1 Take the Monkeys and Run

by Karen Cantwell

“Who found him out?” asked Roz.

  “That’d be me, sweet cheeks,” answered Maxine, breaking her silence from across the room. She had been sitting on the stairs the whole time, keeping mum, save a chuckle here or there.

  “As it turns out,” said Howard, “Big Pharma keeps their own undercover henchmen—henchwoman in this case—on the payroll. Her cover was as a receptionist for Parks and Rowe. Their local Tysons Corner office. We didn’t figure it out until it was too late.”

  “That’s because I’m good,” said Maxine, letting the pride in voice roll off her tongue slowly. “Real good.”

  “But wait,” I said. “You skipped over the messed-up operation twenty-nine years ago. What happened? Why did Tito terrorize our neighbors?” Viviana didn’t like that question. I detected that I’d hit a nerve. She waved one hand dismissively and strolled back over to her monkey cage. The critters began chattering up a storm again.

  “All this talk is starting to bore me,” she said. “It’s time to get this show on the road.” She looked at her watch. “I don’t want to miss Survivor.”

  Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out for about ten seconds. I heard Peggy whimper. When the lights came back on, I saw that Howard must have been trying to take advantage of the power outage, making a move toward Elvis, but he hadn’t made it. He was sitting on top of Peggy, hence the whimper.

  “What's with the lights?” yelled Viviana.

  “It’s those storms,” said Maxine. “News says there could be tornadoes.”

  “As long as it don’t interrupt my show,” said Viviana, motioning to Elvis, who had put his gun to the ready during the brief outage. “Take him. You know what to do. Make it quick.”

  Elvis moved our way and grabbed Howard’s arm, jerking him hard. “Move it buddy. I ain’t got all day.” He pointed with his gun in the direction of the stairs to the main level. I gasped. Howard looked back at me and gave me a sad sort of smile. I love you, he mouthed. Then they ascended the stairs and he was gone. My heart was pounding and my head was swimming. It felt like the room was spinning.

  “I remember him when he was just a little boy,” said Viviana.

  What was she talking about?

  “Elvis?” I asked, trying to get a grip.

  “No—your husband, stupid.” She smiled an evil, Grinchy smile. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” I asked.

  “He changed his name years ago—when he was a teenager. He used to be little Sammy Donato. Tito whacked his pop, Mario.”

  Well, the punches just kept coming, didn’t they?

  Then I heard it.

  Gunshot.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE SHOT SOUNDED FROM OUTSIDE. I screamed. The monkeys screamed. Roz and Peggy screamed. We were all screaming.

  “What’s wrong with you?” scowled Viviana.

  “You just killed my husband! What do you think is wrong with me?” I screamed, half-crazed.

  “Jesus, you’re a pain. That wasn’t a gunshot.” She made kissing sounds to the monkey cage again. “Shhh, babies, shhhh. Everything’s okay.” When the monkeys finally reacted positively to her soothing mommy talk, she turned back around. “That was thunder.”

  “Didn’t sound like thunder to me, Viv—sounds like the raccoons are in the trash cans again,” countered Maxine.

  “Frankie—go check it out,” ordered Viviana

  “Do I have to?” Frankie was actually whining. I was surprised. “You know doze raccoons freak me out.” His body shivered involuntarily.

  “Get moving you idiot!” she growled at him, pointing in the direction she wanted him to move.

  “Strega,” he grumbled under his breath as he ascended the stairs to the back of the house, slump-shouldered like a pouting child. Peggy whispered in my ear. “He doesn’t like her very much.”

  “What?” I whispered back.

  “Strega—it’s Italian. He just called her a witch.” Now there were other crashing sounds, although it was hard to tell where they were coming from.

  Viviana snuffed out yet another cigarette and pointed at us. “You three—don’t try anything stupid.” She motioned to Maxine. “Follow me.” They disappeared up the same set of stairs as had Elvis and Howard. No sooner had they gone out of sight, than we heard a tapping on the basement window above our heads. At first I thought it was hail, but then I realized there was a pattern to it. I looked up and thought I saw a face in the window. More tapping. Someone wanted our attention. Ignoring Viviana’s threats, I stood up to see who was tapping. It was Officer Brad! He motioned for me to open the window.

  Luckily, the latch turned easily and the window, which was at ground level, was open in a flash. Rain trickled in. Officer Brad was on his stomach and protected by a dark plastic poncho. His face was still glistening with a heavy coat of rain water. He took a quick swipe at getting water out of his eyes before speaking quickly. “Get yourself upstairs. There’s a guest room in the back of the main level—it has a bathroom. Get to that bathroom. Take this with you,” he whispered. He threw in a small cloth-wrapped bundle that landed with a muffled thump on the carpeted floor. He must have been hiding it under his poncho, because it was barely wet, probably only catching some droplets on its trip from his hand to the window.

  “I can’t! They’ll kill us!” I whispered in a panicked tone. Personal extinction was not the plan I had for myself right now. I was going to live to raise my children and rescue my husband. There was also that little dream to be invited to the Academy Awards after my website and movie reviews win countless accolades of their own. Putting myself between a gun and a known killer seemed a sure way to miss it all.

  “You need to do this. Figure something out,” he whispered with more urgency.

  I thought for a moment. For some strange reason, staring at the handsome police officer, I was reminded of the time he had stopped me on the way back from the museum. Aha! An idea clicked in. I didn’t know if it was a good idea, but it was the only one I had, so it’d have to suffice.

  “Does it have a shower?” I asked

  “What?”

  “A shower! Does the bathroom have a shower? Or a bathtub?”

  “I don’t know—” Suddenly, Officer Brad rolled away from the window. Afraid we’d been caught. I quick shut the window, making sure not to lock it, and plopped back down next to Peggy, who had already slipped the bundle under her legs for safekeeping. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

  “Who was that?” asked Roz, whose face was noticeably losing its color. She was starting to look like Edgar Winter. Her generally perfect golden bob of shiny hair was tossed every which way, as if she’d just slept on it for twenty-four hours, and her hand was swelling badly. Stress was showing all over my petite friend.

  “Officer Brad.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ve forgotten his real name again—the cute cop that looks like Brad Pitt.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Looking for a game of Parcheesi,” I said throwing up my hands. “He’s here and he’s got a plan. That’s all I know.”

  “What kind of plan?” asked Peggy.

  “I’ve got to get to a bathroom upstairs.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So where’s the plan?”

  “I told you he HAD a plan. I didn’t tell you I understood it.”

  “This sounds bad,” said Roz. “He’s the Police for crying out loud—why doesn’t he just call in the squads? Or the troops.” Poor Roz could barely hold her head up. I was worried about her. I noticed she had taken to a nervous habit of rubbing her good hand along her thighs, smoothing out the fabric of her floral rayon skirt. She was right. Why couldn’t he just come in with his comrades, take over the place and save us all? I kept listening for that thwump, thwump, thwump of the SWAT helicopter, but all I heard was intermittent thunder. It seemed that any large, sweeping rescue from law enforcement was not going
to be forthcoming.

  “How do you think he found us?” asked Peggy.

  “I don’t know—good question. Howard, maybe?”

  Peggy shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he bring in one lone policeman?”

  “Sense? None of this makes sense! It’s freakin’ insane! I go out in my van doing a crazy Nancy Drew imitation to follow your surfer dude friend around town, and end up in some Italian-American lunatic asylum!” Roz was losing it. I reached over and placed my hands over hers, hoping to comfort her. Strange, I thought, how taking the time to comfort someone whose fate was just as tenuous as my own actually brought me a moment of peace. The peace didn’t last long though, because down the back stairs came Frankie, mumbling something about raccoons and witches on spiky heels. He was shaking off water like a dog who’d just had a bath. I had to think quick. If Peggy was right, Frankie wasn’t too happy with Viviana right now, and if we were lucky, the discord might be a chronic condition we could exploit.

  “Hey, Frankie, are you okay?” I asked, trying to get on his good side.

  “Flippin’ raccoons. I tell you, I don’t know how yous can stand livin’ around here. It’s like livin' in da wilderness. As long as I been around here, I still ain’t used to it.”

  “There were raccoons out there?”

  “Must’a been. Trash cans were all knocked over, bags ripped, trash everywhere. Never seen ’em come out in rain like dis, though,” he said, trying to shake a leg dry. I suspected the “raccoons” looked a whole lot like Brad Pitt.

  “So, that Viviana,” I said to Frankie, “I noticed she kind of treats you like . . . well, she’s not so nice to you.”

  “You mean she treats me like pond scum?” He looked around. “Where’d she go?”

  “Upstairs—that way. How does that make you feel?”

  “What?”

  “You said she treats you like pond scum—how does that make you feel?”

  “What are you, some kind of psychiatrist?”

  “Just looks to me like you are a little unhappy.”

  “You said it. I ain’t a little unhappy. I’m a lot unhappy. I’m gettin’ real sick of doin’ all her dirty work and gettin’ nuttin' for it. Elvis, too. I should just let you go right now. That’d show her.”

  My heart skipped a beat and out of my peripheral vision, I could see Peggy and Roz perk up a bit. We might have our ticket out of here. I felt an adrenaline surge as the thought of a possible escape might be imminent.

  “Boy,” I laughed, “wouldn’t that be . . . why don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Show her. Let us go.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  Well, it was worth a try, anyway. But I still had another trick up my sleeve. “I was just joking. I know that would be too risky. But anyway, I’ve got this problem you might be able to help me with,” I ventured further. “It doesn’t involve anything as crazy as letting us go.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  Okay, I thought, here it goes. Hope it works. “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ I’m gonna help you, but it telling me the problem would increase your chances.”

  I shifted where I sat for emphasis. “I have this condition called Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”

  “What da hell is that?” He cringed, as if he were afraid to hear the answer.

  To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know anything about it myself, except that I’d seen commercials advertising some drug to solve the problem—that is if the twenty side effects, including dry mouth, hives, dementia, and liver failure didn’t kill a person first. In any event, Irritable Bowel Syndrome seemed like three good words to throw at this Neanderthal goon in hopes he’d take pity on me and help me out of the basement and up to that bathroom.

  “Well, I sort of have these bouts where I . . . well, I can’t control myself. My bowels I mean. Especially when I’m nervous or upset. Like I am now. I’ve sort of had,” I winced for added impact, “an . . . accident.”

  “Stop!” He put his hands out to stop me from talking. “Don’t! I don’t wanna know! Holy crap.”

  “Yeah. That’s the right word.” I lowered myself to a barely detectable whisper. “I really need to clean up, if you know what I mean. Could you get me to a bathroom?”

  “Ah, Christ!” he muttered, pacing around the room. He seemed to be silently thinking the idea through. I looked at Peggy and Roz. Peggy motioned to the wrapped bundle under her legs and gave me a questioning look. I nodded. If all went well, we’d need it in a minute.

  Finally, as if having an epiphany, Frankie said, “Fine, let’s go.” He pulled open his jacket, revealing a gun in a holster. He pulled the gun out and pointed it at us.

  “I’ll have to take all three of ya. I’m not leaving anyone alone. Don’t try to pull nothin’.” We slowly got up from the floor. Roz’s legs were shaking visibly. Peggy held the bundle close to her legs as she stood up. I was afraid Frankie would catch sight of it.

  “Frankie?”

  “What?” he sighed, obviously exasperated with me.

  “I’m afraid there’s a stain on my . . . backside. It’s just embarrassing—can’t you walk in front of us? We’ll follow—I mean, what are we going to do? Honestly.” For a moment he was silent, and I was afraid I might have blown it. Suddenly, he grabbed Roz by the arm, shoved her in front of him and put the gun in her back. “You two follow me close. You pull any funny stuff, your friend here gets a one-way ticket to an audience with the Big Guy.” Roz screamed and started crying. My heart ached for her, but we had to keep going. We were getting somewhere.

  He pushed Roz up the stairs while Peggy tried to slip me the bundle. I shook my head furiously and motioned her to hide it in the front of her pants. Her sweatshirt was baggy and would hide it better than my thin t-shirt. By the size and shape, I suspected uneasily that it was a gun—the last thing we needed to get caught with. I watched as she slipped it under her sweatshirt, then put her thumb up behind her back, indicating success. My fingers were crossed that she had concealed it well enough.

  As we came out at the top of the stairs, we found ourselves in a hallway, standing on pristine wood floors. Directly across the hall from us was a closed door. Frankie motioned to the door.

  “There. That’s the bathroom.” He opened the door. I moved to peek in, keeping my rear end from his view, working to keep up with the pretense that I was experiencing bowel issues. It was a small half-bath—no bedroom attached. I had to admit, it was tastefully decorated in classy reds and golds and the modern pedestal sink was to die for, but it wasn’t the bathroom Officer Brad had told me to find. My heart pumped double-time. I resorted to prayers. Dear God, please let him fall for this . . . “This doesn’t have a shower,” I said. “Or at least a bathtub.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t . . . clean myself here.” I winced again, expressing my point best as I could. I was beginning to wish this was being filmed, because frankly, I was turning in an Oscar-winning performance. “I really need a shower or a bathtub. If you know what I mean. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” Then I put my hand to my stomach. “Oh!” I wailed.

  “What?” Frankie asked.

  “Oh my God. Oh, this isn’t good. I’m feeling another wave . . .”

  “This way!” Frankie moved faster than the paparazzi chasing Britney Spears down Sunset Boulevard. Following his lead down the hall, we found ourselves in what appeared to be the back of the main floor. We landed in front of another door, which Frankie threw open in haste. He shoved Roz in and pointed the gun at Peggy and me. “There! Get in!” We did as he said, and the door closed behind us. It seemed that Frankie had had enough of the three crazy ladies from the suburbs.

  I flipped on the light switch. We stood in the middle of a nicely appointed, reasonably sized bedroom with a queen-sized bed covered with a black and tan bedspread. A sleek, modern, black dresser took up a large portion of the wall across from the bed. Bl
ack satin curtains were pulled back, allowing a view from both corner windows. The room had an obvious masculine feel, and I thought I detected a hint of a familiar male cologne.

  “Did you really . . . you know . . . in your pants?” Peggy asked.

  “No! Gross.”

  “Just wondering. Pretty inventive of you.”

  “I’m not so inventive—if you want to know the truth, I nearly had an accident in my van on Purple Poplar the other day. Chili dogs didn’t agree with me.”

  “Oh.” She bobbed her head with understanding. “Been there, done that. Has that ever happened to you, Roz?” We both turned to find Roz curled up in a ball on the bed, head in her hands, weeping quietly. Sitting down next to her, I placed my hand on her arm.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. She nodded her head and sniffed.

  “I’ve never been so scared. He had a gun in my back!”

  “I know. Trust me. The gun thing is new to all of us.”

  “They’re going to kill us, Barb!”

  She had a point. “I know it seems that way, but let’s look at this from the glass-is-half-full perspective. We’re alive right now. As long as we’re alive, it seems to me like we have a fighting chance. There’s at least one policeman out there, obviously working to save our asses, and my guess is the authorities are on their way. Roz, they’ve got Howard—he might be dead, but he might still be alive and if he is, I’m going to do anything I can to save him. We really need to pull ourselves together and figure our way out of this—now. We need to stay alive for our kids’ sakes. Do you really want to leave your kids behind with Peter, doomed to SpaghettiO’s dinners for the rest of their childhood years?”

  She wiped her eyes and sat up, sniffing a few more times. “Okay. Okay. You’re right. I can do this.”

  Peggy had been checking the three different doors in the room. The first two had been closets. “Hmm,” she said, opening closet two, “men’s clothes. He likes black.” She opened the third door. Jackpot.

  “Here it is,” she said. “Now what?” Getting up from Roz’s side, I stepped over and looked in. More black and tan. Black towels, black rug, tan soap dish and toothbrush caddy.