Bad Monkey

“She told him I had a drug problem, which I did. Ancient history. She also told him I was stealing from him, which I wasn’t. Don’t you want a drink?”

“Iced tea, thanks. How old are you, Caitlin?”

She laughed. “Almost twenty-four. I know what you’re thinking.”

“How long have you been straight?”

“Two years. Okay, nineteen months.” She picked up a menu. “How’s the swordfish?”

Yancy said, “I honestly wouldn’t know.” One of these days he’d be inspecting the hotel’s kitchen. “Most guys like your father own big life insurance policies. That’s not unusual.”

“Eve told him I was snorting heroin, which was none of her business. I was a model, okay? That stuff was everywhere. But I never stole a nickel from Dad. Now, did I run up some credit card bills? Yeah, but that’s not the same as embezzlement or fraud, whatever. Anyway, Dad cut me off so I told him to go fuck himself, and that was it. He never called me back, and I never called him. Do I feel shitty about that? Yeah, but I can’t change what happened.”

The bartender brought a tall glass of tea and some cocktail nuts. Yancy was reaching for a pecan when he thought he saw it move. He yanked away his hand and, with a straw, cautiously probed the bowl for lurking insects. None were to be found, of course. These days he was imagining crawlers everywhere, a dispiriting occupational hazard.

Caitlin said, “You some kinda germ freak?”

Yancy selected a different pecan and, in hopes of appearing normal, popped it gaily into his mouth. “Have one,” he said.

“Uh, no thanks.”

He chomped down forcefully with his molars to pulverize the nut, just in case. Caitlin checked her iPhone for messages. “There was this girl, back when I was modeling? She was from Austria, natural blonde, and she had a germ thing, like you. Every night she filled the bathtub with Purell and soaked for, like, an hour. Seriously.”

“Did you know your dad had retired?” Yancy asked.

“Is that what my stepmother told you? That lying thundercunt. Dad wouldn’t ever quit working, not ever.”

“But how would you know? You hadn’t spoken to him in years.”

She glared. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

“Nobody’s. Tell me what he did for a living.”

“Eve didn’t clue you in? He sold electric scooter chairs to old folks that can’t walk very good. So they can motor themselves from the kitchen to the bathroom, whatever. Haven’t you seen those infocommercials?”

Caitlin ordered another martini, and seemed pleased when the bartender belatedly asked to check her ID.

“They’re fast little buggers, those scooters,” she went on. “Dad mopped up, too. I mean—Florida? Hullo? There are so many geezers down here.”

Yancy had seen the TV ads late at night. In addition to the chairs’ compact turning radius, a main selling point was that elderly customers didn’t have to pay out of their own pockets; Medicare covered the cost.

It was possible that Nick Stripling had retired honestly, Yancy thought, but more likely he’d been running a scam and shut it down before the feds nailed him. That could explain the two plainclothes Ken dolls at the graveside service.

“How do you know your father didn’t just pack it in and go fishing? Sounds like a sweet retirement.”

Caitlin was adamant. “Not Dad. No way.”

“There were a couple guys at the funeral who looked like federal agents,” Yancy said. “Was Nick having any problems with the law?”

“No! I mean, I don’t think so. You should go ask Eve. Ha! Good luck with that.”

“Nobody from the government ever spoke to you?”

Caitlin fidgeted. “A few years back, when Dad and I were still tight, he had some hassles with the IRS. I mean, who doesn’t, right? But he got it all straightened out.”

Yancy asked how she’d met her husband, and she seemed perturbed that he’d changed the subject.

“Simon worked security on some of my fashion shoots. He’s the one who got me off dope. He used to be an MP in the army, did a couple tours in Iraq. But getting back to Eve, here’s something else: She’s already trying to get the court in Miami to declare Dad legally dead! That’s how bad she wants to get her slutty paws on the insurance. But Simon says it takes five years in a missing persons case.”

Yancy said, “Not if they find something.”

“Even just an arm?”

“Any persuasive evidence of death. An airplane crashes, sometimes all that’s left of a victim is a burned wallet or a shoe or a shred of skin. That’s enough for most judges. They won’t make a family wait five whole years.”

Caitlin was getting more peeved. “What the fuck is your problem? Everything I say, you knock it down. How much did Eve pay you?”

“I’m holding out for new Michelins on the Subaru.”

“She murdered my father for two million bucks, okay? Any jackass can figure that out.”

“Dial it down,” Yancy said. He nodded at the bartender, who smoothly retreated. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Caitlin. I’m saying you need more proof if you want the cops to get fired up.”

She raised her hands. “I thought you were the cops.”