Bad Monkey

“Axe anybotty on Lizard Cay! Go on,” Neville said. “Lisbon Jones. Duncan Roxy. Lightbourne Carter, too. All strong young fellas come under her spell and now dey stone dead. Go look in de graveyard up Prince Hill, you dont believe me.”

“I ain’t under nobody’s spell,” said Egg, without much zip.

“Listen to some hard truth, mon.”

Egg said Neville was a lying sonofabitch, but he didn’t hit him. “Somebody stobbed my boss in de back and put ’im in a wheelchair. Wot you know ’bout dot?”

“Mr. Chrissofer got stobbed?” Neville acted shocked.

“And why you hongin’ wit dot white mon, anyhow?” Egg asked.

“Wot white mon?”

“One you was wit at de old lady’s place. One who took off yest’day in boss’s plane.”

From the corner of his eye Neville caught movement—Driggs fidgeting inside the zippered satchel. Egg didn’t notice.

“Who I choose to hong wit is my bidness,” Neville said.

“Had de hawt Cuban girlfriend.”

“Yah, I know who you mean. Dot white mon? He a cop from Florida.”

Egg frowned. “A cop? No way.” Sweat was beading on his prunish little ears.

“He gon put your boss mon in a U.S. prison,” Neville said ominously. “I was you, I’d get my ahss back to Nassau look f’nudder job.”

Egg gimped off at a brisk clip. Neville finished his fritters and paid the bill. On the bike ride to the dock he stopped to open the backpack. Out squirmed Driggs, funky-smelling and carping as he climbed to Neville’s shoulder. He was having a bad time kicking the nicotine.

One of the conch boys in a Whaler took them up the skinny creek where Neville had left his boat during the hurricane. For bailing rainwater Neville had brought two bisected milk jugs. He handed one to Driggs, who hurled it back at him. He grabbed the monkey by the scurfy ruff and said, “Stop dis shit, or I drop you at Mr. Egg’s. He boil you in a goddamn stew!”

It took more than an hour to empty the water and mangrove leaves from the boat. The engine kicked over on the first try and before long they were in open water, needlefish scattering like shooting stars ahead of the bow. In a drooping diaper Driggs stood all the way up front, a single upraised paw shielding his wide eyes from the glare.

The tide was high, so Neville was able to run the flats all the way back to Rocky Town. He kept his face turned away, toward the ocean, as he passed by Christopher’s house.

Twenty-eight

Caitlin Cox was in the shower when she heard the phone ring. She hoped it was her stepmother calling to report a bounteous transfer of funds into Caitlin’s checking account. Caitlin and Simon had already listed their house and were looking for a much bigger place down in Palmetto Bay.

Two hundred grand was the amount Caitlin had been led to expect from her late father’s offshore stash. A fatter chunk would be coming a bit later, when the life insurance company paid off on Nick’s $2 million policy. Half of that was going to his one and only daughter, who could expedite its delivery (Eve had explained at their reconciliation lunch) if she quit making wild accusations about the manner of her father’s death.

And Caitlin stopped, like, right away. The anticipated windfall had brightened her attitude toward all humanity; Simon said she was like a new person. When he got home from work every morning Caitlin would have two bagels thawing for him in the toaster oven. It was like being married to a geisha!

His job was night security on a movie shoot. Swill was the name of the film, about two guys and a hot vampire chick who open a juice bar on South Beach. As a surprise Simon brought Caitlin to the set, and the coolest thing happened—they asked her to play a customer who gags on a blood-and-banana smoothie. It was a short scene, no speaking lines, but still she was over the moon.

Although Simon earned a decent wage, he and Caitlin hadn’t saved enough for a down payment on a fish tank, much less a house. For upward mobility they were relying on the money from Eve. But when Caitlin stepped out of the shower, she saw Simon holding her cell phone like it was a lit stick of dynamite.

“Is it her?” she asked.

“No, sweetheart, but you better take it.”

Andrew Yancy was on the other end, and he got straight to the point:

“Caitlin, I’ve got a heart-stopping bulletin. Your dad’s not dead.”

“This is your idea of funny? You sick mother.”

“He’s hanging with Eve in the Bahamas—I tracked him down last week. He wasn’t elated to see me, I won’t lie. There were harsh words and gunplay.”

Wrapped in a towel, Caitlin perched her bottom on the edge of a sofa. Simon was making inane hand gestures attempting to elicit information.

“I don’t believe a word you’re telling me,” Caitlin said to Yancy. “Where in the Bahamas?”

“Andros Island. He’s been using a fake name. They bought a beach, he and Eve, and they’re trying to build a resort—I’ve given all this to the FBI, by the way. Don’t waste a plane ticket, because they’re going to haul your old man back here and lock his ass up. So this is sort of a good news, bad news call, but I did promise you we’d speak again.”