Free Monkey on a Chain by Harlen Campbell Page A

pad into the bathroom in the mirror. There was no spring in her step. I opened the drapes and patio door and let the sun in. She came out after a couple of minutes wearing the suit. It looked good on her. Not too tiny, but she’d be able to get some sun if she wanted. I asked if she liked it.
    She flashed a faint smile and nodded. I pointed to the courtyard. She left. I carried the phone to a chair where I could watch her and dialed the first number, Peacemaker Investments, and asked to speak to Mr. Coleman. The receptionist asked me to hold a moment, and then a man picked up the line. “Can I help you?”
    “John Coleman, please.”
    “There’s no one here by that name.” His voice was smooth, deep. It wasn’t Walker.
    “When did he leave?”
    He hesitated. “There has never been a Mr. Coleman at this number.”
    I was patient. “Peacemaker Investments was in-corporated in 1972 by John Coleman and Harold Stephenson,” I told him. “This is Mr. Stephenson. I’d like to speak to Mr. Coleman.”
    The next pause was longer. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Coleman has retired.”
    “Fine. What is his home number?”
    “That’s confidential information. I’m sorry.”
    “He wants to talk to me.”
    “I doubt that very much.”
    “Ask him.”
    “Could you tell me the nature of your business with Mr. Coleman?”
    The hook was in. “It’s confidential. Tell him I have to see him.”
    “Have to?”
    “Yes. Tell him Toker is dead.”
    “Toker is dead.” He repeated the message flatly. “He’ll call you if your message interests him. What is your number?”
    “I’ll call back in an hour. I expect him to answer.”
    “Call at four. He may not be here, but I’ll give him the news about Mr. Toker.”
    That seemed like the best I was going to get out of the man. I thanked him and hung up.
    April was at the table I had used. The boys were gone. I walked out to her, scooped her into my arms, and carried her over to the edge of the pool. She screamed and beat at me with both fists, but her heart wasn’t in it. I tossed her in. She came up sputtering and cursing.
    “Swim,” I told her.
    She hung on the side of the pool and stared at me, but after a few minutes she began a slow backstroke toward the other side. I watched her for a while, then went in and put my suit on. When I returned, she was still swimming, grimly. The mother and daughter team were sitting up, watching us.
    I sat on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs, and let April do another ten laps, then slid in and paced her for ten more. At first she tried to pull away from me, but I made a race of it, and we gradually synchronized our strokes. The sky was that hard turquoise blue you only see in the desert. It was getting on toward noon, and the sun was fierce.
    Finally I’d had enough. I climbed out, grabbed our towels, and went to sit under one of the umbrellas. The mother and daughter had apparently lost interest when no further drama materialized. They were on their bellies again, and they’d both undone the straps on their tops. They were the same shade of golden brown. If the mother hadn’t been fifteen pounds heavier and puckered just the tiniest bit where her cheeks met her legs, they could have passed for sisters.
    April walked out of the shallow end of the pool and sat beside me. A waiter wandered by and I ordered two beers. When he left, I asked how she was feeling.
    “Okay, I guess.”
    “Did you sleep well?”
    She shot a quick glance at me, probably remembering that she hadn’t slept alone. But she just shrugged.
    “Okay, I guess.”
    The waiter wandered back with the drinks and I signed for them. The beer was cold, the sun was hot, the shade was pleasant, and a pretty girl sat beside me. But Toker was dead, Walker was hiding, the books were off, and Squall Line had been broken. I felt okay, I guess.
    “They buried him the day before yesterday,” I told her.
    She nodded slowly. No tears.
    “How do you feel about that? Don’t say