Free Bad Monkey by Carl Hiaasen Page B

he’d been up to the fourth floor, but evidently enough time had passed for the bees to construct a Vegas-style hive. If only his contractor worked half as fast, Evan Shook mused bitterly, the goddamn house would have been finished a year ago.
    Although he got stung thirteen times, the pain was negligible compared to his distress at losing the sale. The Carolinians hit the ground running. By the time Evan Shook caught up, they were already locked inside the Cadillac, feverishly trying to make sense of the keyless ignition. Evan Shook was tapping plaintively on the glass when the engine revved to life, and he was forced to leap clear as old Woodrow peeled out. Through the tinted windshield Ipolene could be seen shaking a bee-bitten fist.
    In the driveway next door stood Andrew Yancy, a newspaper tucked under one arm. He waved amiably as the Spillwrights sped off.
    “Go on. Try it,” Lombardo said.
    Yancy dubiously eyed the plate. Brennan was standing by their table, waiting.
    “It’s yellowtail,” he said.
    “I believe you.” Yancy took a small bite. The fish had been fried whole until crispy, Cuban-style. It tasted all right.
    Brennan folded his arms. “See? Ain’t it the best?”
    Lombardo said, “Give us a few minutes to talk.”
    When they were alone, Yancy said, “It’s not exactly fresh, Tommy.”
    “Yeah, but it’s not spoiled, right? It’s not fucking contaminated .”
    “Last time I was here, that asshole tried to bribe me.”
    “For God’s sake, Andrew, it’s the Keys. Eat your lunch.”
    Yancy’s official job description was “sanitation and safety specialist.” Tommy Lombardo had been assigned to train him, more or less. Lombardo was FDA-certified but he was also a local. Shutting down a restaurant for code violations—not cool. In his entire career on roach patrol, Lombardo had never ordered an emergency closure. He wanted Yancy to let Stoney’s Crab Palace re-open that afternoon.
    “They have a thing planned for that kid who got shot. Phinney? A fund-raiser to pay for his burial. There’s a country band lined up and everything,” Lombardo said. “Have a fucking heart.”
    “The food service area is a maggot festival.”
    “No, they cleaned it up. Why do you think I had you drive out here on a Saturday? Brennan, he’s been working like a dog.”
    “Which is probably what he’s serving for an appetizer,” Yancy said.
    Lombardo was exasperated. “See, this attitude of yours? Man, just ’cause you used to be a cop.… These are hard-working people. You can’t treat ’em like criminals.”
    “The law says no vermin in the kitchen.”
    “The law says? Okay, Andrew, the law also says you’re supposed to be certified by the state fire marshal. Are you? Nope. The law also says you’re supposed to take the food manager’s exam before you can work as a state inspector. Did you do that? Nope. You got this job because the sheriff made a phone call, which is no big deal, but all I’m sayin’ is let’s not get carried away with what the law says and so forth. Brennan’s a good guy who’s just tryin’ to make a fair living.”
    Yancy pushed the plate away. “There was a used rubber in the oysters.”
    “Yeah, I read your report.”
    “How does that even happen?”
    “It’s not all Brennan’s fault,” Lombardo said. “The employment pool down here, it’s sketchy. As a cop you should know.”
    Yancy stood up from the table. “Well, let’s go have a peek.”
    The kitchen was much cleaner, he had to admit. No rancid shellfish or rodent droppings were on display. Yancy swabbed the food preparation surfaces and checked the temperature in the refrigerators and salad cooler. Brennan, who was cracking stone crabs, proudly showed off his new hairnet. Yancy dropped down and shined a flashlight under the stove, where Brennan had apparently unloaded two or three cans of Raid. Yancy scooped up a handful of dead German cockroaches and a tick, which Lombardo shrugged off.
    “There’s