Above them, the gang of furry, shrieking, incontinent beggars had swollen to three dozen. Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue shielded their heads and jogged the rest of the way to the Baboon Tree, an ancient ficus in the hub of a small plaza. Bud Schwartz was relieved to escape the yammering din and the rain of monkey feces. With a sigh he sat next to a Japanese family on a concrete bench. A moat of filmy brown water separated them from the bustling baboon colony in the big tree. Danny Pogue said: “Know why they don’t let the other monkeys together with the baboons?”
“Why not?”
“Because the baboons’d eat ’em.”
“What a loss that would be.”
“Let’s go see Brutus.”
“Danny, we’re here on business. Now shut the fuck up, if you don’t mind.”
The Japanese husband apparently understood at least one word of English, because he gave Bud Schwartz a sharp look. The Japanese wife, who hadn’t heard the profane remark, signaled that she would like a photograph of the whole family in front of the moat. Bud Schwartz motioned that his partner would do the honors; Danny Pogue had stolen many Nikons, but he’d never gotten a chance to use one. He arranged the Japanese in a neat row according to height, and snapped several pictures. In the background were many wild-eyed baboons, including a young male gleefully abusing itself.
Bud Schwartz was glad the children weren’t watching. After the Japanese had moved on, Danny Pogue said: “That was two hundred bucks right there, a Nikon with autofocus. I got a guy in Carol City fences nothing but cameras.”
“I told you,” said Bud Schwartz, “we’re through with that. We got a new career.” He didn’t sound as confident as he would’ve liked. Where the hell was Kingsbury?
Danny Pogue joined him on the concrete bench. “So how much is he gonna bring?”
“Fifty is what I told him.” Bud Schwartz couldn’t get the tremor out of his voice. “Fifty thousand, if he ever shows up.”
In the parking lot, Pedro Luz and Churrito got into a heated discussion about bringing the IV rack. Churrito prevailed on the grounds that it would attract too much attention.
The first thing they noticed about Monkey Mountain was the stink, which Churrito likened to that of a mass grave. Next came the insistent clamor of the creatures themselves, clinging to the chicken wire and extending miniature brown hands in hopes of food. Churrito lit up a Marlboro and handed it to a rhesus, who took a sniff and hurled it back at him. Pedro Luz didn’t think it was the least bit funny; he was sinking into one of his spells—every heartbeat sent cymbals crashing against his brainpan. An act of irrational violence was needed to calm the mood. It was fortunate, then, that the monkeys were safely on the other side of the chicken wire. Every time one appeared on the mesh over his head, Pedro Luz would jump up and smash at it savagely with his knuckles. This exercise was repeated every few seconds, all the way to the Baboon Tree.
The burglars—and it had to be them, greasy-looking rednecks—were sitting on a bench. Nobody else was around.
Pedro Luz whispered to Churrito: “Remember to get their car keys. They left the damn files in the car.”
“What if they dint?”
“They did. Now be quiet.”
Danny Pogue wasn’t paying attention. He was talking about a TV program that showed a male baboon killing a zebra, that’s how strong they were. A monkey that could kill something as big as a horse! Bud Schwartz was tuned out entirely; he was sizing up the two new men. The tall one, God Almighty, he was trouble. Built like a grizzly but that wasn’t the worst of it; the worst was the eyes. Bud Schwartz could spot a doper two miles away; this guy was buzzing like a yellow jacket. The other one was no prize, dull-eyed and cold, but at least he was of normal dimensions. What caught Bud Schwartz’s eye was the Cordovan briefcase that the smaller man was carrying.
“Get ready,” he said to Danny Pogue.
“But that ain’t Kingsbury.”