Bad Monkey

I told her I’ve sort of gotten away from books and more into Xbox.

“Oh, Cody,” she said, and I took it as a cut.

She told me it was time to start thinking big, so I pointed at my all-world woody and asked, “You mean big like this?” She laughed and gave it a squeeze, which got my hopes flying, but then she started talking about inner journeys and the hand of fate.

I kept trying to pull off her skinny jeans but she wouldn’t go for it. She did unbutton her top, which was pretty sweet. There were more freckles than I remembered but who cares.

“Don’t you have any big dreams?” she asked, but offhand I couldn’t come up with any.

“Well, you should, Cody. You’re a sharp young man, an A student back in the day.”

It’s not easy to have a seriously deep conversation when you’ve got a purple hard-on that could cut a diamond. I told Ms. Chase there was a new Chipotle’s opening up on North Utica and I was thinking about putting in for day manager.

“No,” she said. “You’re coming with me.”

And that’s what I did.

Yancy handed the transcript back to Montenegro, who said the sheriff’s office was holding the iPad on which the diary was stored. One of the road deputies had confiscated it from the rental car.

“I knew that fuckwit was keeping a journal,” Yancy said. “Should I go see Bonnie?”

The lawyer said he didn’t care. “Bonnie’s not her name, dude.”

“Well, ‘Plover’ is unacceptable. I can’t bring myself to say it.”

“And you had no knowledge of her true identity while you were balling her?”

“The last time we were together is the first time she told me.”

“And of course you felt no obligation to notify the police—or your long-suffering counsel.” Montenegro rubbed both hands on his shaven orb. He was more expansive than usual but no less jaundiced. “I probably could get her six months and probation for the arson, if she wasn’t already on the lam for a sex felony. Oklahoma hasn’t decided whether to extradite, but I spoke to an Agent Weiderman—”

“Yes, we’ve met,” Yancy said.

“Not a bad guy. We discussed the problems with the Tulsa case, now that Mr. Parish intends to become a published author. This new diary of escapades won’t be helpful to the prosecution.”

“Listen, should I go see her or not?”

“You’re not as pissed as I thought you’d be.”

“I am highly pissed. Supremely pissed.”

“She’s determined to plead insanity,” Montenegro said. “Says she torched the house only because she was deranged by her passion for you. Another celestial mystery, but there you fucking have it.”

“For Christ’s sake, Monty, she’s not insane.”

“How would you know? I mean, of all people.” The lawyer yawned. “See what you set in motion, Andrew, by sleeping with this unreliable person. The dominoes continue to fall—on my desk, unfortunately.”

“Have you talked to Bonnie’s husband?”

“The board-certified physician you assaulted at Mallory Square? Seems like eons ago. No, I haven’t spoken to Dr. Witt because he’s presently in ICU at Sarasota Memorial Hospital exhibiting the cognitive capacity of an artichoke. He was found nude from the waist down, hanging from a peewee basketball hoop at the local Kiwanis park. This was four-thirty a.m., some rookie cop called it in as a suicide attempt, which it wasn’t. The bottle of virgin olive oil being a key clue. Also, the cashmere choke collar.”

“Is he going to die?” Yancy asked.

“The family says the doctor’s chances for recovery are about the same as the chances of him paying for his estranged wife’s legal defense, which is to say remote. Go see her if you want but, here, read this first.”

It was more lovesick rubbish from Cody Parish.

Dear Diary,

Ms. Chase is gone! She left the Best Western to take a walk, and came back in a rental car. I begged her to stay but I could only watch helplessly as she packed her bag.

“Don’t you love me anymore?” I cried.