Robert Crais - The Monkey

Poitras sipped more of the coffee. “Sometimes you think like a pretty good cop.”

“We all have our weak moments.”

Poitras nodded. “You think Duran wants the dope that bad?”

“I don’t think he cares about the dope at all. He’s pissed that someone would steal from him in his own home. He’s got a highly developed sense of territory.”

Poitras smiled crookedly. “Macho.”

I nodded.

Poitras said, “Yeah, me and you are thinking along the same lines. Maybe I can help you with the dope. I’ll see. I’ll have to run it up the line and get it okayed.”

“Up the line through Baishe?”

“You don’t make it to lieutenant without something on the ball, Hound Dog. Even Baishe.”

“My confidence is bolstered.”

“That’s all we care about down at the PD, keepin’ you confident.” He folded up his note pad, slipped it in his back pocket, and headed toward the door. “Come around first thing tomorrow and we’ll work this thing out. If anything happens between now and then, let me know. When things start to break it’ll be tricky. You’ll have to play it our way.”

“Can’t we do it professionally instead?”

Poitras grinned hard and without humor. He said, “You know something, Hound Dog? It sounded to me like Duran maybe thought you and he had an understanding. Now you break out the woman and kill a couple of his soldiers. He’s probably gonna be pissed. He might even come after you.”

“There’s Pike.”

Poitras’ face went dead. He opened the door and stepped out. “You got lousy taste in partners.”

“Who else would put up with me?”

I stood in the door until Poitras drove away. Off to the left I heard the cat growl, and Joe Pike answer, “Good cat.”

I showered and shaved, then went through the house dousing the extra lights that I had turned on for Ellen Lang. The house was quiet, warm in the gold light from the lamp beside the couch, and comfortable. There were books on the shelves that I liked to read and reread, and prints and originals on the walls that I liked to look at. Like the office, I was proud of it. Like the office, it was the result of a process and the process was ongoing. The house lived, as did the person within it. Upstairs, Ellen Lang shifted under the covers.

I got six aspirin from the powder room, ate them, then got my sleeping bag from the entry closet, spread it on the couch, and stretched out. My head rocked from side to side, floating on the scotch, and started to spin. I sat up.

It was too late for the final sports recap. Too late for Ted Koppel. Maybe I could luck into a rerun of Howard Hawks’ The Thing with Ken Tobey. When I was a boy, Ken Tobey kept the monsters away. He battled things from other worlds and creatures from the bottom of the sea and prehistoric beasts and he always won. Ken Tobey fought the monsters and kept us safe. He always won. That was the trick. Any jerk can get his ass creamed.

The cat came in a little while later, jumped onto the couch next to me, stepped into my lap, and began to purr. His fur was chill from having been out. I petted him. And petting him, fell asleep.

I dreamed I was in a hot dusty arena and Domingo Duran, replete with Suit of Lights, was advancing toward me, little sword before him and cape extended. The crowd was cheering, and beautiful women threw roses. I figured I was supposed to be the bull, but when I looked down I saw my regular arms and my regular feet. Where the hell was the bull? Just then, Duran’s cape flew up and a dark, satanic bull charged me. Not just any bull. This one wore mukluks and sealskin boots. When I dream, you don’t have to hop the Concorde to Vienna to figure it out. Just as the bull was about to horn me with something looking suspiciously like a harpoon, I felt myself spinning out of the arena, spinning up and up until I was awake in my still-dark house.

Ellen Lang stood at the glass doors, her back to me, arms at her sides, staring down into Hollywood. Beside me the cat shifted, out of it. Some watchcat.

I listened to the house, listened to my breath. She never moved. After a while I said, quietly so as not to startle her, “We’ll find him.”

She turned. Her face was shadowed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

She made a little sound in her throat and came over to the big chair by the couch. She didn’t sit. I had fallen asleep on top of the sleeping bag and was cold but didn’t want to move. I could see her face now, blue in the moonlight.

She looked out at Hollywood, then down at me. She said, “They wouldn’t believe me. I told them I didn’t know what they were talking about but they just kept asking. Then they brought in Perry. They kept saying I knew and I had to tell them, and they kept slapping him and feeling me and saying that they would rape me in front of Perry, and that I had better tell them. I thought of you. I told them I thought you had it.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I’m ashamed of myself. It wasn’t right.”

I lifted the cat, sat up, then put the cat back down beside me.

She said, “Would you like coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“If you’re hungry, I could make something.”

I shook my head. “If I want anything, I’ll get it. But thank you.”

She nodded and curled up in the big chair across from me, her feet tucked under her.

I said, “Would you like me to turn on a light?”

“If it’s what you want.”

I left the light off.

After a while the cat stood up, stretched, turned in a circle, and lay back down. He said, roawmph. Ellen said, “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“I don’t. He lives here because I’m easy to sucker for beer and food. Don’t try to pet him. He’s mean and he bites.”

She smiled, her teeth blue in the reflected moonlight.

“Besides that, he’s dirty and he carries germs.”

Her smile widened for an instant, then faded.

We sat some more. Outside, another police helicopter flew very low up the canyon and over the house. When I was little we lived near an air base and I was terrified that the airplanes and helicopters would scare away Santa Claus. Years later, in Vietnam, I grew to like the sound. It meant someone was coming to save me.

Ellen Lang said quietly, “I don’t know if there’s any money. I don’t know if I can feed the children. I don’t know if I can pay for the house or the school or any of those things.”

“I’ll check the insurance for you. If worse comes to worst, you can sell the house. You would sell Mort’s car, anyway. The kids can go to public schools. You’ll adapt. You’ll do all right and so will the kids.”

She sat very still. “I’ve never been alone before.”

“I know.” The helicopter looped back and disappeared toward the reservoir. I wondered if Joe Pike was watching it. “You’ve got the children. There’s me. When it’s over doesn’t mean you never see me again.”

She nodded.

“I’m a full-service op. I provide follow-up service and yearly maintenance just like Mr. Goodwrench.”

She nodded again.

“Just like the Shell Answer Man.”

She didn’t respond. This stuff would kill’m in the Comedy Store. Maybe she only laughed at cat jokes. I looked at the cat. He offered little inspiration.

“There’s even Janet.”

“Who reinforces my lousy self-image?”

“Keep you humble.”

She said, “You’re sweet, trying to cheer me up like this. Thank you.”

We sat. Ellen stared out the window. I stared at Ellen. Her hair was dry and brushed out and offset her small narrow face nicely. The pale light softened her features and I could see the girl back in Kansas, a nice girl who’d be great to bring to a football game on a cold night, who’d sit close to you and jump up when the home team scored and who’d feel good to hug. After a very long time, she said softly, “It must be beautiful, living up here.”