J. Konrath - Cherry Bomb

Harry frowned. “There wasn’t much of a selection down at Al’s. It was either him or another primate I would have named Gassy. He also had some sort of gibbon, missing an arm and both legs.”

“Stumpy?” Phin said.

“More like Sitty. I’ve seen turtles that moved faster. I wonder if he was dead.”

“I think you chose perfectly,” I said.

Slappy screeched again, baring sharp yellow teeth.

“You sure he’s tame?”

“Most of the time. But don’t put your fingers near the cage.”

I knelt down on the carpet to get a closer look. Monkeys always fascinated me, ever since I was a little girl. Blame Curious George.

“Hello, Slappy. I’m Jack.”

Something wet hit me in the cheek. Something wet and brown and horribly stinky.

“Your monkey threw poop at me.”

“He does that. There are baby wipes next to his cage.”

I reached for one, and Slappy managed to pitch another slider, which hit me in the nose.

“I think he’s aiming for my mouth,” I said, mopping my face with baby wipes.

“Are you wearing makeup? He was rescued from a research lab. They tested cosmetics on him. Don’t let him see your lipstick-he gets a little agitated.”

“I’m not wearing-” I dodged left, a monkey turd zinging by my face. He was definitely aiming for my mouth.

“I like him,” Phin said. “He’s spunky.”

Slappy aimed and Phin ducked, dung splattering on the wall.

“Remind me again why you bought this thing,” I said to McGlade.

“I wanted to train him to get me beer and watch sports. But all he does is throw feces, hit himself in the face, and scream. He’s kind of a downer.”

Slappy screamed in agreement. Then he pressed his pelvis against the side of the cage and urinated on the floor. The smell was pee times a hundred, and made me cover my nose.

“He does that too,” McGlade said. “A lot. Al said he knows how to use the toilet.”

The stream arced through the air, landing on Harry’s sofa. Harry picked up a coffee mug that said Don’t Worry Be Happy and tried to catch the stream. I stepped away.

“I think maybe Al lied to you.”

Slappy screeched, then began banging his little monkey head into the side of his cage.

“You should buy him a helmet,” Phin said.

“He came with one. I took it off because I thought it was cruel. Now I’m afraid to get close enough to put it back on.”

I crouched down again, wary of another salvo but determined to make friends.

“I think you just need to learn some manners, and then you’ll be fine,” I told Slappy, keeping my voice soft. “You’re probably just scared. I would be too, living with Harry. But I bet with a few days of training, you’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Slappy stopped banging his head and made an adorable cooing sound. Then he grabbed his little monkey ding-dong and began to beat off with frightening intensity, keeping his eyes on me the whole time.

Never saw Curious George do that.

I got out of range and busied myself looking for the rifles. They were in the bedroom closet. I checked to make sure they were loaded, safeties on.

“What does he eat?” Phin asked.

“It’s called monkey chow. It’s not that bad. Sort of tastes like meat-flavored charcoal briquettes.”

“You tried it?”

“Yeah. Want some?”

“I’m gonna pass on that one.”

“Slappy hates them. See?”

I carried the rifles back to the main room just as McGlade was bending down, handing Slappy a tan square object the size of a mini candy bar. Slappy took it, screeched, and bounced the food off Harry’s forehead.

“Well, it’s been fun,” I told Harry. “But we’ve got to get going.”

Harry frowned. “But I want to tell you how I found the second phone. It was in the mall, hidden behind a flat-screen TV at Sears. I used my Bluetooth receiver and…”

I kept one eye on Slappy as Harry droned on. The macaque seemed to be temporarily out of bodily fluids, but I didn’t know what his refractory period was.

“That’s brilliant,” I interrupted, “but we really have to hit the road.”

“How about lunch? We can grab some lunch together. Sis?”

“Not hungry,” I said. “Might never be hungry again.”

“Phin?”

“No thanks.”

“Please don’t leave me alone with Slappy,” Harry said.

“Maybe a beer will calm him down.”

“You think?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“How about whiskey? Think a shot of whiskey is too strong?”

“I’d give him a different kind of shot,” Phin said. “One in the head, then a quick funeral wrapped in newspaper.”

Harry stared at Slappy, as if considering it.

“Harry, you can’t kill your monkey.”

That was how my day was going, cautioning people against murder.

“Maybe Al will trade him for the amputee one,” Phin suggested.

“How can a no-legged monkey fetch me beer? Roll it to me?”

“You can tie a little cord to his neck, and he can tug it behind him.” Phin mimed a one-armed primate dragging itself across the floor.

McGlade winced. “That’s not fun. That’s depressing. I wanted a fun pet.”

“You’re right. A pet that throws shit at you is a lot more fun.”

“Maybe a glass cage? Then he couldn’t throw anything.”

“He still could,” Phin said. “It would just cling to the inside walls. You’d have a big brown box.”

“How about some sort of restraining device. Do they make little macaque-size handcuffs?”

Monkey bondage was our cue to leave.

“We gotta go, Harry. I’ll call you later.”

I herded Phin past the monkey cage, giving Slappy a wide berth. He was sitting down, looking vaguely superior, like a king on a throne.

We got out of there before the king threw anything else at us.

“Where to?” Phin asked after we climbed into the truck.

“The woods. Someplace secluded.”

“Got something in mind?” He grinned at me.

“In fact I do. But it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Want to clue me in?”

I closed my eyes, thought it through, then said, “Just drive to a place where no one will be bothered by gunfire.”

THE COP UNIFORM has gone from asset to liability. Showing off at the department store was a mistake, though an amusing one. Alex needs to ditch the Hyundai and the uniform, and find suitable replacements for both. She was planning to do it today anyway, but shooting a teenager in front of a dozen witnesses made it a little more pressing.

Clothing is the easier of the two. She finds a local mall, hits Neiman Marcus, and buys a Joan Vass striped tunic with matching beige boot-cut pants. The Ferragamo loafers are overpriced but cute, and that purchase leaves her with thirty dollars in cash. Not enough to even pay the taxes on a handbag, and they have a Marc Jacobs satchel that would go perfectly with the outfit.

Alex changes clothes in the mall restroom. The gun, holster, and accessory belt gets put into one of the Neiman Marcus bags. The pants from the police uniform get stuffed into the garbage. The shirt gets a nice long soak in the sink and then placed into the other Neiman bag-it’s plastic, so it won’t drip.

Then it’s time to do a different kind of shopping.

Alex leaves the mall and hangs out next to the exit doors, scanning the parking lot as if waiting for a ride. What she’s really waiting for is a single woman to come out. A single woman with some fashion sense.

It’s a nice neighborhood, with a nice mall, and it doesn’t take long for a chunky yuppie type with a four-hundred-dollar haircut and a Prada bag to stroll outside, one hand clutching some merchandise from Saks, the other fussing with the touch screen of her iPhone. Alex falls into step behind her.