Bad Monkey

The driver said the animal starred in the Johnny Depp pirate movies until he turned rowdy and got fired—the rumor was that he had been caught masturbating on wigs in the costume trailer. Later the monkey was won in a domino game by a local man named Neville Stafford, who’d been working hard to rehabilitate his new pet. Nobody was sure why Neville had gifted him to the old voodoo hag.

“Dey call her Dragon Queen,” he added.

“Where’d she get those crazy wheels?”

“From her new boyfriend, mon. He won’t lost long. Nonna dem do.”

Yancy suspected that her Super Rollie was a demo left over from Nicholas Stripling’s Medicare-fleecing operation. Christopher Grunion could have conned the “personal mobility device” from Eve and given it to the Dragon Queen, though it seemed far-fetched that he—or any fully sighted male—would start a romance with such a revolting loon.

“Is the lady’s boyfriend a white American? About my age?”

Philip cackled. “No, bey, you already meet de fella! It’s Egg.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Yah, dot’s true. I tole you she’s a witch, dot Dragon Queen. No cock is safe!”

“You know a man named Grunion?”

“Yessuh. Egg’s boss.”

“Show me where he lives,” Yancy said.

“Why?” Philip seemed amused.

“Because … he’s a friend?”

“Dot’s your story, I guess. What if I say no?”

Yancy took out the Miami police badge belonging to retired sergeant Johnny Mendez and held it up briefly for Philip to see. The shield featured a lush palm tree but not the officer’s name, which was convenient for Yancy.

“You cont ’rest nobody here in de Bahamas,” the driver said mildly.

“I was hoping for some friendly cooperation, that’s all. Wouldn’t you at least like to know what crimes I’m investigating?”

“No, mon.”

“Three homicides that took place in Florida. Murders.”

Philip sucked in a breath and said, “God o’mighty.”

Yancy gave him some cash. “I’m not here to make trouble. I didn’t even bring a gun.”

“Too bod. He’s a mean mottafuckah.”

“You’re talking about Christopher.”

“Egg, too. You needa be cool.”

“My middle name,” Yancy said.

On the return trip to Rocky Town, Philip slowed the van as they passed the oceanfront house Grunion and “his woman” were renting. Yancy saw a yellow Jeep Wrangler in the driveway but no activity. When he got to his motel room, he placed a box of bonefish flies and a water bottle in his fanny pack. Then he grabbed the tube holding his fly rod, selected another bicycle and rode back toward Bannister Point.

·  ·  ·

The tide was coming in, so the depth was fine. Under an overcast sky Yancy buttered his nose and cheeks with greasy white sunblock. Then he put on wide Polaroid sunglasses and a long-billed fishing cap with cotton neck flaps. This Unabomber style, tweaked for the tropics, ensured that neither Eve nor her boyfriend would recognize him from a distance.

He assembled the nine-foot rod, strung the peach-colored line through the guides and picked out a credible fly. Slowly he waded down the shoreline, occasionally pausing to cast at fish that weren’t there. The wind was strong but he quartered slightly into it and double-hauled for more distance. It was a graceful exercise; anyone watching from a dock or a porch would have pegged him as a serious angler, not one of the usual goobers.

As he came within sight of Eve Stripling’s place, Yancy spotted the widow herself. She was dragging a red kayak through the backyard toward one side of the house, where she stowed it beside a wall. Yancy continued wading, pretending to be focused on the flats. Next Eve went after a barbecue grill, which she rolled to the same sheltered location. Evidently she’d been following the TV weather reports.

Yancy put the fly rod under one arm and began the ceremony of tying on a new tippet. He took his time, hoping for a glimpse of Grunion roaming the property. The water felt warm on his bare legs, and the wind kept the ruthless doctor flies at bay. Out of nowhere a Stratocaster started twanging in his brainpan—an old Dick Dale surf riff. Offshore was a misting reef break, and Yancy could hear the waves plowing the coral ledges. Whatever he was doing on the flats of Andros Island, it sure didn’t feel like work.

From land came a yell. Eve Stripling stood on a rock outcrop waving her arms. Yancy’s first impulse was to flee, though the effort would be doomed to play out in slow motion. The human knee wasn’t engineered to sprint hundreds of yards in three feet of water.

How the hell did she know it was me? Yancy wondered dejectedly.

Then the wind dropped, and he was able to make out Eve’s words: “Help Tillie! Help her!”

He squinted at something in the water between him and the widow, something alive. To no one he grumbled, “Are you shitting me?”

A puppy no larger than a muskrat was swimming toward him like a laser-guided clump of mattress stuffing. One of those urban teacup breeds, the dog had a stunted tail that drew a pencil-thin wake in the chop. It was a brainless expedition.

“Barracudas!” Eve shrieked from the rock. “Save her! Hurry!”