Bad Monkey

The tour of the unfinished house took a while, due to Woody Spillwright’s diminished lung capacity and his wife’s endless questions. Sidestepping stacks of drywall and raw lumber, Evan Shook remained chipper and upbeat, at one point even volunteering that he could be flexible on the price. He was eager for the Spillwrights to experience the spectacular vista from the master bedroom suite—lush green mangroves veined with azure creeks and gin-clear tidal pools. And beyond: the Gulf of Mexico.

It was Evan Shook’s belief that Mr. Spillwright would be so blown away by the exotic seascape that he would make an offer on the spot, providing he didn’t collapse in a wheezing phlegm-fest before reaching the top of the steps.

Eventually they made it, Woodrow’s wife shouldering him up to the final landing. After a recuperative pause, they entered the suite like wide-eyed pilgrims. Even Mrs. Spillwright seemed dazzled as she stood in the plywood frame of the unfinished bay window, a soft salty breeze on her cheeks.

“Well,” she said. “This is really something.”

Evan Shook wore the smile of a barracuda. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“It’s paradise,” croaked Woodrow Spillwright. Dreamily he took in the cries of the terns and gulls. “How soon will it be finished?”

“Depends.” Evan Shook cocked a hopeful eye toward Ipolene. “Would you two be interested in a custom kitchen? I can show you some sketches.”

Later, after the Spillwrights had been stabilized at the emergency room in Marathon, Evan Shook would ask himself how in the name of Jesus B. Christ he’d failed to notice the humongous beehive on the suite’s interior east wall. The oozing honeycomb was immense, at least six feet high and half again as wide. Yet the bees must have been calm when Evan Shook led the Spillwrights into the bedroom—of that he was certain. Otherwise he would have heard them buzzing, there were so damn many. Thousands? Millions?

Evan Shook speculated that the swarm must have been agitated by the scent of Ipolene’s perfume, which smelled like rotting orchids. Or perhaps the insects were roused by the heat of the morning sun. For whatever reason, the savage little bastards went ballistic.

With gravity now his ally, Woodrow Spillwright descended the stairway in a humping blur, his wife yowling on his heels while slapping the bees out of her hair. Evan Shook lagged behind to flail uselessly at the angry intruders. Barely a week had passed since he’d been up to the fourth floor, but evidently enough time had passed for the bees to construct a Vegas-style hive. If only his contractor worked half as fast, Evan Shook mused bitterly, the goddamn house would have been finished a year ago.

Although he got stung thirteen times, the pain was negligible compared to his distress at losing the sale. The Carolinians hit the ground running. By the time Evan Shook caught up, they were already locked inside the Cadillac, feverishly trying to make sense of the keyless ignition. Evan Shook was tapping plaintively on the glass when the engine revved to life, and he was forced to leap clear as old Woodrow peeled out. Through the tinted windshield Ipolene could be seen shaking a bee-bitten fist.

In the driveway next door stood Andrew Yancy, a newspaper tucked under one arm. He waved amiably as the Spillwrights sped off.

“Go on. Try it,” Lombardo said.

Yancy dubiously eyed the plate. Brennan was standing by their table, waiting.

“It’s yellowtail,” he said.

“I believe you.” Yancy took a small bite. The fish had been fried whole until crispy, Cuban-style. It tasted all right.

Brennan folded his arms. “See? Ain’t it the best?”

Lombardo said, “Give us a few minutes to talk.”

When they were alone, Yancy said, “It’s not exactly fresh, Tommy.”

“Yeah, but it’s not spoiled, right? It’s not fucking contaminated.”

“Last time I was here, that asshole tried to bribe me.”

“For God’s sake, Andrew, it’s the Keys. Eat your lunch.”

Yancy’s official job description was “sanitation and safety specialist.” Tommy Lombardo had been assigned to train him, more or less. Lombardo was FDA-certified but he was also a local. Shutting down a restaurant for code violations—not cool. In his entire career on roach patrol, Lombardo had never ordered an emergency closure. He wanted Yancy to let Stoney’s Crab Palace re-open that afternoon.

“They have a thing planned for that kid who got shot. Phinney? A fund-raiser to pay for his burial. There’s a country band lined up and everything,” Lombardo said. “Have a fucking heart.”

“The food service area is a maggot festival.”

“No, they cleaned it up. Why do you think I had you drive out here on a Saturday? Brennan, he’s been working like a dog.”

“Which is probably what he’s serving for an appetizer,” Yancy said.

Lombardo was exasperated. “See, this attitude of yours? Man, just ’cause you used to be a cop.… These are hard-working people. You can’t treat ’em like criminals.”

“The law says no vermin in the kitchen.”