Bad Monkey

“Except there’s no XM Radio. Bummer,” he said.

“Last night we camped on the beach at Bahia Honda.” Bonnie favored Yancy with a fond-memory wink. “A raccoon swiped our marshmallows.”

Cody said, “I chased after him but he got away.”

Yancy loaded two plates with eggs and bacon, and he slid them across the counter. Cody inquired about the possibility of a bagel.

“Cream cheese or marmalade?” Yancy asked.

The young man beamed. “Hell, yes!”

Solemnly Bonnie said, “I never stopped loving him, Andrew. You know that.”

Yancy knew no such thing, but he was savoring the plot line. “Does Clifford know Cody’s back in the picture?”

“Lord, no! He thinks you and I ran off to the Seychelles. That’s what I wrote in my good-bye note, just to throw him off.”

“For God’s sake, Bonnie.”

Cody glanced up from his plate. “ ‘Bonnie’? So who came up with that one?”

Yancy was wishing that Cody would put on a shirt. His tufted breasts were droopy and mole-covered, and Yancy spied what appeared to be a fresh bite mark above his left nipple. It was increasingly difficult to keep an open mind.

“The night before I left Cliff,” Bonnie was saying, “I walk into the bathroom and there he is, dangling from the shower faucet, flopping and gurgling and jerking on his little weenie. For a noose he used one of my Hermès scarves! I mean, seriously, Andrew, enough’s enough.”

“An intolerable situation,” Yancy agreed.

Through a cheekful of mulched bacon Cody said, “Hey, Ms. Chase. If you’re gonna be Bonnie then I’m changing my handle to Clyde!”

She laughed and squeezed his pudgy elbow. Yancy pried a scorched bagel from the toaster and dressed it to Cody’s specifications.

“So, where are you two heading?”

Bonnie said she was hoping they could stay with him. “Until the heat’s off? Please?”

Yancy told her about the visit from Agent John Wesley Weiderman. “It’s not safe here,” he added. “Also, my girlfriend wouldn’t go for it.”

“Whoa.” Bonnie hitched an eyebrow and put down her fork. “Andrew has a new lady,” she said to Cody, who was using a green-tinged thumbnail to remove a sesame seed from his teeth.

“She’s a doctor,” Yancy said.

“What kind of doctor?” asked Bonnie.

“Well, a surgeon.”

“Does she have a specialty?”

“She operates on pretty much everything.” It wasn’t a lie; when Rosa did an autopsy, she diced up the whole works.

“Funny,” Bonnie said.

“You don’t believe me.”

“No, I meant it’s ironic: I just dumped a doctor and here you’ve taken up with one.”

Through the window Yancy saw no sign of the construction workers next door. Wet weather was his ally.

Cody said, “Ms. Chase told me how you butt-plugged her hubby with a DustBuster. That’s some awesome man-shit right there.”

He reached across the counter to honor Yancy with a knuckle bump. Yancy tried to visualize the kid’s photograph in the school yearbook. From Cody’s present condition it seemed inconceivable that he could have made himself attractive to Bonnie at any age. Perhaps he had quieter charms, such as a nine-inch cock.

“May I ask you something?” Yancy said. “It’s about Ms. Chase’s trial. I read where you testified against her.”

“A suck move. Mom and Dad made me do that.”

Bonnie gently interrupted, suggesting a change of topic.

Cody went on: “The important thing is we’re back together again. Right?”

“You kept a hot little journal of your romance is what I heard,” Yancy said.

“Hey, I was fifteen. I thought I wanted to be a writer.”

Proudly Bonnie chipped in: “He was wild about Portnoy’s Complaint.”

“Well, sure.” Yancy smiled. “Cody, are you keeping a journal now?”

He reddened. “No! I mean, what for?”

“In case you two get caught. Bonnie goes to jail, all the tabloids would line up to pay big bucks for your story. But I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything like that. Who wants coffee?”

After they were gone, Yancy walked over to the spec house and set up a Santeria shrine in the future living room. Improvising, he’d chosen a handmade doll of the warrior god Changó, and for sacrificial offerings included apples, tamales, copper pennies, a dead rooster collected on Simonton Street by Animal Control and a saucer of cat blood left over from a spaying performed by a veterinarian friend. These items were laid out upon a crude satanic pentagram that Yancy had drawn in red Krylon paint on Evan Shook’s floor slab. In the center he placed a rat skull, ominously marked with the numerals 666. Students of the occult would have discounted the scene as an amateurish juxtaposition of unconnected superstitions, but Yancy believed that maintaining cultural authenticity was less important than creating a vivid first impression for potential home buyers.

At lunchtime he drove down to Stoney’s and confronted Brennan, who disclaimed responsibility for Agent John Wesley Weiderman’s emergency trip to the hospital. “The man’s got a family history of diverticulitis!”

Yancy said, “I hope he sues your ass off.”

“Sit, Andrew, sit. Try the oysters Rockefeller.”