Bad Monkey

The next morning he phoned Palm Aviation Options in Boca Raton and told the leasing agent where the Caravan could be found. The man was displeased to learn that the aircraft was way down in Colombia. Sending a person to retrieve it would be inconvenient and expensive.

“Your client’s glad to pay,” Claspers said, and read off the numbers on his former employer’s gold AmEx.

“Thank you, but I should speak directly with Mr. Grunion.”

“He’s a busy guy,” Claspers said.

“And who are you? I didn’t get your name.”

“Nobody special. I’m fond of that seaplane is all.”

The leasing agent put down the phone and turned to the men sitting in his office.

“Speak of the devil,” he said. “The aircraft you were asking about is in South America when it’s supposed to be in the Bahamas. Can somebody please tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“Sorry,” said Special Agent Liske.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” added Special Agent Strumberg.

There was a fundamental disagreement about the future of Driggs. Egg wanted to twist the little monster’s head off. The Dragon Queen wanted him found and brought back alive.

“Dot’s my sweet pink boy,” she said warmly.

“Ain’t no boy. Dot’s a goddamn wild-ass monkey.”

The Dragon Queen told Egg to quit talking that way or she would unleash a black curse on his soul. She ordered him to search the island and made him take one of the meerschaum pipes, packed with Dunhill, which she said Driggs would be unable to resist.

Now Egg sat by himself at the conch hut wondering what to do. He didn’t strictly believe in Caribbean magic, but the woman possessed some kind of mystic power. What else would account for him being seduced by such a moldy-smelling crone?

Since the night of the storm Egg had been avoiding sex due to the tender state of his cock, which the monkey had mauled like an ear of corn. Tumescence was a hydraulic impossibility, yet the Dragon Queen gave Egg no sympathy, pestering him crudely whenever he stopped by. At first he’d been merely annoyed but now he was worried. The girl behind the bar had confirmed the eerie story told to Egg by Driggs’s owner—three young men on the island had died shortly after breaking off a romance with the ill-tempered old witch. Poison was the rumor.

Egg decided the monkey man was right—it was time to move on. Soon he’d be out of a job, anyway. Grunion was in deep shit with the American authorities, his days as a Bahamas real estate tycoon running out. Even before the stabbing the man had been obnoxious, a loud racist bastard. Egg didn’t care what happened to him.

Nassau beckoned—not only the girls but the air-conditioning. There was always a bar or a tourist hotel where you could cool off. Here on Lizard Cay the grip of deep summer was unbreakable; the conch shack’s ceiling fan had only one blade. In the absence of casino income the puny island’s infrastructure doddered; two-thirds of the power poles knocked down by the hurricane still lay where they’d fallen. Even when the electricity worked, the trailer on the construction site was a toaster oven, the prehistoric wall unit blowing warm, dog-fart air. Egg couldn’t get any sleep there, and now he was too creeped out to crash at the Dragon Queen’s.

So, after three beers and a shrimp hoagie, he made up his mind to fly home and valet cars at Atlantis, until something easier came along.

“Mr. Ecclestone.”

Egg spun himself on the stool. “Wot hey, mon.”

It was a fellow named Weech, who’d been a rookie guard at Fox Hill prison when Egg worked there. Now Weech was with the Royal Bahamas Defence Force, which Egg knew was more than a navy. The RBDF did big cases with the American DEA and FBI.

“You here chasin’ druggers?” Egg asked lightly.

Weech wore full camos, boots, wraparound shades and a black beret. He was carrying an assault rifle with a jumbo clip. Egg noticed that he’d bulked up and lost his sense of humor. Weech said he’d received information that a suspected murderer from Florida was living with his wife near Rocky Town. The American was using the name Grunion and, although he was missing an arm, he was described as extremely dangerous.

“No shit?” Egg said.

“Dey say you woik fuh ’im.”

“I juss quit.”

“You smot fella,” said Weech.

Three other RBDF officers appeared, every one as muscled and heavily armed as Weech. Egg looked toward the harbor but he didn’t see the government patrol boat. They must have used a different dock.

Weech was studying a printout. “De house is on Bannister Point,” he said. “He’s up dere now? Don’t lie.”

“You gon grob ’im?”

“Yah, mon. Soon as my orders from Nassau come tru.” Weech skimmed the paperwork again. “Where’s his floatplane? It’s not at Moxey’s.”

Egg said, “Plane’s gone. He pissed off ’bout dot, too.”

Weech and the other officers stepped away, into the sunlight, to converse out of earshot. Egg thought their balls must be roasting in those combat uniforms.