Joy Ride
I keep going. “It drives me crazy not knowing. It drives me fucking insane.”
“Between us. Because there’s something happening.”
But the next thing that happens is my phone. It buzzes loudly in the holder. Creswell’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe and answer him on speaker.
“Hey! We’re almost there.”
“Thank God I caught you,” he says, his voice heavy with relief.
Henley’s eyes meet mine, and hers are full of concern.
“What’s going on?”
Creswell breathes out hard, as if he’s been running for miles. “I’m here with Cynthia, and she’s hurt, and I need to get her something.”
Henley makes a T with her hands. “Hey, Creswell,” she says. “Who’s Cynthia?”
“Cynthia is my girlfriend. I’m at her house. We just returned from the ER.”
“Oh my God,” Henley says, straightening her spine. “Is she okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” he says, and I can hear his shoes clicking against the floor. He must be pacing. “She was at her house earlier, making a salad to bring tonight, when she sliced off her finger.”
My eyes nearly pop from my head. “She sliced off her finger?”
“Yes, the tip. It was a bit bloody. The surgeon sewed it back on, but she’s quite shaken, as you can imagine.”
“Of course. What can we do to help?”
“Let us know if we can get you anything. We’ll help however we can.”
“You’re near my house?” He asks it as if that’s the answer to his prayers.
A quick check of the GPS tells me we’re five hundred feet away. “Almost there. What do you need?”
“My spare key is under a rock on the side porch,” he says, detailing exactly how to find it as I scan the mailboxes for his number. “Once you get it, plug in the code to the security system.”
He gives us the number, and Henley grabs a Sharpie from her purse and writes down the number on a pad of paper.
“I would go myself, but I can’t leave her.”
“Of course not,” Henley says, her voice all calm and concerned. “What does she need? A pillow? A change of clothes? Her eyeglasses?” she asks, rattling off the usual suspects.
“No. She needs Roger. He always calms her down.”
I pull into his driveway and cut the engine. “Who’s Roger?”
I had thought Roger was his partner. Hell, maybe Roger is his other partner, and they have some unusual threesome thing going on.
But the next words from Creswell clear up the Roger confusion completely.
“He’s my monkey.”
38
Henley’s To-Do List
* * *
—Duck if he throws something.
* * *
—Find nearest banana.
* * *
—Look away if his paw is between his legs.
* * *
—Get him.
* * *
—Scratch that.
* * *
—Make Max get him.
39
Roger is naked.
“I thought he’d be wearing a diaper.”
“Creswell said he was well trained. I guess he’s house trained, too,” Henley says, her tone one of awe as we approach the wild animal who lives with our client in a pristine two-story Connecticut colonial.
Roger swings from the top of the enclosure in Creswell’s living room. We take careful, measured steps toward the huge wire cage that runs from the floor to the ceiling and looks like it would fit in a zoo. Inside is a miniature forest, and Roger seems to enjoy it—he jumps from the wire to a branch on a little replica of a tree. Then he leaps to the front of the cage and sticks a small hand through the holes.
Henley points at him and covers her mouth. A dart of worry shoots through me, since she looks scared. But instead, she bounces on her heels and suppresses a childlike shriek. She spins around, doubles over, and says, “Oh my God, he’s so fucking cute!”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her swear.
She spins back and grabs my arm, clutching me in excitement. “Look at him! Just. Look. At. Him.”
Roger is, by any definition of the word, a pipsqueak. He’s a Callimico monkey, Creswell told me as I’d parked the car and looked for the key. He’s a rescue from Bolivia, and his right arm is permanently injured. That’s why he lives here.
He’s all black and no bigger than a squirrel. His tail is a yard long. His hand is the tiniest thing I’ve ever seen, and his fingers are long. His fur gleams so brightly he could be a monkey shampoo model.
“Is he going to throw anything at us?” Henley asks as we near the cage.
A quick scan of Creswell’s clean living room, from the immaculate hardwood floors to the shimmering glass coffee table and unmarked, unscratched beige leather couch, tells me that the man wasn’t lying when he said Roger was well trained. There’s not a trace of monkey projectile or monkey mark anywhere.
“He doesn’t seem to be taking aim at you with any missiles,” I say as we reach the cage.
Roger’s small brown eyes widen and he shoots out his hand, clasping as much of Henley’s shoulder as he can grasp. “Oh my God,” she shrieks.
“Is he still the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Her smile is huge as she nods. “He’s adorable. I’m in love with him.”
I raise my eyebrows as Roger makes a chattering noise, like a little lovebird in a tree. “I think he’s in love with you, too.”
Following Creswell’s instructions, I unlock the door to the enclosure, opening it slowly. Roger yanks his paw back into the cage. I’ll be honest—I’m expecting the primate to just take off. To race across the living room, scamper up the stairs, and swing from the chandeliers. And I’m ready with my arms wide open to try to catch the guy if he gives me a run for my money.
Memo to bookies: Bet on the monkey, not the man.
The second the door creaks open, Roger leaps—but not across the living room. He flings himself at Henley with a happy shriek. A look of terror flicks across Henley’s eyes, but it morphs quickly to a wild thrill as she welcomes him in her arms. His tail seems to have a mind of its own, and he wraps it around her waist. She cuddles him in the crook of her arm, snuggling the tiniest creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Henley coos at him. It is the sound of a woman falling for a child. “Hey there, sweet thing,” she says to him in a soft, doting tone.
Roger bares his teeth in a smile then makes his lovebird chatter once more.
“Told you so. The dude is smitten,” I say, as Henley strokes his chin. Roger lifts it higher, giving her full access for a petting session.
“Gah! I’m smitten, too. I thought he was going to throw poo at me or jerk off.”
I crack up. “And instead, he’s putting out for you.”
Henley shoots me a stern stare. “He is not putting out. He’s a sweet boy.” She looks at the monkey in her arms. “Are you a sweet boy, Roger? Yes, you are. You’re such a sweet boy. Do you want a banana?”
On that note, Henley strides out of the living room in her purple dress, a black primate snug up against her, me behind her. She heads to the state-of-the-art kitchen with its marble island counter and Sub-Zero fridge. A back door with a small dog entry cut into it leads to the yard. Perhaps Creswell has a dog, too. Or maybe Roger uses the dog door. Henley grabs a banana from a fruit bowl. Roger shakes his head and leans away from her, snagging a slice of a Macintosh apple that’s been left on a plate. Maybe it’s the remains of his lunch. He bites into it and then finishes the wedge a minute later.