Bad Monkey

He parked on Eaton Street and made his way to Duval. Even in the dead of summer it was crawling with overfed tourists courtesy of the cruise ships, which Yancy considered a vile and ruinous presence in the harbor. After grabbing a beer at the Margaritaville café he began searching the T-shirt shops for Madeline, girlfriend of the late Charles Phinney. He found her at a place called Chest Candy, which aggressively catered to strippers, transvestites and aspiring nymphomaniacs. The display window featured a blond-wigged mannequin wearing a diaphanous tank top with sequined lettering that said: CUM TOGETHER.

Again Madeline spooked when she saw Yancy, only this time there was no place to run. She yelled for the store manager, a sallow twit named Pestov who vanished as soon as Yancy inquired about his immigration status.

After locking the front door behind himself, Yancy cornered Madeline and asked what the hell was going on.

“I got a lawyer! So watch it.”

“Why do you need a lawyer?”

She said, “You told me you weren’t a cop.”

“I said not at the moment.”

Some dork wearing Teva sandals and black socks started rattling the doorknob. Yancy shooed her away. “Tell me what’s going on,” he said to Madeline.

“The cops think I set Charlie up to get ripped off.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Three times they had me in for questioning. What’d you tell them? Jesus, I need a smoke.”

Yancy said, “The police never even interviewed me.”

Madeline’s hands were trembling as she lighted up. “I’m gonna lose my damn job.”

“They’d be doing you a favor.”

She said, “I wouldn’t never hurt Charlie. He treated me good.”

“I believe you, Madeline. But I can’t help unless you tell me the truth. So let’s start over, okay?”

“Not here,” she whispered, glancing behind her. “The Russians, man!”

“Screw the Russians.” Yancy poked his face into the back room and said, “Yo, Madeline’s taking the afternoon off.”

“Is fine,” Pestov muttered sullenly from a closet.

“Thank you, comrade. And God bless America!”

Yancy drove Madeline out to Stoney’s, which naturally had been her and Phinney’s all-time favorite restaurant. They took a two-top in a corner and from the unkempt server Yancy was pleased to learn Brennan was away in Homestead, probably stocking up on frozen tilapia that would later be promoted to fresh swordfish on the menu.

Madeline asked for a vodka tonic and Yancy ordered a Coke.

She said, “I lied. I don’t really have a lawyer.”

“They tend to charge a fee.”

“Which I have about forty bucks to my name.”

“What have the cops told you?” Yancy asked.

“I got a record is the problem. Grand theft a long time ago, shoplifting, whatever. Plus they found out I’m way behind on my Visa card and also my rent, so I guess they think I lined up someone to shoot Charlie and take a cut of the cash. But I didn’t!”

Yancy believed Madeline, for he knew more about the murder investigation than she did. One of his fishing pals was a city police lieutenant who’d told him that the rented moped used in the robbery had been wiped totally clean of prints, even the gas cap and side mirrors, demonstrating an attention to detail not common among the local dirtbag element. The killer’s weapon hadn’t been found but the .357 shell casings and bullet fragments belonged to 158-grain Winchester hollow points, a premium load for a low-rent street crime.

Yancy said, “Tell me again how much cash Phinney was carrying.”

Madeline paused before answering. “Maybe twelve hundred bucks?”

“Last time you said it was a grand.”

“Well, I didn’t go through his fucking wallet and count it!” She took a slurp of vodka.

“You also told me he got the money from a dope deal.” Yancy was watching her eyes, which flitted everywhere but in his direction. “Who was he selling to, Madeline?”

“I never met the dude. What difference does it make?”

“Maybe Charlie overcharged him. Or maybe the stuff turned out to be stinkweed and the customer got pissed off.”

“No, no, that’s not it,” she said. “Everybody in town knew Charlie was carrying that money. He wouldn’t stop talkin’ about it. They probably followed us to the Half Shell that night and waited outside.”

Over the years Yancy had interviewed enough witnesses to know when one was winging it. Usually they were just trying to cover their own asses, a practice also favored by law enforcement professionals although Yancy had never quite gotten the hang of it. He told Madeline she had two minutes to come clean, and right away she began to shake and cry. Yancy scooted his chair closer and put an arm around her.

“Everything I told the cops is true except about the cash,” she said. “Charlie didn’t get it from sellin’ grass.”

“Did he steal it from someone?”

“No! He would never.” Her breath was stale and her hair smelled like an ashtray.

“Then where’d he get the money, Madeline?”

She pawed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin. “It’s pretty fucked up,” she said.

“I need to know before I can help.”

“But you’re not even a real cop.”