Bad Monkey

“Yah, mon. How soon you come?”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Neville said, “Wot hoppen is Chrissofer gone.”

  “What do you mean ‘gone’? Define ‘gone.’ ”

  “I try’n call loss night.”

  Yancy said, “This is un-fucking-believable.” Except it wasn’t.

  “Tink you should come, mon.”

  “Right away.” He put down the phone and looked hopefully at Rosa.

  “Andrew, I love you,” she said, “but not enough to go back.”

  Thirty

  Key West homicide detectives reacted to the anonymous Crime Stoppers tip the way Yancy had expected they would. They didn’t go through diplomatic channels in Nassau, as was required of the FBI, but chose the more direct and efficient approach. They picked up the phone and called Lizard Cay.

  There the Bahamian police contingent consisted of a single easygoing officer named Darrick. He was rattled to learn that the reclusive American developer of the Curly Tail Lane Resort was a fugitive murderer. As soon as Darrick got off the line with Key West, he made an agitated call to his superior at Andros Town, who made a more agitated call to a nephew of high rank on the Royal Bahamas Defence Force. A patrol boat refueling at Fresh Creek was dispatched to Rocky Town, triggering events that neither Yancy nor Neville Stafford could have foreseen.

  The authority to detain foreign nationals rested at higher levels of the Bahamian government and required a tedious exchange of paperwork. In the meantime, Nicholas Joseph Stripling was put under a military surveillance that was highly visible, the purpose being to discourage thoughts of flight. The presence of the Defence Force commandos produced in Stripling round-the-clock anxiety and improvident behavior, including the constant berating of his wife, Eve. In actuality she’d had little to do with the hell-bound spiraling of his fortunes.

  On the deciding night, Neville went snapper fishing at the mouth of the bight. The sea was velvet, the stars tucked behind thick clouds. He carried a large flashlight that connected with rusty alligator clips to the boat’s battery. Driggs was a reluctant crew; huddled in the bow, he crossly labored to peel off a nicotine patch Neville had affixed to a bald spot on his chest.

  Near one of the navigational markers the channel bottom dropped off into a deep gouge. There were giant cuberas, too powerful for Neville’s tackle, and also hogfish, excellent to eat but difficult to fool with a baited hook. Neville missed several strikes because he was too distracted, replaying in his mind a frightful finishing skirmish with the Dragon Queen.

  It had happened on the road to the docks. The voodoo woman was drunk, slumped in her electric scooter chair and attended as usual by her murmuring matrons. At the sight of the monkey she began to keen, reaching for him with stained crooked fingers. Driggs yeeped and ducked behind Neville.

  This rejection brought from the Dragon Queen a mortifying wail. Neville tried to dart past but she nimbly manipulated the joystick to keep the wheelchair in his path. She said Egg had gotten sick and she needed a new boyfriend, and she commanded Neville to come see her later for sex.

  “You owe me, bey,” she said.

  “Fuh wot I owe you?”

  The Dragon Queen huffed. “Fuh dot woo-doo. Ha! You’ll see.” She held up a gold chain strung through a small, diamond-studded anchor. “Dis here fuh my lil’ pink boy.”

  “No need, madam.”

  “Take it, mon, ’less you hungry fuh pain.”

  Neville was ashamed that he still feared her dark magic. He accepted the chain and handed it to Driggs, who began scratching at a scab with the prongs of the anchor charm. The Dragon Queen frowned and levered herself from the scooter. From the depths of her dress she produced a small meerschaum, which she waggled like a lollipop at Driggs.

  “Don’t!” Neville warned, but the monkey wore a rictus leer as it flew toward the old woman’s ankles swinging the anchor necklace like a mace. She commenced a queer jig, kicking left and right at the frenetic creature while chanting in a voice as deep as pure evil.

  Neville was not too preoccupied to notice Philip’s taxi van jouncing at a loose clip down the hill. He tackled Driggs and in a tangle they rolled clear. The Dragon Queen’s supplicants had also seen the speeding van and—rotund as they were—parted as fleetly as sparrows. Their excited shouts, loud enough for a tent revival, failed to pierce the voodoo woman’s boozy trance.

  The taxi slammed hard into her bony frame as Philip stomped uselessly on the brake pedal. In a sinusoidal path the van petered on down the road. Through its punctured windshield jutted the Dragon Queen’s legs, her vivid raiments flapping like a broken beach umbrella. Terrified, Neville lowered a shoulder and barreled through her cow-like retinue, Driggs galloping after him.

  Now they sat in the boat solemnly waiting for a fish to bite. On shore Rocky Town looked smaller than usual because half the lights were still out from the hurricane. As the tide rose, the current grew stronger and the ripples ticked against the bow. Neville’s rod bent, and he reeled in a good five-pound hogfish. He placed it inside a Styrofoam cooler, where it flapped loudly, startling Driggs. With a sigh the monkey pantomimed a pipe-smoking motion, which Neville ignored.

  An hour passed without another nibble. Neville was preparing to move to a different spot when he heard high-powered engines. Initially he believed it was the Royal Defence Force patrol boat he’d seen earlier near the public wharf. Then he saw a bright light moving rapidly up the shoreline from Bannister Point—a foolhardy route in darkness across tricky water. The danger was grounding on the flats or smashing into a coral head. Nobody in the government fleet would make such a run, even with a spotlight.

  Neville figured it must be drug smugglers, so he lay down flat on his seat. He groped for Driggs’s silhouette and pulled the monkey to his chest. The sound of the fast boat got louder and louder. Driggs smelled awful but Neville didn’t let go. He knew that his own small boat, with its low profile and dark hull, would be difficult to see on a starless night.

  Abruptly the oncoming engines shut down. Neville waited a few minutes before peeking over the gunwale. Anchored on the edge of the shallows, perhaps two hundred yards away, was a sleek light-colored boat. Neville guessed the length at thirty-five, maybe thirty-six feet. It had a V-hull, three big outboards, and a pair of tall outriggers for trolling. The finish on the sides of the craft looked bright and new.

  A faint light glowed in the cockpit, and Neville discerned movement—a hunched figure emptying a bucket over the transom again and again. There was no conversation rising from the deck and no two-way radio crackle, which seemed odd. Voices carried a long way across open water and, in Neville’s experience, dopers were always yakking to each other.

  At Neville’s feet, Driggs issued a sequence of warning chirps. Neville hastily snatched up the monkey and held him over the side for a pee. It was a small milestone in Neville’s dogged campaign to house-break his unruly pet, and his hushed praise for Driggs was heartfelt. He set the animal in the bottom of his skiff and returned his attention to the gleaming boat across the channel, where there was finally noise.

  The person on the aft deck was grunting as if moving bales. Something heavy made a splash near the stern. Neville figured the smugglers were dumping their load, yet he counted no other splashes. Soon the triple outboards thundered and the boat sped away, cutting a long, foamy stitch in the sea.

  Neville struggled to pull up his anchor, which had snagged on the ledge of the hogfish hole. He started the motor and backed upcurrent with the rope in one fist. When the anchor came free, Neville hauled it aboard.

  Then he aimed his flashlight and chugged toward where the other vessel had been. It wasn’t clear why the smugglers had spooked, but they were a jumpy breed. Neville expected to see a fifty-pound bale of grass or a bundle of cocaine floating in the tide. What he found instead was something else, and a dread turbulence of sharks drawn to the surface by buckets of rotting fish heads.

  The following afternoon, when Yancy stepped o
ff the plane, the first thing he saw on the tarmac at Moxey’s was a pickup truck with a wood coffin in the flatbed. The driver said the dead man was called Egg though his real name was Ecclestone. He’d been found sprawled on Prince Hill, near the graveyard. Heart attack most likely, the driver said. The corpse was being flown back to Nassau, where Mr. Ecclestone was from. None of the freezers on Lizard Cay were large enough to hold a person that size.

  Yancy said he was a friend of the deceased, and he asked the driver if he could say good-bye. The driver lifted the lid of the coffin. It was Egg inside.

  He was stark naked, the monkey bites still visible on his sad-looking cock. Both his eyes were wide open and so was his mouth. Yancy could see that a chunk of tongue had been bitten off. From each of the goon’s nostrils trailed a crust of dried blood. Whatever killed him wasn’t a heart attack. Dr. Rosa Campesino could have solved the mystery if Egg had been lucky enough to die in Miami. For show, Yancy flicked one of the thug’s crimped ears and said, “Adios, wild man.” The pickup driver offered a respectful nod.

  Down at the waterfront a crowd was collecting. Yancy didn’t see Neville though it looked like most of the island’s population had turned out to watch a Bahamian patrol boat escort a barge to the government docks. Upon the barge sat a light-blue Contender, outriggers drooping, the hull showing a stoved hole with the diameter of a garbage-can lid. The bridge of the damaged fishing boat had been covered with a yellow tarp, meaning the accident victim, or victims, were deceased and still aboard.

  Yancy was working his way through the onlookers when he felt a sharp tap on one shoulder—it was Neville. He wore amber sunglasses and a faded Peter Tosh T-shirt.

  “Come along,” he said to Yancy.

  “I’m right behind you, brother.”

  The ride in his skiff was choppy but the breeze felt good. Andros was so vast that it made its own weather, and a squall line thickened over the center of the island. Yancy was eager to hear Neville’s story even though he knew the ending. He’d known it the moment he laid eyes on the monkey.

  To manage the bumpy waves Driggs balanced up front in the hinged pose of a surfer, his ropey arms extended. Yancy smiled though he remained wary, for his shins still bore the beast’s claw marks from the attack at the vacant house. Yet today Driggs wore a different look, and it wasn’t just the new bling.

  Near the channel marker Neville cut the engine and dropped the anchor and let the wind push the bow toward the cut of the bank. The tide was dead low. Yancy stood to snap a picture with his phone for Rosa.

  The Super Rollie had uncannily come to rest upright on the flats, its spoked wheels glinting. As they looked out across the ocean, the empty scooter chair was the only object above the waterline all the way to the horizon. Yancy could envision his photo as an artsy advertisement in some medical-supply catalog.

  Neville told him everything he’d seen the night before, everything he’d heard later in Rocky Town.

  “It’s big woo-doo, mon.”

  “Sounds more like Stripling seriously pissed off his wife.”

  “Was me who paid fuh dot coyse on ’im! Finally it hoppen!”

  “What about Egg?”

  “Dot I dint do,” Neville stated somberly. “Dragon Queen got mod and spike ’is rum. I told ’im stay ’way.”

  “Well, she’s done her last voodoo dance.”

  “Yah, mon,” said Neville. “But Philip need a new toxie.”

  Yancy had a few questions but there was no one left alive to answer them. He asked Neville if they could take a ride down the coast before returning to the dock. He wanted to see the place where Eve Stripling, surely believing she was free, had at a fatal velocity steered the Lefty’s Revenge into a coral outcrop known to islanders as Satan’s Fist.

  It had happened only a few minutes after she rolled her husband off the stern into night waters churned by sharks, the fatal splash witnessed by a local fisherman and his pet monkey. The makeshift ramp used to launch the scooter chair was discarded by puzzled authorities, who had no inkling of its purpose. It had been found on board the impaled Contender along with Eve, whose brains were splashed all over the interior windshield.

  Neville couldn’t picture the man he knew as Christopher going overboard without a fight, even having only one arm and a severely injured spine. Yancy surmised that Eve had incapacitated her husband with painkillers before wheeling him onto the boat. The sharks she’d chummed had finished the job, interrupted momentarily when Neville motored up on the scene and made his daring grab.

  As they prepared to set out for Satan’s Fist, Yancy remarked that Driggs looked like an honest-to-God movie star.

  Neville craned forward. “Same ting as if I found it at de bottom of de sea.”

  “Absolutely. The maritime law of salvage.”

  Stripling’s wrist was fatter than the monkey’s neck, so with a jeweler’s screwdriver Neville had removed several links from the watch-band. Now the Genève Tourbillon fit Driggs splendidly as a collar.

  Yancy said, “Nobody’ll try to steal it, that’s for sure.”

  “No, he fuck ’im up bod.”

  “It’s a gorgeous watch, Mr. Stafford. This will do wonders for his self-esteem.”

  “Yah, mon. He hoppy fella.”

  The monkey did seem uncharacteristically mellow, as if his demons were lulled by the inner ticking of the rose-gold timepiece. He plucked leisurely at his nicotine patch as he eyed the marooned Rollie, its tires licked by the tide.

  Neville said, “I dint tell a soul wot hoppen out here loss night.”

  “And why should you?” Yancy shrugged. “It’s over. Everyone’s dead.”

  “Yah, dot’s right.”

  “I assume there was nothing left of the bastard.”

  Neville scratched the silvery stubble on his jaw. He looked uneasy.

  “Don’t tell me,” Yancy said.

  The fisherman flipped open the Styrofoam cooler. “Here’s wot de shocks dint eat.”

  “Oh Christmas! Of course!”

  It was Nick Stripling’s other arm.

  Thirty-one

  The sheriff, not wishing to be seen with Andrew Yancy, insisted on an off-site meeting. They agreed that Yancy’s house was the safest place.

  “Is this any way to treat an international crime buster?” Yancy said.

  Sonny Summers squeezed out a chuckle. “Walk me through this mess, okay?”

  They sat in the cheap lounge chairs on the backyard deck. The sheriff was known to sweat like a warthog so Yancy had preemptively chosen a shady spot.

  “The man who murdered Charles Phinney is dead. Would you like the official version first?”

  Sonny Summers said, “Oh, why not.”

  “Nicholas Stripling and his wife perished two nights ago in a boating accident off the coast of Andros Island. Foolish Americans, sporting around in unfamiliar shallows.”

  “Okay. What really happened?”

  Yancy popped a beer and delivered a nearly complete account.

  “Oh, fuckeroo,” the sheriff said, and grabbed a bottle for himself.

  “There’s a karmic symmetry you’ve got to appreciate. Not quite Shakespearean, but close.”

  “Were you on Andros when this happened? Did you—what’s the word—contribute to these events in some way?”

  “No, Sonny. I was here on Big Pine.”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  Yancy set up his pitch. “If Stripling hadn’t drowned he’d be going to prison. Nobody in the States knew where he was until I told them. Nobody had a clue he was alive.”

  The sheriff rolled the chilled beer bottle between his palms and stared at the scorched patch of land where Yancy’s sex criminal ex-lover had torched his neighbor’s extravagant spec house.

  “Sonny, are you even listening? I flew to the islands on my own dime and found this shitweasel. He almost blew my head off pointblank, you understand? I risked my freaking life to solve this case.”

  “You want your b
adge back. I get it.”

  The muddy response reminded Yancy that he was talking to a politician. “But there’s a big ‘however,’ right? I can smell it.”

  “However,” said Sonny Summers, “the situation isn’t that simple. Yes, you did some first-rate police work. Ballsy, man. Scary ballsy. But what you just told me, man, I can’t put that in a press release.”

  “No kidding. Who said anything about a damn press release?”

  “Oh, I’ll need a good one,” said the sheriff, “the day I rehire you. See, you’re what the media calls a controversial figure. And now Bonnie Witt’s plastered all over the Citizen again, just when I thought this shit was fading away.”

  “Meaning Mallory Square.”

  “Everything, all of it,” the sheriff said in a beleaguered tone. “Consorting with a fugitive, whatever.”

  “Like I knew? Come on, Sonny.”

  “Some people are saying this arson was all your fault. Just bar talk, but still. They say you put Bonnie up to it because that house”—Sonny Summers nodded grimly toward the burned lot—“was screwing up your precious sunsets.”

  “Absurd.”

  “Look, we’re shipping her crazy ass back to Oklahoma. Maybe in a year or two, if you can stay out of the damn headlines, I’ll bring you back on the force.”

  “But I thought you were going to quit and run for attorney general.”

  Sonny Summers shifted his bulk. “Then I’ll be sure and tell the new sheriff to put you on the short list for detective. Same rank as before. Meanwhile, I hear you’re tearing it up on roach patrol. Gang-busters is what Tommy Lombardo said.”

  “Did he now.”

  “He tells me you bring a firearm on these restaurant inspections. Is that true?”

  “It sets a certain tone.”

  “But you haven’t actually shot anything, right? Rats and so forth.”

  “Not yet, Sonny.”

  “Try not to. That’s my advice.”

  “Thanks. You’ve always been like a father to me.” Yancy was barely holding it together.