Robert Crais - The Monkey

She shook her head once like back at the house, and looked at me with dulled eyes. I peeled off my jacket, put it around her shoulders, then leaned my head back on the seat. My heart was hammering. Outside on Franklin, night-time Hollywood traffic edged past. A tall skinny kid wearing an old Stetson and a threadbare Levi jacket thumbed for a ride. The Exxon attendant leaned against the gas pump, staring at us, probably wondering what the hell we were doing over in the shadows, probably thinking maybe he should walk over and see, probably deciding nope, this is Hollywood. The attendant went into a service bay.

I closed my eyes. I’d killed one man for sure and probably another. The cops would have to come in, and they wouldn’t like it. I didn’t much like it myself.

I heard her say, “Mort’s dead, isn’t he?”

I turned my head to see her. “Yes.”

“Did he steal those drugs like they said?”

“I don’t know.”

She nodded once more, and that was it. We stayed in the shadows on the side of the Exxon station for a long time. Then I restarted the Corvette, pulled into traffic, and drove slowly toward Laurel Canyon.

The Corvette moved easily up the mountain. When cars came up behind us, I steered into turnouts to let them pass. At the far edge of the passenger seat, Ellen Lang sat huddled in the jacket, eyes forward, as I told her what I knew. She only spoke twice. Once to ask me about the girls, and once to answer “no” when I told her the girls were with Janet and asked if she wanted me to bring her there.

We pulled into the carport, killed the engine, and went into the kitchen through the carport door. When we were inside she asked me to please be sure to lock the door, so I had her watch me throw the bolt. I went out to the living room for a bottle of Glenlivet and a couple of glasses that looked like they were made for something besides jam. When I got back she was holding one of my R.H. Forschner steak knives. I put ice into each glass, filled them with the scotch, then pried the steak knife out of her hand and replaced it with a glass. “Drink this, then I’ll show you what we have.”

I dumped mine back, threw out the ice, then refilled the glass and downed that, too. You can’t beat Glenlivet for the smooth mellow glow it gives you, especially after you kill some people. I felt my nose and eyes fill and something large in my throat and I thought I was going to burst. But I bit down on it and managed some more of the scotch and it passed. When she had taken half of hers I led her through the house, first the dining area and living room and powder room on the main floor, then the loft bed above and the master bath. The bottle of scotch went with us. I turned on every light in each room and left it on. We looked in closets and in the storage space under the platform bed. I showed her that the windows and the front door and the sliding glass doors were all locked and I showed her the red light that meant the burglar alarm was armed. When we finished the tour upstairs by the master bath I refilled her drink and said, “You can bathe in here. I’ve got an oversized hot-water heater, so use all you want. There’s buttermilk soap and shampoo in the cabinet and extra towels under the sink.” I went out to the closet and brought back the big white terry robe. “You can wear this. If you’d rather have some clothes, I’ve got a sweat shirt and some jogging shorts that a friend left over. They should fit.”

“Where will you be?”

“In the kitchen. I have to make a call, and then I’ll make us something to eat.”

She thanked me and shut the door. I waited until I heard the water running, then the scotch and I went back to the kitchen. I took off my pistol, put it on the counter, then went into the bathroom and plucked my face. It was like playing buried treasure with a needle and a bright light. I dug out six little pieces of wood, washed, dabbed on alcohol, then looked at myself in the mirror. No permanent damage. At least nothing that you could see.

Back out in the kitchen, I refilled my glass, then dialed Lou Poitras at home. He said, “Do you know what time it is? I got kids in bed.”

“Ellen Lang’s over here. To get her I had to kill a couple of guys up in Beachwood Canyon, in a house just under the Hollywood sign.”

Lou said, “Hold on.” There was a knocking sound, like the receiver had been put down on a table, then nothing, then some scuffing sounds as the phone was picked up, then a little girls voice, giggling. “Judy bit my heiny.”

An extension was lifted and Poitras yelled he had it. A hang-up, and it was just me and Lou again. He said, “You get the boy, too?”

“No.”

“You home?”

“Yeah.”

“Does this have anything to do with you asking about Domingo Duran?”

“Yes.”

Another pause, this one the kind when the background static becomes real noise. Then he said, “You’re an asshole, Elvis. I’m on my way.”

He hung up. I hung up. I sipped the scotch. Asshole. That Lou. What a kidder.

I called Joe Pike. He answered on the first ring, a little breathless, as if he were finishing a long run or a couple hundred push-ups. “Pike.”

I could hear his stereo system in the background. Oldies but goodies. The Doors. “It’s gotten hot,” I said. I gave him the short version.

Pike asked no questions, made no comment. “Button up,” he said. “I’m coming in.”

Pike thinks Clint Eastwood talks too much.

I took eight eggs, cream, butter, and mushrooms out of the refrigerator. I got out the big pan, put it on the stove, and was opening three raisin muffins when Ellen Lang came down and stood in the little passageway between the counter and the wall.

She was wearing the terry robe and a pair of my socks. Her hair was damp and combed out and looked clean. So did her face. She looked good. She looked younger and maybe willing to laugh if you gave her something worth laughing at. “How are you doing?” I asked.

“You must be terribly tired,” she said. “Let me do that.” She moved to the stove.

“It’s okay.” I put the muffins face up in the toaster oven.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’ve had a hard day. If you want to do something, you can make the coffee.” Her eyes had turned to poached eggs. Her smile was weak but somehow pleasant, the sort of smile you get when you practice smiling because you think you have to. Like with Mort. Only now the poached-egg eyes were rimmed with something that could have been desperation.

I smiled as if everything was fine, and stepped back out of her way. “Okay.”

She opened each cabinet, saw what was inside, then closed it and moved on. She looked over the food I had out, then put the cream back into the fridge and took peanut oil out of the cupboard. The oil and a little bit of the butter she put into the big pan. While they heated she beat the eggs with a little water, then placed the spoon neatly beside the bowl when the eggs were frothy. I could see Carrie in her. I said, “I always put in cream.”

She chopped the mushrooms. “You men. Cream makes the eggs stick. Never put cream. Would you like to shower before we eat?”

“Later, thank you.”

She moved around the kitchen as if I weren’t there, or if I was, I was somebody else. We talked, but I didn’t think she was talking to me. She was Barbara Billingsley and I was Hugh Beaumont. But not. I drank more of the scotch.

She got out two plates, forks, knives, and spoons, and brought them to the counter. She had to move the Dan Wesson to set out the plates, and stared at it before she did.

I went into the dining area to get placemats out of the buffet. When I looked at Ellen again she had picked up the gun. She held it like that, then brought it close and smelled it. I stood up. “There’re placemats and napkins,” I said.