The Monkey's Raincoat

by Robert Crais

  Kimberly yelled, “No!” then snatched something from the shelves, threw it at me, and plunged her hands into the slimy aquarium. As she did, Larry grabbed my legs. I hit him with the butt of the pistol, but he hung on, digging at my crotch. I hit him again, harder. His forehead split and blood spilled down over his nose and brow. Kimberly pulled what looked like a large brick from the algae and seaweed, and ran back toward the kitchen. Her arms were green from the slime, and the stink of fish was strong. Larry gasped, still trying to pull me down, but his grip was weaker. I hit him twice more, this time over his ear, and he let go.

  I stumbled away from him and ran toward the back of the house, around through the dining room, and into the kitchen. Kimberly Marsh was clawing at the back door when I caught her and slapped her as hard as I could. She made an unh! sound and dropped the brick. It was about the size of a five-pound sack of Gold Medal flour. Bits of scum and seaweed still clung to it.

  She scrambled after it, kicking at me and making grunting noises. There were flecks of saliva on her chin. I lifted her by the arm and hit her again. It was hot in the kitchen. I shook her and hit her once more, hard enough to knock her down. It hadn’t been necessary, but then, most things aren’t.

  On the floor, she started to cry.

  I picked up the dope and went back through the house. Larry was where he had fallen, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He looked the way pro wrestlers look when they’ve popped blood capsules all over their faces, only he hurt. He hurt bad.

  “She went all the way for you, Lar,” I said slowly. “Just like she did for Mort.”

  Larry’s eyes began to leak.

  I went out the door and down the steps. He was crying. She was crying. But they weren’t crying for the same thing.

  33

  I drove to my office, called a woman I know at the phone company, and gave her Domingo Duran’s address in Los Feliz. She told me four phone numbers registered to Duran’s address. The first one gave me a tentative female voice with a heavy accent. When I asked to speak with Mr. Duran, she didn’t seem to understand, then there was a long pause and she hung up. Probably kitchen help.

  On the second number a man with a very light accent said, “Mr. Duran’s residence.”

  I said, “This is Elvis Cole, calling for Mr. Duran.”

  The voice said pleasantly, “Mr. Duran is not available at present.”

  “He’ll talk to me.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr. Duran is entertaining guests, you see.”

  “Tell him it’s Cole. Tell him I want to talk about the dope.”

  The line went dead. I hung up. Pinocchio’s eyes tocked back and forth, the second hand swept his face. I picked up one of the Jiminy Crickets, inspected it, and blew off dust. I should dust more often. What had Jiminy Cricket said? “Hey, enough’s enough!” The phone rang.

  “Cole.”

  The Eskimo said, “You do not help yourself.”

  “It’s been that kind of day. Let’s talk trade. I got the dope.”

  “Be at the curb in front of your building in twenty minutes.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Just a joke,” I said.

  Fifteen minutes later the limo pulled up and the rear door opened. I got in, and we pulled into the alley beside the building. Kato wasn’t driving. This was another guy, probably a machete killer specially imported from Brazil. The Eskimo said, “Where is it?”

  “Are we going to fool around or are we going to do business?”

  He looked at me without moving. I think he was chewing a piece of Dentyne. He nodded. “All right.”

  “We pick a time and a place for the trade. I come alone, so do you. I give you the dope, you give me the boy.”

  “All right.”

  “Griffith Park,” I said. “Noon tomorrow, back by the tunnel. You drive up, I drive up. I bring out the dope, you bring out the kid. We swap, go back to our cars, that’s it.”

  The driver was staring at me through the rearview. Maybe he had a gun in his lap. Maybe the Eskimo would suddenly yell Kill him! and the driver would open up through the seat. There are so many maybes in my life that they begin to lose all meaning. Maybe I should retire.

  The Eskimo said, “There could be many people in the park.”

  I made my eyes wide. “Garsh, I never thoughta that.” I do a pretty good Goofy.

  He stared at me, nodded. “Bring the boy’s mother.”

  “No.”

  “I do not want to meet you for the exchange. Send the mother out with the cocaine. I’ll send the boy alone. She can leave the dope on the ground and bring her son back to you before I move forward for the dope.”

  “No.”

  “The boy’s hand is injured. He is frightened. Knowing the mother is there will calm him. If the child isn’t calm, it will not go well.”

  “No.”

  The Eskimo spread his hands. “Then we still have a problem. Perhaps you should keep the cocaine and we should keep the boy. Or perhaps we will simply come take the cocaine.”

  “You’ll never find it.”

  He was pressing hard for the mother. Maybe he wanted a family snapshot for his memory book. He spread his hands again and looked at me.

  “All right,” I said. “Tomorrow noon. I send the mother. You send the kid. Back by the tunnel. You’re alone. I’m alone.”

  “Yes.”

  I got out of the limo, watched them pull away into traffic, then went in and down to my car.

  Pike and Ellen were standing on the east side of my house when I pulled up. I got out of the car with the foil brick and walked around the front of the house toward them. Pike was saying, “You’re holding it too hard. Hold it firmly, but don’t clutch it. It won’t fly away from you.”

  They were standing in the grass on the part of the hillside that tabled out and was flat before falling away. Ellen Lang was aiming a blued Ruger .25 automatic at one of the two young gum trees that I’d planted there last year. Pike was standing to her right, adjusting her form with a touch here, a touch there. Her right arm held the gun out straight, her left bent slightly at the elbow so she could use her left hand to cup and brace her right. “Okay,” Pike said.

  She exhaled, steadied, then there was a loud snap! Dry firing. Pike looked at me. “She’s pretty good. Her body’s quiet.”

  “What does that mean?” Ellen said. When she wasn’t aiming the gun she cradled it in both hands against her stomach.

  “It means your body damps your pulse and your muscles don’t quiver when you try to hold still. That’s natural. You can’t learn it.” Pike nodded his head at the foil brick. “Who had the dope?’ ”

  Ellen’s eyes went to the brick as if Pike had just said, “Who’s the Martian?” She said, “Mort didn’t steal that?”

  “No. Kimberly Marsh and her boyfriend stole it.”

  “That woman had a boyfriend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Someone besides Mort?”

  “Yes.”

  “Behind Mort’s back?”

  I nodded.

  Ellen pulled back the slide to cock the .25, then aimed at the gum tree again. Snap!

  Pike said, “You set it up with Duran?”

  “The Eskimo. Noon tomorrow back by the tunnel at Griffith Park. Ellen brings the dope to the tunnel, puts it on the ground, then they send out Perry. She brings Perry back to me, the Eskimo goes out for the dope. End of deal.”

  Ellen looked at me. Pike was looking at me, too. His mouth twitched. “So. They’re going to let you and Ellen and the kid walk away and expect everybody to keep their mouths shut.”

  Ellen looked at him.

  “No,” I said. “What happens is something like this: they set up some soldiers early, and when we’re all together they eliminate us, recover the dope, and an hour later the Eskimo and the soldiers are on Duran’s private jet, heading for Acapulco and a long, expenses-paid vacation.”r />
  “Ah,” Joe said, “reality raises its ugly head.”

  Ellen said, “Shouldn’t you call Sergeant Poitras?”

  “Not if Duran owns somebody downtown. If all we can get is a couple of soldiers, you’ve still got a problem.”

  “Then what are we going to do?”

  “We get there earlier than they do. We watch them set up. we see if I’m right about their intentions. If I am, we figure a way to get Perry away from them. If I’m not, we go through with the trade and worry about Duran after you and the boy and the girls are away from here and safe.”

  “What if they don’t wait?” Ellen said. “If they want these drugs and they know you have them, won’t they just come here instead?”

  Pike’s mouth twitched again. For Pike, that’s a laughing fit. “It’ll cost too much,” he said. “Here, we’re dug in. Here, a cop car could roll by, there’s neighbors, bad access. In Griffith, they’re hoping we’ll be exposed. They can set up a free fire zone, snipers, ambushes, roadblocks, you name it.” You could tell he was pleased.

  I cleared my throat. Loudly. “They want the dope,” I said, rationally. “I told the Eskimo it was hidden somewhere and that I’d have to get it. That’s why they won’t come.” I glared hard at Pike. “Right?”

  Pike said, “Gonna get a guitar. Back later.” He disappeared around the front of the house. Purring.

  Ellen said, “Does he play?”

  I just looked at her, then went into the house and opened two Evian water. Ellen had come in and had just thanked me for the water when the phone rang. She went as white as a sheet of clean new paper.

  I answered. Janet Simon said, “Elvis? It’s Janet Simon.”

  I covered the mouthpiece and told Ellen it was Janet. She was relieved, but she wasn’t thrilled. She made that funny mouth gesture where she keeps the front of her lips together and blows out the sides.

  “I was beginning to think you never wanted to speak to me again,” I said into the phone. Mr. Charm.

  “Yes. Well.” Janet’s voice was low and measured and sounded like she never wanted to speak to me again, only now she had to. It’s a sound I’ve heard before.

  “How is Ellen?” she said.

  “Sitting on a rainbow.”

  “Is it almost over?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is she keeping it together?”

  “She’s doing okay.”

  “I could come over.”

  “Not a great idea.”

  “She might need me to do something.”

  I didn’t say anything. Ellen looked suspicious and uneasy and not anxious to talk. But that could have been my imagination.

  Janet said, “Maybe there’s something I could do. She might have dry cleaning. She might have a prescription. She forgets things.”

  I held out the phone to Ellen Lang. “For you.”

  Ellen made the blowing gesture again and took the phone. She cradled the receiver into her neck beneath her jaw and said, “Hello?” She listened a while, then said, “Actually, I’m fine. How’re the girls?” Not thrilled. Definitely not thrilled.

  She said, “I don’t know that yet. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive or what.”

  She did not look faded or uneasy or intimidated.

  “I should go now.”

  She looked angry and bored.

  “No, I’ll call you.”

  She hung up. She did not do so lightly.

  I took the two Evians out onto the deck. After a while, Ellen joined me. She said, “Janet,” as if she were going to follow it with a lot more, but then she fell silent.

  An hour and forty minutes later Pike was back. Ellen and I were sitting on the edge of the deck, listening to a Lakers game and not talking about Janet Simon. The Lakers were out at Washington playing the Bullets. It sounded like a physical game. The Evian water was warm.

  Pike unloaded a large green duffel bag and two olive-green guitar cases from his Jeep and carried them toward the house. Ellen went over to the side rail to watch him.

  “Do you know Segovia?” she asked.

  “Rock ’n roll,” he said.

  He brought his things into the living room through the front door. Ellen went in, then came out a few minutes later, looking distant.

  “Those aren’t guitars.”

  “Nope.”

  “He has guns.”

  I nodded. The Lakers were down by four but Kareem had just scored six straight from inside.

  She said, “You seem so calm.”

  “I’m working at it.”

  “I know this is what we have to do, but it seems so unreal.”

  “Unh-hunh.” Fantasy in fantasyland. She said, “It’s like a war, right here in Los Angeles.”

  I nodded some more.

  After a very long time, she said, “I hope we kick their asses.”

  I looked at her. I drank the warm Evian water. Kareem made it eight in a row.

  34

  It began to rain again just after four the next morning, a slow leaking drizzle that fell out of silver clouds, lit from beneath by cityglow. Pike sat at the dining table in the dark, sipping at a finger of bourbon in a tall glass. He said, “It’s about time you were up.”

  I went into the little bathroom without saying anything and dressed. Levis, gray Beverly Hills Gun Club tee shirt, CJ Bass desert boots. A client had given me the Gun Club tee shirt, but I’d never worn it. When I went out to the kitchen Pike looked at the shirt and shook his head.

  There was coffee in the pot and a plate of dry toast, and Pike’s big Coleman thermos, also filled with coffee. I got out a loaf of white and a half loaf of whole wheat and laid out bread for nine sandwiches. There were two packs of pressed ham, most of a pack of processed chicken, and two ham hocks left in the refrigerator. Enough for nine. I wrapped sweet gherkins and jalapeño-stuffed olives in foil, put them in a Gelson’s bag with napkins, then put the sandwiches on top. In another sack I put two six-packs of RC 100, a plastic bottle of water, cups, and some Handi Wipes.

  When the food was ready, Pike took the bags out through the kitchen door and put them in his Jeep. Cold air came in through the open door. While he was out, Ellen Lang, dressed in her jeans and one of my sweatshirts, came down and sat quietly on the stairs, elbows on knees.

  “How ya doing?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Want some coffee?” I poured half a cup and brought that and a slice of the dry toast to her. “It’s good to have something in your stomach.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Nibble.”

  From the entry closet I took out a slicker for Ellen and a nylon rain shell for me. I put Pike’s duffel bag and the two guitar cases by the couch. The duffel bag weighed a ton. I shrugged into my shoulder holster, checked the load in the Dan Wesson, and snapped the catch. I went upstairs, found my clip-on holster, and took a 9mm Beretta automatic from the drawer beside my bed and two extra clips. Each clip held fourteen hollow-point hot loads. Pike had made them for me a long time ago. Illegal. But what’s that to a tough guy like me? With the rain shell on, you couldn’t see either gun. It wouldn’t be easy to get to the Dan Wesson, but I didn’t expect to have to quick-draw walking out to the Jeep.

  When Pike came back, he was wearing the cammie field jacket. He opened the first guitar case and took out a Weatherby Mark V .30–06 deer buster with an 8-power Bushnell scope and a box of cartridges. He fed four into the gun, locked the bolt, then stood the gun against the arm of the couch. When he opened the second case, Ellen Lang leaned forward. She said, “What’s that?”

  “Heckler and Koch .308 assault rifle,” Pike said.

  “Pike shows it to people to scare them,” I said. “It doesn’t really shoot.”

  Pike’s mouth twitched. The HK was entirely black. With its Fiberglas stock, pistol grip, carry handle, and flash suppressor, it was an ugly, mean gun. Pike snapped the bolt, then took a sixty-shot banana clip from the duffel bag and seated it. He sprayed the ex
ternal metal parts of each rifle with a mist of WD40, then wiped each lightly with a greasy cloth. His hands worked with a precise economy. Finished, he stood up, said, “Whenever,” and brought the big guns and the duffel out to the Cherokee.

  I gave the slicker to Ellen. “Put this on.”

  She put it on.

  I put the foil brick into a third shopping bag and gave it to her. “Are you scared?” I said.

  She nodded.

  I said, “Try to be like me. I’m never scared.”

  She carried the dope out to the Cherokee. I watched her climb into the backseat from the kitchen, then stood around, wondering if I’d forgotten anything.

  The cat walked in and looked at me. I fed him, poured out a saucer of beer, then locked the door. We drove to Griffith Park in a rain so light it was very much like falling dew.

  35

  At ten minutes before six, the park was dark and empty and cold, with only light traffic passing the entrance off Los Feliz Boulevard. We turned in and cruised to the back of the park toward the tunnel, past the picnic tables and green lawns and public rest rooms that are habitat for bums, muggers, and homosexual mashers. An old Volkswagen microbus and a Norton motorcycle were parked in the spaces past the rest rooms, but there was no sign of life.

  Pike had the radio tuned to the farm reports. To the best of my knowledge, Joe Pike has never been on a farm in his life. Ellen sat in the backseat, the dope on her lap, her eyes luminous in the glow from reflected streetlights.

  At the tunnel the road split, one fork disappearing into the tunnel, the other taking a hard right to climb into the mountains up to the observatory. A steel pipe gate blocked the fork that went up. I said, “There’s a fire road about a half mile ahead that’s good for us.”

  Pike nodded.

  I got out, picked the Yale on the pipe gate, let Pike through, then swung the gate back across and relocked it. It was colder here in Griffith than in my own canyon, with clouds pushing down out of the sky to touch the mountains above us, and my breath fogging the air as I worked against the gate.

  The sky along the ridgeline to the east was just beginning to turn violet when Pike engaged the four-wheel-drive and turned off onto the fire road. We went out along the ridge between scrub oak and tumbleweed and yucca trees for about a hundred yards until we came to a small grove of scrub oak. Below, the flat of the park spread in an irregular green triangle, from its apex at the tunnel widening all the way out to the park’s entrance off Los Feliz. We could see everything we would need to.