Robert Crais - The Monkey

He said, “You think I’m letting you upstairs with the piece, forget it.”

He was good. The way I’m built, most people never see the gun under the light jacket I wear. I grinned and spread the jacket. He reached across, fingered it out, and put it under his desk. “It’ll be here when you come down,” he said.

“Sure.”

“When you get out of the elevator, turn right, then right again.”

I took the elevator up to six, got out into the H-shaped hall, turned right, then right again by a little gold sign that said 601 amp; 603». Blue-gray carpet, white walls, cream light fixtures, Italian moderne artwork. It was so hushed and so clean and so sterile, I wondered if people really lived there. Maybe just androids, or people so old they stayed in bed all day and fed from tubes. I thought of Keir Dullea as an old man in 2001.

At the end of the hall a blond man stood in the door to 601 waiting for me. He was blond the way straw blonds are blond, so light it was almost white. He wore a white LaCoste shirt and white slacks and white deck shoes, all of which made his dark tan look even darker. On the young side, maybe 24, with a boyish face, and built the way you’re built when you lift for strength rather than bulk. Like Pike. Unlike Pike, he was short, not over five-eight.

“Mr. Fein?” I said.

“I’m Charles. Are you from Mr. Rice?” His voice was higher pitched than you would’ve guessed, and soft, like a sensitive fourteen-year-old’s. Five-eight was short for this kind of work.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to give this to Mr. Fein.”

Charles took the envelope, opened the door, and stepped to the side to let me in. The first two knuckles of each hand were large and swollen, the way they get doing push-ups on them and pounding sacks of rice and breaking boards. Maybe five-eight wasn’t so much of a problem for him.

We went through a blue-tiled entry, down two steps, and into a room not quite the size of Pauley Pavillion. It was very bright, the outer wall all glass and opening out on a balcony lush with greenery. The glass was open and, very faintly, you could hear the cars below like a whisper. The place was done in pastels: gray and blue and raspberry and white. The tile gave way to carpets, and ultramodern Italian furniture sprouted up out of the carpet. Barry Fein was sipping cognac at a hammered-copper bar. The copper clashed horribly with the pastels. So did Barry. He was short and skinny and dark, with close-to-the-skull hair and furry arms and furry, bandy legs. He was wearing red plaid Bermuda shorts and a dark blue tee shirt that said RKO Pictures. There was a hole in the shirt on his left shoulder. He was barefoot.

He said, “You the guy from Gary?” Charles gave him the envelope.

“Indiana?”

He looked at me, cocking his head. “Garrett Rice, stupid. Gary. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

“Well, not really.”

“Whattaya mean, not really?” He finished the cognac, then refilled the snifter from a bottle of Courvoisier. There was a hard pack of Marlboros and a heavy Zippo lighter beside the bottle and a large marble ashtray filled with butts. Maybe I could introduce him to Janet Simon and they could have a smoke-off.

Barry Fein opened the envelope and looked in and saw Ronald McDonald. “What the fuck is this?”

I said, “Can I get my wallet out and show you something?”

Charles put his fists on his hips and stared at me thoughtlessly. Barry said, “Aw, shit, you ain’t a cop, are you?”

“Unh-unh.” I got out my wallet, went over to the bar, and showed him my license. “It’s very important that I find out if Garrett Rice has tried to sell you two kilograms of cocaine.”

Barry grinned at me and looked at Charles. “Is this guy serious or what?”

Charles smiled benignly. Perhaps repartee was beyond him.

I said, “Listen to me. I’m sorry I used a ruse to get up here, but I didn’t think you’d see me if I played it straight. I’m not here to bring you trouble. Garrett Rice may have stolen two kilograms of lab-quality cocaine from a very bad man. Now that man wants it back and he’s holding a little boy hostage. I think if Garrett stole the dope he’ll try to move it. You’re a guy he might move it through.”

Barry Fein shrugged and jerked his head at Charles. “Get rid of’m.”

I looked at Charles. “I’m in a rush here, Barry. He won’t be able to do it.”

Barry shrugged again. Charles whistled sharply between his teeth, and a moment later another Charles walked in from the balcony with a watering can. Five-eight, blond, muscled, white shirt and pants and shoes. Twins all the way down to the big knuckles.

Barry said, “Jonathan, we got some trouble here.”

Jonathan set the watering can down and came over to stand a little in front of me, Charles a little behind. They stood with their feet spread for balance and their hands loose at their sides. Jonathan had the same perfect skin and vacant eyes as Charles. Idiot angels. The two of them reminded me of the kids down in Westwood who thought they were tough. Only these guys weren’t down in Westwood. And they probably were tough.

“Attractive, Barry,” I said. “Bet they’re great in bed, too.”

Charles said, “It’s time to leave,” and stepped in to take my arm. I threw Barry’s snifter of Courvoisier on Charles. Jonathan hit me hard twice, not as hard as he should’ve because I was moving, but hard enough to hurt. I shoved Barry off his stool, making Jonathan hop back to keep from getting bowled over. Charles was coming at me sideways and planting for a spin kick when I grabbed the big Zippo and set him on fire. The Courvoisier went off with a blue alcohol whoosh. Charles screamed and slapped at his face and dropped to the carpet. Jonathan yelled, “Hey!” and forgot about me. He tried to turn Charles onto his belly to smother the flames. I broke one of the barstools across Jonathan’s back. He was tough. He tried to get up, tears leaking down along his nose, then fell over and moaned.

Barry was down on his hands and knees where he’d fallen, staring at me, saying, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” over and over. I grabbed his hair and pulled him up. He said, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

I shook him. “You think I’m playing with you, Barry? Tell me about Rice.”

Barry looked at me with eyes like pissholes in fresh snow and tried to scramble away. I slapped him. “Stand still!”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you set the sonofabitch on fire.”

“What about Rice?”

“No, no. I ain’t heard from Rice in a couple of weeks.”

“He hasn’t tried to sell any dope to you?”

“I swear to Christ.”

“He ask you where he could?”

“No. No.” He looked over my shoulder at Charles, then at me, then back to Charles again. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

I shook him again. “Your card key.”

“What?”

“Your card key. What you use to open the gate downstairs. Give it to me.”

We went to the near end of the bar and took the card key out of a brass tray where it sat with keys and change and a black alligator wallet.

I said, “Rice had two keys of lab-quality cocaine. Not all that common, so if he tried to shop it around, people would remember. Ask around. I’m going to come back here tomorrow, and you’re going to have something for me. Right, Barry?”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

I bent down and checked Charles. His shirtfront was browned and his hair was singed and he was starting to blister in a couple of spots, but that was about it. Cognac burns off fast. His eye flickered open and he looked at me. His lashes were gone.

“You’ve got to be a lot better than you are to get away with a spin kick, Charles. They look great on the mat, but in real life they take too long.”