Bad Monkey

Still, instead of a dog Yancy would have preferred to be holding the Glock, which he’d left at home in Florida knowing the Bahamian Customs officials took a dour view of firearms in one’s luggage. Even with Tillie in his arms Yancy’s kneecaps remained vulnerable to a shotgun blast. The pup would be airborne before Yancy hit the ground, giving Stripling clear aim for a kill shot.

That option seemed to dawn on Nick just as his wife stepped in front of Yancy and the dog. The span of her hips, worthy of Rubens, made it practically impossible for her husband to shoot around her. “Tell him to drop the gun,” Yancy said to Eve, “or I’ll pop poor Tillie’s head off.”

For drama he flexed his fingers around the stem-like neck of her pooch.

“He’s lying!” Stripling boomed.

“What do you care about her, anyway?” Eve cried. Then, spinning back to Yancy: “Don’t hurt her, please, she has a renal condition. Let’s talk this through.”

“You heard what I did to Dr. Clifford Witt, the noted dermatologist. It was all over the Internet.” Yancy wanted her to believe he was capable of blithe atrocities. “Eve, I’m going to ask one more time—where is Rosa?”

“Rosa’s fine. Maybe we can make a trade.”

“Shut your goddamn trap!” Stripling said to his wife, an unproductive approach.

She flipped him off, a robust salutation over one shoulder. Then she told Yancy that she’d lead him straight to Rosa if he freed her treasured companion.

“Only when I see Rosa alive,” Yancy countered. It was difficult to preserve a threatening countenance, as Tillie was now licking his knuckles.

Craning to see past his wife, Stripling swore wildly and proclaimed that Yancy was a lying cocksucker. Stripling was hollering to be heard over the wind, which in a matter of moments had accelerated to a gale that wobbled all of them. Yancy firmed his hug on the dog to keep her from sailing away. Eve was backlit by one of the floodlights, her reddish hair dancing like an electric mop; she cupped both hands binocular-style around her eyes, for protection. The rain beat down in gusting, horizontal lashes.

“Get out of the way!” Stripling bellowed at Eve.

“No, Nicky, we’re gonna do a trade!”

“The hell we are!”

Yancy wasn’t surprised that Stripling refused to go along with the hostage exchange. His thoughts shifted toward escape, knowing he could outrun the lopsided mook. The shotgun had a limited range of lethality that wouldn’t be improved by the fierce weather conditions.

Yet Yancy hesitated to flee, thinking: Once I get away from here, how do I save Rosa? Most likely she was being confined somewhere inside the Striplings’ house.

If they hadn’t already killed her.

The opportunity to bolt was lost when Stripling, on the edge of rage, used the twin barrels of the Beretta to somewhat firmly prod his wife. She slipped on the wet grass and fell, the sight causing Tillie to begin yipping in dismay.

Stripling shouted his intentions to shoot Yancy’s legs off, at which point Yancy lowered the miniature dog from chest level to groin level. Nick’s expression never changed, even as he strained with his lone arm to keep the weapon level. He seemed fully committed to pulling the trigger, Tillie or no Tillie.

Meanwhile Eve was on her knees frantically clapping at the dog, imploring her to jump. The waterlogged lump began to wriggle and whine in Yancy’s arms.

“Oh fine,” he said, and he placed her on the ground.

Tillie faithfully scrambled into the emotional clinch of Eve, who shouted up at Yancy: “Thank you!”

Then, to her husband: “Okay, Nicky, now kill him!”

Among Yancy’s final regrets, the most unforgivable was allowing Rosa Campesino to meet alone with a pair of known murderers. She’d been so amped about going undercover like a real cop, so calm and radiantly sure of herself—still, he should have said forget it, baby, we’ll try something else. But he’d never learned to say no to the women in his life, even on those occasions when he was right—a fatal weakness, it turned out.

One lame, last stall for time: Yancy pointed at the dripping Beretta and yelled through sheets of rain: “Nick, I bet the shells got wet!”

“Let’s find out, asswipe.” The man looked unfazed, unworried.

Taking a breath, Yancy braced for the flash of the shotgun. He considered shutting his eyes, but that seemed like something a doomed monk would do. Yancy wasn’t so spiritual or serene; nothing about death appealed to him.

So he folded his arms, directed a necrotic glare at Stripling and said: “Fuck you, Stumpy.”

The response from Eve’s husband was a gummy grin that showcased flawless white veneers, top and bottom, doubtlessly paid for by the Medicare trust fund. As an honest restaurant inspector Yancy could never afford a smile so luminous, and he dolefully assumed this would be the last thing he ever saw—the ill-gotten, high-end dentition of his killer.

Next came a loud crack, though it wasn’t from the Beretta.

And it wasn’t Yancy who went down hard in the rain.