That’s when Driggs began plotting an escape. An opportunity came the very next day when the old lady and her companion became tangled on the scooter chair during a braying act of human sex that the monkey mistook for a terrible fight. Swiftly Driggs made his move, snatching a pipe, lighter and tobacco stash before leaping from a window. Off he ran through a soaking rain that seemed different from other summer squalls, as did the galloping surge of the clouds.
A wild capuchin might have intuited a hurricane was coming; if not, he surely would have been alerted by senior members of his troop, who would have organized a collective refuge in heavy limbs below the forest canopy. Driggs, however, was a city monkey by birth and upbringing. He understood only that he preferred to be dry, cozy and shielded from the quaking thunder, which literally scared him shitless.
The few covered hiding places he found also attracted humans; trusting no upright species, Driggs loped on. By nightfall he was tired and famished, and he’d lost his cherished pipe during a dustup with a white man. The road was mostly empty but Driggs came upon a van that stood idling while one of the occupants urinated in the bushes. Silently the monkey climbed to the top and rode the luggage rack through buffeting gusts back to the outskirts of Rocky Town, where he hopped off and made a downcast return to the shack of the Dragon Queen.
Squeezing through a loosely hinged shutter, he entered the candlelit hovel squinting. He was surprised to see, in addition to the witch and her boyfriend, a stranger—a younger, long-haired woman, trussed with belts to a chair. The man called Egg scowled at Driggs, but from her scooter the Dragon Queen sang out his name and joyfully welcomed him. With equine snorts she nuzzled the soggy capuchin while steering the wheelchair in gay loops until it hummed to a stop. Egg said the battery ran out and the old lady ordered him to put in another one, which he refused to do.
Driggs vaulted from the stalled scooter to the lap of the younger woman, who was unable to speak due to a gag made from one of the voodoo hag’s bright scarves. The new woman’s clean odor was pleasing, and Driggs pressed his face to her bosom and inhaled deep monkey breaths as a respite from the rankness in the room. Casually he foraged inside the woman’s blouse for M&M’s or other hidden treats. Seeing fright in her eyes, he began combing his doll-like fingers through her soft shiny hair.
An outcry rose from the Dragon Queen: “Get ’way from dot whore, my lil’ prince!”
Driggs clung to the newcomer’s clothing, but Egg seized his tail and yanked him away. The monkey landed on the table, where he spied another pipe and snuck a hit that made his teeth freeze. He peered into the pipe bowl and saw a foreign paste of white crystals, which confused him. The Dragon Queen rose from the scooter chair and began flapping her skirt at the tied-down woman, who looked away. Egg came around from behind and turned the woman’s head with a hard slap, further upsetting Driggs.
Egg wore no clothes, the long brown thing between his legs reminding the monkey of his own. The Dragon Queen started to bob and clap while her naked boyfriend, shining with sweat, circled their prisoner. A frightened cry came from the bound woman.
Driggs heard himself chitter in agitation, meaning now he didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to see whatever was about to happen. The animal felt panicky and cornered. Yet outside the wind was roaring, the trees kept snapping—where could he run?
The Dragon Queen snatched him from the tabletop and buttoned him into a tiny tuxedo vest stained with coffee. She held him by the collar while shouting encouragement to Egg, who hurried to loosen the belts from the chair holding the younger woman.
“Do it! Gon now!” the hag crowed.
Once their captive was untied, Egg turned back to the Dragon Queen and struck a vulgar pose, flexing his arms. The Dragon Queen moaned theatrically and with her free hand fanned herself. When Egg took hold of the younger woman, still gagged, she began punching at his wide chest. The Dragon Queen chortled though the scene had an opposite effect upon the capuchin, who broke from the voodoo witch’s grasp and launched himself in authentic jungle fury at her boyfriend.
A scream shot out from Egg—a high, full-throated scream that overrode the low drone of the storm. The door of the shack flew open but it wasn’t the wind. Standing there was a white man Driggs recognized from previous altercations.
But behind the white man, looking over his shoulder, was … Neville!
Driggs would have grinned had his incisors not been so deeply implanted in Egg’s fleshy thing, to which the monkey clung as if it were the bough of a mahogany tree.
Yancy needed a moment to absorb the scene.
“Jesus,” he said. “The man’s got a monkey on his dick.”
Neville was thunderstruck. “Dot’s Driggs,” was all he could muster.
Egg cast Rosa aside and feverishly commenced slapping at the capuchin, causing him to chomp down harder. Blood was dripping all over the thug’s feet. He stopped flailing to appraise his tormentor, seven fuzzy pounds that might as well have been cast-iron tonnage.
The Dragon Queen railed at Driggs and hawked rheumy gobs at the intruders. Yancy shoved her backward into the seat of the Rollie scooter; then he pulled off Rosa’s gag and firmly guided her toward the doorway. Neville refused to depart without his pet, who remained tenaciously attached to Egg.
From the goon came a seething croak: “Git dot fucker offa my cock or you dead mon.” He was holding motionless under the most delicate of circumstances.
Once more the Dragon Queen lunged to intervene, crooning more voodoo nonsense. This time it was Neville who pushed her back onto the wheelchair.
To Driggs he gently appealed, “C’mon, boy! Poppa got fritters bok home!”
These were irresistible words to the hungry vagabond. Driggs spat out Egg and jumped to the top of Neville’s head, his old riding perch. They hurried out the door behind Yancy and Rosa, chased by the fevered remonstrations of the voodoo woman.
By the time the hurricane struck, they were more or less safe—Yancy, Rosa, Neville and the monkey—inside a small house rented by another of Neville’s girlfriends. Coquina was her name, and Neville fondly introduced her as half Cuban. She’d lighted two kerosene lanterns after the power went out; the windows she had boarded earlier that day with Neville’s help.
The house was near the shore, the waves breaking hard enough to interrupt conversation. Coquina handed out dry clothes and a small towel for Driggs, who had torn off the tuxedo vest and was stuffing himself with johnnycakes and orange slices.
Neville pulled Yancy to a corner and said, “You tink Mistuh Chrissofer be dead?”
“I don’t know. What’d you hit him with?”
“I didn’t hit ’im, mon. I stob ’im wit your fishin’ pole.”
Yancy said, “The fly rod?”
“Yah. In de bock.” Neville demonstrated how he’d broken it and used the point of the butt section as a lance. “Wot if I hoyt ’im bod? Maybe killed ’im.”
“I didn’t see a damn thing,” said Yancy.
“Wot ’bout his woman?”
“It was raining. It was dark. She was drunk.”
“She was?”
“If anybody asks me,” Yancy said. “You bet.”
Outside something heavy crashed to the ground. Across the room, Rosa and Coquina were feeding Ritz crackers to Driggs. They all looked up because of the noise. Coquina said it was probably a utility pole falling in the backyard.
Yancy told Neville he had done the right thing at Bannister Point. “The man’s a criminal, a murderer. All you did was save my life, Mr. Stafford.”