By Carl Hiaasen
Andrew Yancy—late of the Miami Police and soon-to-be-late of the Monroe County sheriff’s office—has a human arm in his freezer. There’s a logical (Hiaasenian) reason for that, yet no longer for the way and why it parted from its shadowy proprietor. Yancy thinks the boating-accident/shark-luncheon rationalization is stuffed with holes, and if he can turn out homicide, the sheriff could rescue him from his grisly healthiness Inspector gig (it’s now not referred to as the roach patrol for nothing). yet first—this being Hiaasen country—Yancy needs to negotiate a drawback process wildly unpredictable occasions with a workforce of much more wildly unpredictable characters, together with his just-ex lover, a hot-blooded fugitive from Kansas; the twitchy widow of the frozen arm; avariciously confident real-estate speculators; the Bahamian voodoo witch often called the Dragon Queen, whose suitors are blinded unto demise by means of her atypical charms; Yancy’s new real love, a kinky coroner; and the eponymous undesirable monkey, who with hilarious aplomb earns his position between Carl Hiaasen’s maximum characters.
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Additional resources for Bad Monkey
It’s immoral. Taking bets on how many deaths there are going to be in my current case? What’s that going to do for my reputation? I curse everyone roundly. So irate am I that I actually march out of the tavern without picking up a beer and I can’t remember the last time I did that. I need to get to the Mermaid to recover the pendant as quickly as possible, so I set off at a brisk pace, promising myself that I’ll have more than a few harsh words for Makri and Gurd when I get back. Youthful dwa dealers hover round the alleyway that leads to the Mermaid.
Nothing happens. No wagons come. As Casax the Brotherhood boss sees his headquarters starting to disappear in flames, he becomes agitated. He screams for his men to bring water from neighbouring houses, waving his fists to encourage them. The way the flames are taking hold, I doubt that this is going to do much good. Normally I’d enjoy seeing the Mermaid burning to the ground. However, it strikes me that it’s hardly helpful to my immediate purposes. I approach Casax. He doesn’t acknowledge me, being too busy trying to save the tavern to pay any attention to an unwelcome Investigator.
The heat mingles with the smell of rancid ale and burning dwa. Thazis smoke drifts over the tables. The wooden beams overhead are blackened with age. The prostitute who patrols the area with red ribbons in her hair strives vainly to interest the largely inebriated clientele. There’s a woman on the floor who looks like she might be dead. I shake my head. This is about as low as life gets. No civilised person would visit this tavern. “Thraxas! ” I come here occasionally. Mainly in the line of business.
Bad Monkey by Carl Hiaasen