Nick Stone: The King of Swords

Max got up and began to walk towards the jungle, looking down the whole time. He traced the trail of flattened grass all the way back to the forty-foot-high wire fence. There was a sign on it, a big stark banner warning of electrocution. It was the same kind of fence they had in maximum security prisons, only theirs hummed with lethal current. This one was quiet. Which meant it wasn't working.

He reached the beginning of the trail. It ended at the gate. He tried it. It was open.

Something on the grass to his right caught his eye. He turned around and found himself looking at a row of eight monkeys sitting on their haunches, staring right at him. They were beige, apart from their arms, shoulders and heads, which were light grey. Their faces were also grey, except for the area around their eyes and nose, which was a horizontal figure of eight in white, like the Lone Ranger mask, while their eyes and mouths were surrounded in black borders. How long had they been there? Had they dragged the body over? He couldn't exactly ask them.

Suddenly he heard heavy footfalls from behind the fence. Two large, ginger-haired monkeys with long flabby chins were leaning over a log, glaring at him like two badass desperadoes in a saloon bar, waiting to be served. How long before they came through?

Max hurriedly returned to the body. More people had arrived-two more uniforms, medics, the forensics team and a guy who seemed to have come straight off a yacht, if his clothes were anything to go by: white duck pants, espadrilles, a blue blazer and a red cravat. He was talking to Joe.

Max beckoned his partner over.

'Our guy died in there.' He motioned to the jungle. 'Musta stunk the place out so bad the monkeys dragged him out. Forensics'll have to go in.'

'Even if there isn't another crime in the city for a whole month, we still don't have the manpower to cover an area that big.'

'I know, Joe, but it's not our problem once the local dicks get here. Any word on when that'll be?'

Joe was about to answer when the man in the blazer got between them.

'Are you in charge here?' he asked Max.

'Who are you?' Max looked at him like he was a piece of shit who'd grown legs and a mouth. He had round rimless glasses and reddish blond hair, thinning to a threadbare strip in front, like a short length of moth-eaten carpet.

'Ethan Moss, director.' He held out his hand. Max ignored it. 'How long will you be?'

'However long it takes,' Max said.

'How about an estimate?'

'Forensics have to do their job.' Max nodded to the team working over the body, while uniforms were planting metal rods in the ground and cordoning off the area with black and yellow tape. 'If this turns out to be a homicide, the whole place could be shut down for weeks.'

'Weeks?' Moss went pale, then looked at his watch. 'You've got two hours at the most. We've got VIPs coming.'

'Not today you haven't, sir.' Max kept the officious side of polite. 'This is a crime scene. You can't open for business until we're through.'

'You don't understand, Detective. Time is money.' Moss was panicking. 'We're expecting a Japanese film crew. They're shooting a commercial.'

'Sir, it's outta my hands,' Max said. 'We're just following procedure.'

'But, you don't understand, Detective. They've come all the way from Tokyo. It took months of negotiation.'

'I'm really sorry about that, sir, but you've got a dead body here. A crime may have been committed. This is a police investigation. That supersedes everything else. OK?' Max spoke slowly, feeling a little sorrier for the guy because he looked like his balls were on the line, his feet stuck in cement and he'd just heard the express train whistle. 'Can't you film someplace else?'

'No. It has to be here. It's in the contract. Bruce in his natural environment.' Moss turned to look towards the jungle.

'Bruce? Who's Bruce?' Max asked.

'You mean you haven't heard of him? Bruce-our gorilla?'

'You got a gorilla…called Bruce?' Max smiled, looking over at Joe, who'd heard and was mouthing 'fuck you' at him.

'Yes. That's right. What's so funny?' Moss snapped.

'Oh, nothing-private joke,' Max replied. 'So what's Bruce do that's got the Japs interested? He sing?' He looked at Joe again and winked.

'No. He smokes.'

'Smokes?'

'Yes-smokes.'

'Like what-cigarettes?' Max was incredulous.

'Yes, Detective, cigarettes, cigars. He smokes,' Moss answered. 'I can tell you don't watch TV. Bruce has been all over the news.'

'For smoking?'

'That's right,' Moss said, 'and the Sendai cigarette company has paid us a lot of money to use Bruce in their ad campaign.'

'Jesus!' Max shook his head, shocked and incredulous at human cruelty. He smoked himself, but it was an informed decision-albeit a stupid one he was starting to regret. The animal didn't have a choice.

'Look-Detective Mingus,' Moss took another tack, dropping his voice a few notches and drawing closer to Max, who knew what was coming, 'couldn't we make some sort of, er, arrangement. I'm in a spot here-'

He didn't get much further because he was interrupted by a loud commotion to their right.

A uniformed cop, who'd been putting up a cordon around the scene had just fallen flat on his face. He was shouting and swearing and yelling for somebody to come and help him. His legs were tied together with the same tape he'd been using to close off the space around the body. What at first looked like a stupid prank on the part of a colleague, became a matter of public hilarity when one of the beige monkeys Max had seen jumped on the cop's back and started bouncing up and down, clapping its paws, grinning and squawking like a manic bird. The officer tried to knock it off, first with his left hand, then his right, but the monkey deftly leapt over the swiping hands, causing the zoo staff watching from the tunnel to cheer. This pissed the cop off. Furiously, he pulled himself to his feet, most likely thinking he'd rid himself of the animal that way. But the monkey wrapped its tail tight around the officer's forehead and clung to him while he hopped around screaming for help.

Moss went over, but the monkey saw him coming and scampered away across the grass. Moss took out a pen-knife and cut through the plastic tape around the cop's ankles. Once free, the cop got back up and ran off after the monkey.

Suddenly there was a gunshot.

The police automatically hit the deck, everyone else panicked; a few screamed. The sounds of the jungle suddenly died.

At first Max thought the officer had shot the monkey, but then he heard agonized sobbing and moaning and saw that the cop was on the ground, clutching his left leg below the knee. A few metres away, the monkey was sitting on its haunches, nearly motionless and completely subdued, staring at them all. The animal was evenly spattered, head to foot, in red. Standing in a row behind it, were the other monkeys. The blood-soaked monkey turned and joined the others.

Max got up and raced over to the officer. As he drew closer, he noticed the monkeys were doing a kind of Mexican wave.

Blood was pouring out of the officer's leg, running over his hands.

'What happened?' Max asked.

'I just got fuckin' shot!' the cop gasped.

'You got shot?'

The officer's holster was empty. Max looked for the gun, but couldn't see it anywhere.

Then he realized what the monkeys were really doing.

They had the gun-a black.44 Smith amp; Wesson Special service revolver-and they were tossing it to each other, underarm, down the line, like a football; passing and catching.

Behind him, everyone was up on their feet. Joe and a paramedic were running over.

Max heard the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked. He turned and saw the gun bouncing down the line of fur and grinning teeth, primed to fire. Without looking away, he held up his hand and motioned for Joe and the medic to get down. Joe shouted the command over to the others, who all hit the deck.