Bad Monkey

Mendez was suspicious, but there seemed no harm in listening. His wife came out complaining that the garbage disposal was jammed again. She was heading straight to Home Depot to purchase a new one, and for the errand she’d dressed in a short canary-yellow tennis ensemble.

Yancy said, “You are lookin’ good, Muriel.”

“Thank you. This is Stella McCartney—Johnny says it cost too much but I say he’s a lucky duck.” She laughed, a jungle hooting that spooked a pair of mockingbirds from the cherry hedge.

Yancy said, “He is the luckiest of lucky ducks. Don’t let him give you any shit.”

Mendez felt like shooting both of them. After his wife drove off he showed Yancy the pistol and told him to start talking fast, or else. Yancy punched him in the gut, shoved him inside the door and whisked the .38 from his pants.

“What kind of drooling moron threatens a man who’s just offered him an easy five grand? Don’t answer, Johnny Boy, that’s rhetorical.”

Mendez was bent double, huffing to catch his breath. Yancy helped him into a BarcaLounger and laid out the arrangement.

“Tomorrow there’s going to be an item in the Key West newspaper—you should look it up online. It’ll say Crime Stoppers is offering five thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest of the person or persons who murdered a man named Charles Phinney in Key West. I’d appreciate it if you call that hotline number, Johnny, and tell them who did it. Strictly as a concerned citizen, you understand.”

Mendez, still clutching his midsection, was wary. “You know the killer, how come you don’t call up for the reward?”

“Because I might end up as a witness in the case. It wouldn’t go over so good with the jury if they knew I benefited financially from the defendant’s capture. His lawyers would cut me to ribbons, am I right?”

“Only if you’re dumb enough to tell ’em the truth.”

Yancy emptied the bullets from the gun and tossed it back to Mendez, just like in the movies.

“Johnny, I picked you for three reasons: experience, experience, experience. Nobody can work Crime Stoppers like you,” Yancy said. “The killer’s name is Nicholas Stripling. He’s hiding out in the Bahamas. It’s all right here.”

Yancy handed Mendez a paper that listed every important detail, from the suspect’s DOB to his alias to the color Jeep he was driving. It was more like a dossier than a tip. Mendez knew that the cops in the Keys couldn’t brush it off as a crackpot lead. There would have to be a follow-up.

He said, “They don’t catch him, I don’t get any money. You’re aware how that works.”

“Then what—you wasted a phone call? Big deal.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Stripling is the right man, Johnny. Everything I’m giving you is gold. Plus he’s only got one arm, which is what the Wanted posters would call a noticeable feature.”

“Okay, yeah. But I still don’t believe you won’t be takin’ a cut.”

“All I want,” Yancy said, “is to see this shithead in handcuffs. That’s it. That’s all.”

“Guy who died—he was a friend of yours or something?”

“Never met him. Just some kid worked on a fishing boat.”

Mendez thought about it from all angles, and he really couldn’t see a downside to making the call. He’d get a code number, like all the tipsters; nobody would ask his name.

And the five grand would cover most of Muriel’s chin work.

“One thing you didn’t tell me,” he said. “Who put up the reward?”

Yancy looked amused. “You never cared before.”

“Don’t be a douche. Is it the dead kid’s family came up with the money?”

“You’ll love this,” said Yancy. “It’s the Russian mob.”

Twenty-nine

The airstrip outside Barranquilla was stubbled with weeds from years of disuse, although the pale Moorish villa looked the same as Claspers remembered it. He circled back toward the coast and set the Caravan down on a flat sapphire bay. After mooring to a crab pot he dove from the starboard pontoon and swam to shore, where he flagged down a taxi, which took him first to a liquor store and then to the countryside.

His clothes were still damp when he knocked on the tall carved door. Donna was more breathtaking than ever, as he’d known she would be. He said he’d been shocked to hear of her husband’s death, such a terrible crime, and then he asked if she’d remarried. She said no and invited him to come inside. Her English was still very good. He was careful not to throw his arms around her until he was sure she was alone. He iced the bottle of Dom and then she led him up the stairs.

Later, sitting in the twilight on the bedroom balcony, they drank the champagne and watched a pair of emerald-colored parrots courting in the treetops. When Donna asked if he was still in the business, Claspers laughed and said no, not for a long, long time.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Dropping off an airplane.”

“When are you going back?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You need a pilot?”