Bad Monkey

Like a buzzard coasting through clouds, the thought crossed Yancy’s mind that his lawyer might be interested to learn that the wife of the man Yancy was accused of assaulting—and a key witness against him—was herself a fugitive from a sordid felony rap. He let the notion glide away.

“Whatever happened to Cody?” he asked.

“How the hell would I know? He was a dumb mistake, that’s all.”

“We all make ’em.”

“I’ll talk to Cliff again tomorrow. Promise.”

Yancy said, “Thank you, Bonnie. I like being a detective.”

“In the meantime you’re still getting a paycheck, right? So go fishing or something.” She returned the newspaper article to her purse. Then she stood up and stepped into her denim cutoffs. “I need some ice in my wine. How about you?”

“I’m good.”

Yancy lay back on a pillow and watched Bonnie button her blouse. She always did it without looking down, her gaze clouded and faraway and dull. After she left the room, he shut his eyes and tried not to think about the supernatural frequency of erections enjoyed by fifteen-year-old schoolboys.

“Andrew!”

He lifted his head and through the doorway he saw Bonnie rigid in the glow of the open freezer. Her fists were pressed to the sides of her head.

“My God!” she said.

Yancy sat upright, thinking: Oh fuck.

“Andrew, what have you done?” she cried. “What on earth have you done?”

Three

After that night, Bonnie refused to come back to Yancy’s house. From her line of questioning it became depressingly clear that she thought him capable of murdering somebody and hacking the corpse into pieces. Yancy took this as a sign that he’d failed, over their time as lovers, to showcase his best qualities.

He told Bonnie that the severed limb was evidence in an unsolved missing-person case and that he was storing it at home as a personal favor to Sheriff Sonny Summers, which was nearly true. Sonny didn’t know Yancy still had the arm because Yancy hadn’t told him, not wishing to upset the man who would soon be deciding Yancy’s future in law enforcement.

Some nights, when it seemed as if Bonnie would never again be available to him, Yancy found himself wishing he’d followed Burton’s advice and dumped the dead arm in the mangroves. That remained an option, of course, and perhaps one of these days he’d do it.

After a telephone plea featuring abject begging, Bonnie finally agreed to meet him for breakfast at a diner on Sugarloaf. Afterward they made love in the back of her 4Runner, sharing the cramped space with her husband’s smelly golf shoes. From Yancy’s vantage it was impossible not to notice that Bonnie was no longer waxing.

“We’re moving to Sarasota,” she explained. “Cliff’s burned out on the Keys.”

“But what about the trial?”

“There won’t be any trial.”

In jubilation Yancy rubbed his chin back and forth across her pale stubble. “You’re an angel!” he chortled.

“Whoa, cowboy. It doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”

“No? Then what?”

“I tried my best, Andrew.”

Yancy sat up quickly, bumping his head on the roof. “But they are offering me a deal, correct?”

“Yes, and you’ll take it,” Bonnie said, “because Cliff doesn’t want to go to court and you don’t want to go to jail. Hand me that bra, please.”

“What about my suspension?”

“Look, I’m not even supposed to be talking about this. I honestly did try my best.” She finished dressing and nimbly vaulted back to the driver’s seat. “Out,” she commanded Yancy. “I’m late for a facial.”

He exited by the rear hatch and hurried around to her window. “I’m going to miss you,” he said. When he leaned in for a kiss, she offered only a damp cheek.

“Good-bye, Andrew.”

“Good-bye, Plover.”

Yancy went back to his car and called Montenegro, his attorney at the public defender’s office. “How soon can you be here?” Montenegro asked.

“Give me something to chew on. What the hell’s going on?”

“Dude, you know how things work in this town.”

Yancy sagged and said, “Damn.”

“It’s a good news, bad news scenario. I’m around till noon.”

There was a bad wreck at Mile Marker 13, a head-on between a gravel truck and a southbound rental car that crossed the center line—somebody’s Key West vacation done before it started. The fire department was still hosing the gasoline and blood off the pavement when Yancy inched past the scene in his Crown Vic. He lost a half hour in the traffic jam, but Montenegro was still waiting when he got to the office.

“What’s their offer?” Yancy said.

“Just sit down and take some deep breaths.”

“I need a lawyer, not a goddamn Lamaze class.”

Montenegro smiled and popped a Diet Coke. He was unflappable and beyond the reach of insults, as the job of a public defender required. Although he won his share of trials, few were the days when he didn’t have to deliver unwelcome, life-changing tidings to some hapless shitbird. Occasionally he had the pleasure of counseling an innocent client, although Yancy didn’t quite fall into that category.