Bad Monkey

“You know anybody who might be looking to buy, now’s the time to go big!” Up close, Evan Shook’s cheekbones appeared to have been buffed with a shammy. When a black Town Car rolled up to the cul-de-sac, he said, “Oh shit.”

The driver opened the rear door and out came an older couple, ruddy and squinting. Evan Shook hurried to intercept them.

Yancy wiped down the skiff and went inside. The Barbancourt was gone so he poured himself a Captain and Coke. He wasn’t in the practice of collecting roadkill but he’d spotted the misfortunate raccoon that morning along Key Deer Boulevard. Why leave it for the birds?

From the refrigerator he took a package of hamburger patties and two ripe tomatoes, which he placed on the counter. He turned down the AC, cranked up Little Feat on the stereo and looked out the kitchen window.

Next door, Evan Shook was attempting to herd the perplexed Texans back to their Town Car. Apparently the tallest house on Big Pine was not being shown today.

Four

Yancy received his first bribe offer at a tin-roofed seafood joint on Stock Island called Stoney’s Crab Palace, where he had documented seventeen serious health violations, including mouse droppings, rat droppings, chicken droppings, a tick nursery, open vats of decomposing shrimp, lobsters dating back to the first Bush presidency and, on a tray of baked oysters, a soggy condom.

The owner’s name was Brennan. He was slicing plantains when Yancy delivered the feared verdict: “I’ve got to shut you down.”

“A hundred bucks says you won’t.”

“Jesus, is that blood on your knife?”

“Okay, two hundred bucks,” said Brennan.

“Why aren’t you wearing gloves?” Yancy asked.

Brennan continued slicing. “Nilsson never gave me no trouble. He ate here all the time.”

“And died of hepatitis.”

“He ate for free. That was our deal. Six years, never once did he step foot in my kitchen. Nilsson was a good man.”

“Nilsson was a lazy fuckwhistle,” Yancy said. “I’m writing you up.”

Working for the Division of Hotels and Restaurants was the worst job he’d ever had. His appetite had disappeared the first morning, and in three weeks he’d lost eleven pounds. It was traumatizing to see how many ways food could be defiled. His first sighting of maggots put him off rice pudding forever. The opening of lobster season brought no joy because Yancy couldn’t bring himself to order from a menu a crustacean of unknown provenance; all he thought about, day and night, was salmonella.

The only reason Brennan wasn’t arrested for attempted bribery was that Yancy didn’t want to wait around for a deputy to show up. He couldn’t clear out of Stoney’s fast enough. For lunch he drove home and boiled a potato.

Rogelio Burton stopped by. He looked Yancy up and down and said, “God, what do you weigh?”

“I’m down to a buck sixty.”

“And you’re, what, six foot two? That ain’t healthy, bro.”

Yancy picked up a fork and went to work on the potato. “You want half?”

Burton pulled up a stool at the kitchen counter. “The reason I came, Sonny sent me. What’d you ever do with that … you know … arm?”

“I made it into a weathervane. It’s on top of my roof.”

“Andrew, this is for real.”

“I’ve still got the damn thing.”

“Good. That’s what I figured.”

“How is that good? I’m breaking about a half dozen laws.”

Burton said, “A woman came in the other day to report her husband missing in a boating accident. He fits the general description.”

“Took her long enough.”

“She was in Europe for a month. Her old man was heading to the Bahamas to meet some buddies on a fishing trip. The Coast Guard found debris from his Contender a few miles off Marathon. A friend of the widow’s had caught the story on Channel 7 about the Misty snagging a body part. Anyway, you see the problem.”

Yancy did see the problem. He had a human arm in his freezer that shouldn’t be there. “So, take it back to Dr. Rawlings,” he said. “He can swab for DNA and close the case, or not.”

“Way ahead of you. Rawlings saved a tissue sample from the day it got caught. Definitely the same dude. The wife brought in some shavings from her husband’s nose-hair trimmer—Rawlings said it’s a ninety-nine percent match.”

“So what’s the hitch?”

Burton took a beer from the refrigerator. “She wants the fucking arm, Andrew. She wants a church service and a formal burial, the whole show.”

“And that she shall have.” With a screwdriver Yancy began chiseling the limb from the freezer, where it was wedged among a pile of Stouffer’s dinners. He placed the frosty appendage on the countertop in front of Burton and said, “All yours, amigo.”

The detective used an elbow to push it away. “Rawlings won’t take it back because the paperwork says it’s at the coroner’s in Miami. Now you get the picture? The widow went up there and, of course, they had no body pieces that belonged to her husband.”

Yancy heard a door slam and looked outside. A van from Animal Control had parked in front of the half-finished house next door.