Bad Monkey

“The sheriff was highly pissed with you,” Burton went on, “till I explained what happened, how the ME up there wouldn’t take the case. I told him there was a chance you kept the arm.”

“Lucky I did,” Yancy said.

“For safekeeping.”

“No, Rog, for taxidermy practice.”

“Let me call him.” Burton finished off his beer and went out the front door to phone Sonny Summers.

Yancy returned the severed member to its chamber among the frozen entrées. Whenever he’d thought about getting rid of it, the cop in him had said no, what if there’d been a murder, not an accident? Or what if it was a drowned Cuban rafter, and somebody’s brother or sister in Hialeah was waiting for word? Now that the mystery was solved, Yancy was glad he hadn’t followed Burton’s advice and discarded it. An arm wasn’t much for a wife to bury, but anything was better than an empty casket.

Through the window Yancy noticed unusual activity at the empty construction site. A uniformed officer was dragging a heavy black garbage bag across the pavers toward the Animal Control van. The officer wore a white medical mask, protective goggles and blue rubber gloves that came up to his elbows.

Burton came back inside and said everything was cool. “Sonny’s telling the widow that you’re the ‘authorized custodian’ of unclaimed remains. He said just give her the thing.”

“That’s it?”

“And try to behave, Andrew. She just lost her hubby.”

“You ever eat at Stoney’s?”

“Man, I love that place. The widow’s name is Stripling—here, have her sign this.”

Burton produced a Release of Property form that had been conceived with more prosaic items in mind than a severed limb—wallets, car keys, jewelry, eyeglasses, articles of clothing. Somebody had already checked the box labeled “Other.”

“Does she keep a copy?” Yancy asked.

“Hell, no. In fact, once she’s gone, throw away the paper. It’s just for show.”

“Gotcha.”

Yancy said, “I get major brownie points for this, right? Sonny knows I saved his ass from a major lawsuit, not to mention some ugly press. Losing a dead man’s arm!”

“You gotta stay cool.”

“Tell him I want my desk back. Tell him I’m wasting away on roach patrol.”

“He hasn’t forgot about you,” Burton said.

“Randolph Nilsson fucking died from this job!”

“Eat lots of yogurt, Andrew. Find a flavor you like.”

His next stop after lunch was a Burger King. Compared to Stoney’s, the place was as immaculate as a surgical suite. Yancy saw one of the cooks sneeze into a Whopper but the manager made him throw it away, so Yancy didn’t write him up.

After a half-hearted inspection he sat down in a booth, where he aimed to kill the whole afternoon. With dull resolve he re-read the state’s lengthy checklist of critical code violations.

Did the restaurant obtain its food from an “approved” source? Was it cooked at the proper temperature? Stored at the proper temperature? Handled with minimum contact? Did the employees wash their hands after taking a dump? Were all the restrooms equipped with self-closing doors? Was there toilet paper? Did they wash the dishes in hot water? Did they properly clean and sanitize all food contact surfaces? Were there signs of rodents or insects? Unsafe electrical wiring? Uncapped toxic substances? Did the restaurant have a current state license, and was it prominently displayed?

The manager of the Burger King hovered fretfully. He brought Yancy a cup of coffee, which Yancy insisted on paying for.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Relax, sport,” Yancy said. “You passed with flying colors.”

“Yes!” The manager, who was all of twenty-five, pumped a fist and spun a circle on one heel.

Yancy asked if he’d heard the sad news about Nilsson.

“Who?”

“The guy that had this job before me.”

The manager shrugged apologetically. “We never saw him, sir.”

“Of course not,” Yancy said.

“What happened?”

“He passed away. Mind if I hang out for a while?”

Yancy took out a Margaret Atwood paperback Bonnie had given him. It was highly entertaining, and every now and then he would come to a dog-eared page upon which Bonnie had scribbled comments in the margins:

So funny!

So true!

Why can’t I be like this?

Foolishly, Yancy dissected every marked passage in the hopes of finding clues to Bonnie’s innermost feelings. On some pages he’d spy a slanted notation, always in lavender ink, that referred to their own relationship, or to him by name.

Sounds like something A.Y. would say.

Pure Andrew!

Just like a certain man I know.

No matter what the context, Yancy was warmed to be in Bonnie’s thoughts, and also to know that she obviously wasn’t sharing the book with her husband. On a whim he dialed her cell phone and left a lustful message that he hoped would make her blush. She hadn’t spoken to him since that quickie in the 4Runner.