Bad Monkey

Egg loomed as a foremost concern when Yancy approached Bannister Point. Yancy reviewed his own rudimentary disabling skills, cop skills, understanding that he’d never fought a man of Egg’s size whose reflexes hadn’t been slowed by drugs or booze. Tonight Egg would be on full alert and sober as a hangman, not easy to surprise and bring down. In consideration of the goon’s recent dental woes, Yancy planned to aim first for the jawbone.

A lead pipe or a marlin gaff would have been helpful, but he settled for a hefty pine bough that he found where he ditched the bicycle, a quarter mile from the house. Under low purple clouds he walked the rest of the way. The property was lit up like a used-car lot; Yancy heard the rumble of a gasoline-powered generator, a luxury in the out-islands. It meant that one could spend the duration of a major hurricane in air-conditioned comfort listening to Puccini or Van Halen, as long as the walls didn’t blow down.

Yancy scouted swiftly, his footfalls muted by the noise from the shuddering trees. Egg wasn’t lurking out front; the backyard looked clear, too. Eve Stripling could be seen alone on the porch, untangling some wind chimes. Yancy snuck along the perimeter of the house peering in windows; no sign of Rosa, no sign of anyone. He felt a hot coal in his gut.

Then Eve’s mutt started barking madly, and he thought: Oh, what the hell.

He opened the front door and walked inside.

Standing in the foyer clutching a broken tree branch, expecting the absurd little canine to come lunging for his ankles, a creature that would have drowned or gotten gobbled by sharks if he hadn’t rescued it …

This is what I get for one minor act of decency.

The yapping stopped.

Yancy took a couple of steps. Paused to listen.

Peeked around a hallway corner—nothing.

A voice said, “Up here, asshole.”

Yancy climbed the stairs and there the man sat on a slick burgundy Super Rollie scooter, Yancy’s 12-gauge Beretta angled across his lap. Hanging from a brass hat rack in a corner, next to a full-sized print of the famous Audubon spoonbill, was a dirty blaze-orange poncho and a couple of camo sun masks. Outside, a broken shutter banged and banged.

“Where’s Rosa?” Yancy said.

“Sit down.” He motioned toward a straight-backed chair.

“Where is she?”

“I’ve got a shotgun and you’ve got what—a piece of fuckin’ firewood?”

“Nick, I asked you a question.”

“Eve said you’d figure it out right away. I said you’re not that bright.”

“And I say you’re bright enough not to shoot a cop.” With his free hand Yancy took out the police badge on loan from Johnny Mendez. “See? I’m back on the force.”

“First place,” Nicholas Stripling said, “there’s no law says a man can’t cut off his own arm.”

“Maybe not.”

“I know for a goddamn fact.”

“There’s a law against murder,” Yancy said. “You killed Charlie Phinney and Dr. O’Peele, and you tried to kill me.”

“Ha, try to prove any of that shit.”

“I will. In the meantime let’s start with the Medicare rip-off,” Yancy said. “Hey, guess what happens when the feds find out you’re still alive.”

“Who’s gonna tell ’em? Not you, because you’ll be disappeared.”

Stripling wore a vented tan fishing shirt that was missing the left sleeve. The opening had been sewn shut to cover his empty shoulder socket. One of his ears was bandaged where it had been snagged by a bonefish fly, although Stripling obviously didn’t know that the angler who’d wounded him was Yancy.

The air in the den was rank with cologne that smelled like apricots and linoleum wax.

“I remember the Herald didn’t run a photo with your obituary,” Yancy said.

“That’s because we didn’t give ’em one.”

“Good call. They see the paper in Nassau, you’re toast.”

“Sit down like I told you.”

“I guess I could’ve pulled up your mug shot,” Yancy said, “but that was taken, like, twenty years ago.”

“The picture on my driver’s license was new. How come you didn’t think of checkin’ that in your God-almighty computer?”

“It didn’t matter to me what you looked like because I thought you were dead. I was busy trying to catch your killer.”

Stripling smiled crookedly. “That’s pretty fuckin’ funny, I gotta admit.”

“Does your daughter know you’re alive?”

“Don’t worry about Caitlin. I’m gonna tell her when I’m ready.”

“Make it in time for the holidays,” Yancy said, “so she can order a big enough turkey.”

“Is that a joke? Are you seriously standing here doing jokes?”

“For what it’s worth, I took extremely good care of your arm. I kept it in the freezer of my refrigerator with the vodka and Popsicles. Didn’t Eve tell you?”

“Thanks for nothing.” Stripling’s hand moved toward the trigger of the shotgun. Gleaming on his hairy wrist was a garish rose-gold Tourbillon.

“Nick, I’ve been very patient. Now, where’s Rosa?”

Something beeped on the console of the Super Rollie. The padded footrest began to ascend, and with it rose the blue-black barrels of the Beretta, braced between Stripling’s knees and pointed at Yancy’s chest.