on an investigation without officially saying so. Somehow the file just crawls into a drawer.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Yancy put on a clean shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, Rosa cocking an eyebrow as she watched.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Inspector, on such a dark and stormy night?”

  “I left my favorite fly rod in a vacant house up the road.”

  “We’ll go get it tomorrow. Right now I’m craving a beer and conch salad.”

  “I happen to know just the place.”

  Rosa smiled and kicked off the sheets. “Kindly toss me my panties.”

  “But here’s the deal—anybody asks, we’re married, okay? We came to Andros to do some fishing and look around for a second home. Now we’re stuck here because of the storm.”

  “Do we have any children? And where are we from?”

  “Boca Raton, obviously. You’re still a doctor—let’s say a thoracic surgeon.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Our son, Kyle, just made the traveling lacrosse team at Pine Crest. We have twin daughters in the gifted program. Our dog is an incontinent pug named Cheney.”

  “Perfect,” said Rosa, “and we all live in a yellow submarine.”

  She went into the bathroom and began brushing her hair. “What’s your fictitious line of work, Andrew? Should anyone ask.”

  “Investments, meaning I mooch off an obscene family trust fund. Shale oil—no, better, microprocessors.” Yancy used the corner of a sheet to wipe the sand off his feet.

  Rosa reappeared waving a crinkled white tube. “Bring me those mangled legs of yours. By the way, I demand to see your alleged assailant.”

  “They say he was in the Johnny Depp movies but got the axe.”

  “These days every movie has a monkey,” she said. “Monkeys are the bomb.”

  “Not this mangy little psycho. Hey, Doc, take it easy.”

  “Hold still, please. Do you have an actual plan for trapping Eve and her murderous beau? Or are we basically flying blind?”

  “Of course I’ve got a plan,” Yancy said. “An intelligent, fully formed plan?”

  “Define fully formed.”

  “I knew it,” said Rosa.

  “Ouch, that stings! Be careful.”

  Yet secretly he marveled at her touch, so tender for a coroner.

  Nineteen

  Claspers thought it was crazy to leave the Caravan chocked on the tarmac at Moxey’s in the path of a hurricane. He wanted to fly it back to Florida, but Christopher Grunion said no way, amigo, are you stranding me and my old lady on this fly-turd island. When Claspers had suggested they all leave Andros before the storm drew close, Grunion said he and Eve weren’t going anywhere. He said their house was built like a goddamn fortress.

  “Where I’m staying, it’s a death trap,” Claspers had remarked.

  Either Grunion hadn’t gotten the hint, or he didn’t want Claspers as a guest. In any event, Claspers was stuck. Maybe the storm would miss Lizard Cay entirely, or maybe it would smash the place head-on, in which case that lovely seaplane would end up as scrap aluminum.

  Claspers said, “But what do I know, sweetie? I’m only the pilot.”

  “Yeah, mon, dot’s you. Sky King.” The pretty bartender brought him his third drink of the evening.

  “Is it still a Category Two?”

  “Dey say trey, mebbe four.”

  “Lively,” muttered Claspers.

  The wind clawed at the palm thatching over the conch shack. No music was playing but the radio remained the center of attention because it was tuned to the Nassau weather station. The gusty conditions had disabled most of the TV dishes in Rocky Town—Claspers had seen one lying upturned in the roadway—and many residents seeking storm updates had come to the outdoor restaurant. The young Androsians, who’d never been through a hurricane, laughed and joked. The older ones positioned themselves closer to the radio and kept their voices low. Françoise was reported to be roaring along the Exuma chains; even if Andros escaped a direct hit, the island would take a battering. By daybreak it would be over.

  Claspers held his glass with both hands, admiring the miniature wavelets on the coppery surface of the scotch. He was one of a half dozen white customers, including the rangy American he’d met at Moxey’s airport. Andrew, the fly fisherman. Sitting next to him at the bar was a Latin woman who probably smelled as heavenly as she looked. Claspers had a serious buzz going, a down-island buzz.

  The woman at the fisherman’s side made Claspers think of another beauty he knew in Barranquilla, back in the old times, a woman he would have married if she hadn’t already had a husband and if the husband hadn’t been a macho hothead who liked to shoot people in the mouth.

  Which Claspers well knew because he was working for the man at the time, running loads of grass up to South Bimini.

  Donna had been the wife’s name. By now she’d be in her fifties and more lovely than ever. A few years ago Claspers picked up a rumor that her husband was machine-gunned on his way to a bordello, which is what happens when you hire a half-wit cousin to armor your Escalade. On some nights Claspers fantasized about flying back to Colombia, showing up at Donna’s doorstep with a grin, a hard-on and a bottle of Dom. The airstrip he remembered well, and also the Moorish-style villa at the north end; in particular, a second-floor bedroom with a balcony overlooking the valley.

  To the bartender Claspers said: “Buy those two sweethearts a round on me.”

  Afterward the couple returned the gesture and motioned for the pilot to move down the bar and join them. Andrew introduced the Latin woman as his wife, Rosa, and said she’d arrived on a flight that afternoon.

  Claspers chuckled. “Your timing sucks, no offense.”

  “Oh, we’ll find something to do,” Rosa said. “You ever flown through a hurricane?”

  “Naw, but I’ve slept through a few. It’s easier than you think.” Claspers took a hearty sip, demonstrating his pre-storm preparations.

  The woman said she was a surgeon. “Hopefully nobody’ll get hurt, but I always travel with a kit of instruments.”

  “On this island,” said the pilot, “that makes you the whole freaking hospital.”

  Somebody turned up the radio. The somber voice from Nassau reported that Hurricane Françoise was now “packing” winds of 105 miles per hour. Movement of the storm continued north-northwest.

  The fisherman set a hand on Claspers’s shoulder. “Can I ask you something? We heard your boss is the one who’s building Curly Tail Lane. Grunion is his name?”

  “That’s him,” said Claspers.

  Leaning in close, Rosa confided that she and her husband were looking to buy in the Bahamas. “Andrew really loves this place,” she added, “and I do, too.”

  “You should see it when the sun comes out.”

  “Point is,” the husband went on, “do you think Mr. Grunion would
mind if you introduced him to a potential customer?”

  “I think Mr. Grunion would be fucking thrilled.”

  “We’d rather not deal with any Bay Street realtors. And we’d be paying cash, if that matters.”

  “Cash is never bad.” Claspers liked these people, and briefly he considered telling them the truth: that Grunion’s resort project wasn’t exactly advancing at a breakneck pace; that Grunion was still getting hassled and tossed by the bureaucrats in Nassau; that a vandal had targeted the job site; that only two other buyers—one from Taiwan and the other from Dubai—had put down actual deposits for time-share units.

  However, even in a semi-trashed condition the pilot perceived there might be something juicy in it for himself, a commission from the boss, if a sale was forthcoming. Who was Claspers to stand between this earnest young couple and their balmy vision of paradise?

  Rosa said, “What about tonight? It’s not raining anymore.”

  Claspers cast a skeptical eye skyward. There would be a few hours of lull until the next storm band, but he wasn’t in the deferential mode necessary to deal with Grunion. “Now’s not a real good time,” he said.

  The man shrugged one shoulder. “We’ll be on the first plane outta here after the hurricane. I got the whole damn trust committee waiting on me back in Boca. Maybe it’ll work out on another trip, if there’s anything left of this place.”

  Claspers stood up. “Let me make a quick call. Sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.”

  “Gates,” said Yancy, “as in cousin Bill.” He flinched when Rosa jabbed his ribs.

  The pilot didn’t notice. He took out a waterproof radio phone and stepped through the puddles toward the tall pile of conch shells by the boat ramp. Eve, the girlfriend, answered on the other end. After listening to Claspers’s pitch, she accused him of being wasted.

  “What are you doing? There’s a hurricane coming, you idiot.”

  “It’s just I think these folks are for real. I didn’t want Mr. Grunion to miss a good opportunity is all.”

  “How would you know if they’re real or not?”

  Claspers said, “I didn’t know such things, I woulda been dead a long time ago.”

  Thinking: Jesus, I am drunk.

  Next Grunion got on the line and chewed him out.

  “Okay. Forget I called,” the pilot said.

  “This guy, so where does he get his money?”

  Claspers told him about the trust-committee remark. “His name is Andrew Gates, as in Bill.”

  “Horseshit,” Grunion said.

  “Fine, I’m going back to the tiki bar. See you after the apocalypse.”

  “Wait, tell me about the wife.”

  “Cuban girl, a solid nine-point-eight out of ten. Rosa’s her name. Seems super smart.”

  “They all seem smart when you’re toasted.”

  “Not all of ’em, trust me,” Claspers said with a damp hack. “This one’s a doctor.”

  “Whatever. You think you can find the house or should I send Egg down?”

  “Christ, don’t send Egg.”

  When the pilot returned to the bar, he informed the couple that the meeting with Grunion was on. “If we can find a damn cab,” he said.

  Andrew said no problem and waved to a fellow in a Rasta cap who was playing dominoes at a side table. “That’s Philip, my wheelman.”

  Claspers recognized him from the regulars at the airport. Philip was unenthusiastic about making the run to Bannister Point, but a twenty-dollar bill from Andrew improved his outlook.

  The taxi van was parked in the fluttering halo of a streetlight. Claspers sat down in the second row and Mrs. Gates got in beside him. Her husband, the fly fisherman, didn’t.

  “What’s up?” Claspers asked.

  “Rosa’s taking it from here. For now I’d prefer to hang back. Don’t worry—she knows what’s what in the real estate game.”

  The pilot grunted. “Mr. Grunion will be pissed.”

  “Mr. Grunion will have his hands full.” The fisherman winked and shut the door.

  Philip stomped the accelerator and off they went. Claspers sipped from a go-cup and chatted with Mrs. Gates and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the ride.

  It had been Rosa’s idea to meet the couple alone because Yancy couldn’t possibly accompany her. Nick Stripling’s widow would recognize him face-to-face. Yancy hadn’t argued about Rosa’s decision though he should have. Possibly his judgment had been softened by tequila; Rosa had brought a bottle of Cuervo from Miami, and they’d had a celebratory taste in the motel room while she treated his monkey wounds. She’d been so jazzed about getting a chance to play cop, selecting for the occasion a pair of egregious Christian Louboutin sandals that were certain to catch Eve’s eye and establish Rosa as a serious shopper for condos.

  “Go big or go home,” Rosa had said. “That’s my motto.” For earrings she’d chosen teardrops of pure jade, a past-life gift about which Yancy knew better than to inquire.

  The plan was far from foolproof, but the start had been promising. It didn’t take an FBI profiler to predict that Grunion’s lonesome pilot would be down at the conch shack—where else in Rocky Town would he go when grounded by weather?

  As for Grunion’s receptivity to a cold call, Yancy had counted on a condition known among developers as acute hurricane anxiety. If Françoise flattened Lizard Cay, the Curly Tail Lane project would be in deep trouble. Grunion would have a wretched time trying to attract new buyers—especially those willing to overpay, a key demographic in the vacation-home market. Hurricanes being only slightly less damaging to real estate values than volcanic eruptions and leaky nuclear plants, Grunion was now probably glued to the Weather Channel with his gut full of refluxed acid, wondering how in God’s name to build and promote a five-star island retreat if the island’s one-star infrastructure was destroyed.

  Yancy didn’t know whether Eve and Grunion had tapped out Stripling’s Medicare loot and paid cash for the Green Beach property, or whether they’d been brazen enough to apply for a bank loan. It didn’t really matter; without pre-construction sales, Curly Tail Lane would fail, which is why Grunion didn’t hang up on Claspers and blow off the young American couple who were waiting out the storm in Rocky Town.

  Rosa’s mission was to set a trap. An acting job, as she said; no superhero shit. She’d simply let it be known that her “husband” Andrew was determined to own a piece of this gorgeous tropic isle, no matter what the hurricane did. Better still, the couple was interested in purchasing two or three condos, not just one.

  Then she’d explain to Eve Stripling that, because of the family’s complex asset structure, the fund transfers and contract signings must take place back in Florida. There Yancy’s pal in Homeland Security would have agents waiting to detain Eve and her boyfriend, based on allegations of previous illegal border entries. The incriminating testimony would come from none other than K. J. Claspers, desperately hoping to save his pilot’s certificate from revocation. It would be Yancy’s task to see that Eve and Grunion remained in custody until prosecutors could assemble at least one of the murder cases.

  That was the plan, anyway. By now Rosa was at the house on Bannister Point, and Yancy was worried.

  Ever since the night she seduced him on the autopsy table he had wondered how to satisfy such an appetite for excitement. Sending her off to meet with a pair of murderers was one way to spice up a date weekend, but experimenting with variable-speed sex toys in a bounce house would have been safer.

  Yancy knew nothing about Christopher Grunion beyond his homicidal capacities; there wasn’t a trace of the man in the public records or state crime computers. That Eve Stripling’s companion might be using an alias wasn’t surprising, but it heightened Yancy’s anxiety about Rosa meeting with the man. If she didn’t return by ten sharp, Yancy would go to Grunion’s place and check on her. His watch now said eight forty-six.

  The wind blew a fat palmetto bug from the thatching and it landed on the oppo
site bar, next to a plate of cracked conch. A tourist woman who’d been enjoying the native entrée emitted a shriek and nearly tumbled backward. Her companions, all sporting ripely sunburned cheeks, joined in the squealing and pointing. The six-legged intruder composed itself and with probing antennae began to stalk the drippings of a half-finished piña colada. Hysterically the patrons appealed to the bartender, who indicated an unwillingness to intervene.

  Yancy couldn’t stand the racket. He walked around to where the first woman had been sitting, and with a bare palm he flattened the insect. The crunch sounded like a boot heel on a pistachio. There was a smatter of tipsy applause and one or two supportive shouts, which Yancy didn’t acknowledge. If it had happened back in Florida, he’d be writing up the place.

  He used a cocktail napkin to wipe the roach bits off his hand as the aggrieved female patrons gathered up their pocketbooks and scrunchies. They departed in an ungrateful flock just as a frayed-looking older fellow walked in and propped a fully assembled fly rod against the bar rail.

  “Who is that gentleman?” Yancy asked the bartender.

  “Dot’s Neville Stafford. Poor mon bin out all night lookin’ for his monkey.”

  “We’ve all been there. Let me buy him a beer.”

  The American sat down beside him and Neville said thanks for the Kalik.

  “Rough time?”

  “Yeah, mon.”

  “I ran into your flea-bitten buddy,” said the American.

  He showed Neville the bite marks and scratches on his legs. Neville felt bad. The American said the monkey had run off in a rainstorm after a fracas at the abandoned house.

  Then he said: “Mr. Stafford, I believe that’s my fly rod.”

  Neville nodded and set it by the man’s stool. He told him the errant monkey’s name was Driggs and mentioned the Johnny Depp connection. The American said he’d first seen the animal riding a motorized wheelchair with the Dragon Lady.

  “Queen,” Neville corrected him. “Dragon Queen.”

  “She sort of freaked me out.”

  “She freak everbotty out.”

  “Isn’t her boyfriend that huge bald dude works for Christopher Grunion?”