Robert Crais: The Monkey

He looked past me at the door again, only this time he said, “Well, thank Christ! Where the hell you been?”

The man in the doorway was a little taller than me and a lot wider, with the sort of squared-off shoulders boxers get. He wore a heavy Fu moustache, a little business under his lower lip, and a two-inch Afro that was thicker on top than on the sides. Not quite the Carl Lewis look. He was very, very black. He looked at me. He looked at Garrett Rice. “Nature call. You didn’t want me to mess the floor, right?”

Rice said, “Throw this asshole outta here. C’mon.”

The black guy looked back at me and sucked a tooth. “How ’bout that, Elvis? Think I oughta throw your ass outta here?”

I sucked a tooth back at him. “She-it,” I said. “How’s it goin,’ Cleon?”

Garrett Rice looked from Cleon Tyner to me and back to Cleon. “What the hell is this? ‘Cleon. Elvis. Howzitgoin?’ Throw the sonofabitch out, goddamnit!”

Cleon said, “Unh-unh,” and let himself down in the chair opposite Rice’s desk. He wrapped one arm over the back of the chair so I could see his Smith. It was in a pretty, gray brushed-leather rig. Cleon was wearing dark blue designer jeans, a ruffled white tuxedo shirt, and a gray sharkskin jacket. The jacket was tight across his shoulders and biceps. “You’re looking good,” I said.

He tried to give me modest. “Cut down on the grits. Dropped a few pounds. Workin’ out again. How’s Joe?”

Garrett Rice said, “Hey, hey, this guy walks in here, he’s got a gun. Look right there, under his goddamned arm. He starts pumpin’ me, he won’t leave when I ask, he could be anybody, goddamnit, and you’re shootin’ the shit with him. What in hell I hire you for?” His forehead was damp.

Cleon let out a long, deep breath and shifted forward in the chair. Rice jerked back an inch. Probably didn’t even know he’d done it. Cleon’s voice was polite. “I know this man, Mr. Rice. He won’t take muscle work. If he does decide to move on you now, why, then I’ll step in. That’s what I take the money for. But if all he wants to do is ask you about something or other, then you talk to him. That’s the smart thing.” Cleon gave me the sleepy eyes. “That’s all you wanna do, blood, is talk, am I right?”

“Sure.”

Cleon looked back at Rice. “There. You see. Why make somethin’ out of nothing?”

Garrett Rice chewed his lip. He said, “I don’t know where Mort is, all right. I told you.”

“You told me you saw him about a week ago. He say anything about leaving his wife?”

“Look, it was a party, see? A social situation. We were meeting with a potential backer about this project of mine. Mort had some bimbo with him. An actress. It was good times, that’s all. Mort wouldn’t’ve brought up any shit about his wife.”

“Kimberly Marsh?”

“Yeah, I guess that was her name. The bitch was all over me. That’s the way it is, see? These bimbos find out you’re a producer, they’re all over you.” Talking about that brought him to life.

“Sounds rewarding.”

He leered and made a pistol with his fingers and shot me. I considered returning the gesture with my. 38. Cleon picked his thumb, ignoring us. I said, “Can you think of anyone else Mort might’ve talked to?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You were friends.”

“We had business.”

“You played cards with them. Every week for almost a year.”

“Hey, I’m everybody’s friend. You want me to be your friend? I’ll be your friend, too. I’ll even play cards with you. I’ll even lose, you want me to.”

I looked at Cleon. He shrugged. “It’s a gig, man.”

“Not what you call your quality employment.”

“Is it ever?”

I stood up. Cleon shifted, rolling the big shoulders. “Leaving,” I said. Cleon nodded but stayed forward. Cleon knew the moves. I looked back at Garrett. “I like the bruises. They go with the liver spots.”

“Some asshole thought I stole his script. That happens, this business.”

“Must be some asshole, you hiring on Cleon.”

“Man just dig quality, bro, that’s all.”

I nodded. Garrett Rice gnawed at his lip.

I said, “This has been disappointing, Garrett. I bucked rush hour for this.”

“Tough.”

I said, “I see Ellen Lang, I’ll give her your best.”

“Tell her Mort’s an asshole.”

“She might agree.”

“She’s an asshole, too. So are you.”

I looked at Cleon. There was a little smile to his eye, but you’d never know it unless you knew him well.

I went out along the cement walk and down the metal stairs and took the long walk back to my car. I drove to Studio City to pick up eggplant parmesan and an antipasto from a place called Sonny’s and a six-pack of Wheat beer from the liquor store next door. By the time I got out of Sonny’s, the sky was a deep purple, coal red in the west behind black palm-tree cutouts. I drove south on Laurel Canyon, up the hill toward home.

I had very much wanted to turn up some good news for Ellen Lang. But good news, like magic, is sometimes in short supply.

It was eight o’clock when I pulled into the carport. I put the eggplant in the microwave to reheat and ate the antipasto while I waited. Oily. Sonny’s had gone downhill. The little metal hatch I’d built into the door off the kitchen clattered and the cat walked in. He’s black and he walks with his head sort of cocked to the side because someone once shot him with a. 22. I poured a little of the Wheat beer in a saucer and put out some cat food. He drank the beer first then ate the cat food then looked at me for more beer. He was purring. “Forget it,” I said. The purring stopped and he walked away.

When the eggplant was ready I carried it and the beer and the cordless phone out onto the deck. The rich black of the canyon was dotted with jack-o’-lantern lit houses, orange and white and yellow and red in the night. Where the canyon flattened out into Hollywood and the basin beyond, the lights concentrated into thousands of blue-white diamonds spilled over the earth. I liked that.

I’m in a rustic A-frame on a little road off Woodrow Wilson Drive above Hollywood. The only other house is a cantilevered job to my east. A stuntman I know lives there with his girlfriend and their two little boys. Sometimes during the day they come out on their deck and we’ll see each other and wave. The boys call my place the teepee house. I like that, too.

When I bought the house four years ago I tore off the deck railing and rebuilt it so the center section was detachable. I detached it now, and sat on the edge of the deck with my feet hanging down, eggplant in my lap, and nothing between me and Out There. The chill air felt good. After a while the cat came out and stared at me. “Okay,” I said. I poured some more of the Wheat beer on the deck. He blinked, then lapped at it.

When the eggplant was gone I called the answering machine at my office. There were three messages from Ellen Lang and one from Janet Simon Ellen Lang sounded scared in the first two and teary in the third. Janet Simon sounded like Janet Simon. I called Ellen Lang. Janet Simon answered. It works like that sometimes.

“Mort came back and tore up the house. Could you come over here?”

“Is she okay?”

“He was gone when she got here. I made her call the police but now she’s saying she won’t let them in the house.”

“Want me to pistol-whip her?”

“Don’t you ever let up?”

Apparently not. It took me eighteen minutes to push the Corvette down the valley side of Laurel, up onto the freeway, and over to Encino. Ellen Lang lived in the flat part above Ventura Boulevard in what’s called a sprawling California Tudor by realtors and Encino Baroque by people with taste. Janet Simon’s pale blue Mustang was on the street in front of the house. I pulled into the drive behind a Subaru wagon, cut the engine, and went up to the door. It opened before I could knock. Ellen Lang was pinched and thin behind her glasses, more so than this morning. She said, “I called you. I called and called and you weren’t there. I came to you so the police wouldn’t get involved and now they are.”