“The truth,” said Sam. “That he was representing a Florida attorney who was representing an offshore corporation — remember? The company they set up for us? — and the attorney says the corporation tripped over five million dollars of drug money but had nothing to do with any of the crimes connected to it.”
“And they gave us immunity just like that?”
“No, they turned it down,” said Sam. “That’s when the IRS started getting calls from the staff of congressmen sitting on their budget committee. The ones we contributed to.”
“But what about those drug guys? Won’t they come looking for it?”
“They think it floated away. Everyone on that train thinks it floated away.”
“But if we have the money, what blew into the river?”
“We can thank Ralph Krunkleton for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You remember how everyone in The Stingray Shuffle was chasing five million bucks?”
“Yeah?”
“And you remember how Ralph’s agent brought a briefcase on the train full of scripts and props to act out the book, toy guns and knives…and play money…”
“Play money blew into the river?”
“It’s the only answer.”
The drinks arrived, and Sam proposed a toast. “To Serge, wherever he is.”
The women clinked glasses.
“To Serge…”
A twenty-eight-foot trimaran tacked across the Gulf Stream below the Bahia Honda Bridge in the Florida Keys.
“Hey, Johnny,” said Sasha, an alternate Tampa Bay Buccaneers cheerleader and first-string dope date. “Let’s go to Key Lois.”
Johnny Vegas was a member of the all-virility team, wearing an America’s Cup rip-stop nylon yachting jacket, his black Vidal Sassoon mane snapping in the wind. He stood at the helm, turning the large chrome wheel with panache.
“But baby, Key Lois is off limits,” he said. “It’s federal law.”
“I know,” she purred. “It’ll be deserted.” She came up from behind, sliding her left hand up between his legs. Johnny reacted nonchalantly by losing sensation in both arms and letting go of the wheel. The main boom whipped over their heads and the sailboat momentarily pitched up on its port hull before Johnny grabbed the spinning helm and straightened her out.
“It’s right over there,” said Sasha, pointing at the low profile of a mangrove island on the horizon.
Johnny set his course for Key Lois, a mile south of Cudjoe Key and twenty miles east of Key West. He approached from the leeward side to make harbor and showcased his seamanship by gently rupturing the center hull on the rocky beach.
“Where’s your coke?”
“Right here.”
“Dump it out.”
He did. She vacuumed.
“Weeeeeeee!” squealed Sasha, hopping over the side and running down the beach ripping off her bikini. “Let’s go see the monkeys!”
Johnny was close behind but losing ground, trying to run with his trunks around his knees.
The monkeys Sasha had mentioned were the reason Key Lois was off limits. Charles River Laboratories of Massachusetts, a subsidiary of Bausch & Lomb, uses the island to breed rhesus monkeys for scientific experiments. And breed they do.
But Johnny didn’t see a single monkey as he wiggled his swim trunks down to his ankles and flicked them aside with his left foot. He caught up with Sasha near the breakers.
“Where’s your cocaine?”
Yes! She wants a little nitro to get her engine primed, then it’s off to the races! Johnny ran back and got the swim trunks he had kicked off. He returned and pulled a watertight capsule from a Velcro pocket.
“Gimme that!” She snatched it out of his hands and stuck it up her nose until it was empty.
Her eyes glassed over, and her lower lip jutted and tremored with predatory sensuality. Show time, thought Johnny. But instead of making her amorous, it only made her want to look for monkeys.
“Here, monkey, monkey…”
Johnny followed her all the way around the island, four miles total, but no monkeys. They splashed out into a few inches of water to skirt the last outcropping of mangroves before returning to the sailboat. Johnny felt a hand on his thigh. The silly dust had kicked in. Sasha put her mouth to his ear and whispered in a husky voice: “I love seafaring men. Let’s fuck in the boat… I feel a big blow’s acomin’.”
Johnny developed a certain carefree spring in his step as they held hands and skipped merrily through the shallow water. They rounded the mangrove bend, and there was the boat.
Sasha screamed. Johnny gasped.
The trimaran — what was left of it — was covered with monkeys. Hundreds of chattering, swinging, shitting monkeys, ripping up the sails, tearing the stuffing out of life preservers, ransacking the galley. The monkeys cavorted across the stern and hung by their tails from the cabin railing. A dozen monkeys armed with marlinespikes and galley utensils jumped onto the beach and charged. Sasha screamed and took off in the opposite direction. The monkeys ran past Johnny and chased Sasha back around the bend. Johnny fell to his knees in the water. “Why me?…”
When he finally looked up again, he saw something he would never forget as long as he lived. It was a fleeting but searing image, like a Loch Ness sighting.
What he saw was a wiry man in a royal blue astronaut jumpsuit. The man stood atop the sailboat’s cabin, arms akimbo, a monkey on each shoulder and more monkeys clustered around his feet in loyalty and affection. Then the man jumped down off the boat and disappeared into the mangrove thicket, and the hundreds of monkeys followed.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Gratitude is due once again to my agent, Nat Sobel, and my editor, Henry Ferris, for throwing friendship in with the bargain.
About the Author
Tim Dorsey was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999 and is the author of the novels Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, and the upcoming Cadillac Beach. He lives in Tampa, Florida. Visit his website at www.timdorsey.com
Also by Tim Dorsey
FLORIDA ROADKILL
HAMMERHEAD RANCH MOTEL
ORANGE CRUSH
TRIGGERFISH TWIST