The sellers were very upfront about Sid's strengths and weaknesses. He was an exceptionally intelligent animal with advanced skills, but prone to headstrong acts of defiance and lapses of concentration. Hey, I'm not perfect either.
After a promising start at training school, he got dropped and was put up for sale as a pet. I was told to get his teeth pulled and neutered as soon as possible. Teeth-pulling was out of the question for obvious reasons and I decided not to neuter him because it would lower his testosterone. Amateur physicians like myself know that testosterone fuels drive, industry, intensity, creativity and aggression. Aggression is the downside on a long scroll of positives. I wanted Sid to be his sharp, quick-thinking self and decided I'd roll with the occasional burst of defiance. Not a whole lot of difference between Sid and me, when you get down to it. Big monkey, small monkey; hard to say who's more civilized.
While Sid chomps, I consult my email. Garbage, spam… I've been wracking my brain of late to land the next kill. I'd get Sid to do it but we got so lucky at the carwash that I hate to overdo it. Besides this is LA, I need to employ creativity.
Here's an invite to join one of those group pages. Hold on a minute. California has to be the social networking capital of the universe. What if I faked a page, declared myself a writer, no not just a writer, a crime writer, offering paid interviews for real-life hit-and-run drivers? It's hard to believe anybody would be stupid enough to answer and actually tell the truth, but times are tough right now, and people will do things for money they never previously considered. I can feel you shaking your head, buddy. You agree with that one, huh? A hundred thousand jobs plus lost in LA due to the economy, and in LA everybody wants to sell their story. I'll make sure my page guarantees they can stay anonymous. That'll be the clincher. Everybody also knows that the press protect their sources, right?
An hour later, and I'm set up with a fake handle, a brand new fake email account and my own page. It's a beaut. I glance at the calendar and see Blattlatch is due for a visit. We are going for a check-up with Dr. Klanski, my internist. Blattlatch is bound to be early so we can all get to Klanski's office well ahead of time and wait longer than we need to in his office. I scratch a cheery post-it with my good hand to put on the front door. "Hi Miz Blattlatch. Please come in. Sid and I will be back in time to go see Doc K."
***
Outside the apartment building, Orella sips from a water bottle and shifts her hips into a more comfortable position. She's put in two ten-hour days, and so far, the van has not moved from basement parking. Neither has any handicapped man entered or exited the building.
Or maybe... What's that shape moving beyond the electric door? A reflection-darkened figure rolls toward the exit. She can see the outline of a wheelchair. The man looks so frail. A man that frail couldn't possibly drive a van, could he?
The door slides open and he exits into the daylight. Behind the tinted windows of her SUV, Orella stops breathing. Her heart booms in her chest. A small creature flits out of the man's lap to his shoulder. A monkey? Orella shakes her head in disbelief. It's almost as if the creature sees her looking, though he couldn't possibly see her with the sun right in his eyes, secreted as she is behind dark windows.
As if he were looking straight at her, the little monkey yawns, revealing white, sharp canine teeth.
Sweat breaks out across her forehead and a rivulet trickles down the back of her shirt. She grips the steering wheel so hard her knuckles crackle before slumping forward in a faint.
Five minutes, ten maybe, her eyes flutter open. She looks wildly up and down the road, gets out and jogs a few paces up and back. The man and his creature are gone but Orella knows what she's seen. Ambrose's real killer—a small, blonde and chocolate monkey
After a promising start at training school, he got dropped and was put up for sale as a pet. I was told to get his teeth pulled and neutered as soon as possible. Teeth-pulling was out of the question for obvious reasons and I decided not to neuter him because it would lower his testosterone. Amateur physicians like myself know that testosterone fuels drive, industry, intensity, creativity and aggression. Aggression is the downside on a long scroll of positives. I wanted Sid to be his sharp, quick-thinking self and decided I'd roll with the occasional burst of defiance. Not a whole lot of difference between Sid and me, when you get down to it. Big monkey, small monkey; hard to say who's more civilized.
While Sid chomps, I consult my email. Garbage, spam… I've been wracking my brain of late to land the next kill. I'd get Sid to do it but we got so lucky at the carwash that I hate to overdo it. Besides this is LA, I need to employ creativity.
Here's an invite to join one of those group pages. Hold on a minute. California has to be the social networking capital of the universe. What if I faked a page, declared myself a writer, no not just a writer, a crime writer, offering paid interviews for real-life hit-and-run drivers? It's hard to believe anybody would be stupid enough to answer and actually tell the truth, but times are tough right now, and people will do things for money they never previously considered. I can feel you shaking your head, buddy. You agree with that one, huh? A hundred thousand jobs plus lost in LA due to the economy, and in LA everybody wants to sell their story. I'll make sure my page guarantees they can stay anonymous. That'll be the clincher. Everybody also knows that the press protect their sources, right?
An hour later, and I'm set up with a fake handle, a brand new fake email account and my own page. It's a beaut. I glance at the calendar and see Blattlatch is due for a visit. We are going for a check-up with Dr. Klanski, my internist. Blattlatch is bound to be early so we can all get to Klanski's office well ahead of time and wait longer than we need to in his office. I scratch a cheery post-it with my good hand to put on the front door. "Hi Miz Blattlatch. Please come in. Sid and I will be back in time to go see Doc K."
***
Outside the apartment building, Orella sips from a water bottle and shifts her hips into a more comfortable position. She's put in two ten-hour days, and so far, the van has not moved from basement parking. Neither has any handicapped man entered or exited the building.
Or maybe... What's that shape moving beyond the electric door? A reflection-darkened figure rolls toward the exit. She can see the outline of a wheelchair. The man looks so frail. A man that frail couldn't possibly drive a van, could he?
The door slides open and he exits into the daylight. Behind the tinted windows of her SUV, Orella stops breathing. Her heart booms in her chest. A small creature flits out of the man's lap to his shoulder. A monkey? Orella shakes her head in disbelief. It's almost as if the creature sees her looking, though he couldn't possibly see her with the sun right in his eyes, secreted as she is behind dark windows.
As if he were looking straight at her, the little monkey yawns, revealing white, sharp canine teeth.
Sweat breaks out across her forehead and a rivulet trickles down the back of her shirt. She grips the steering wheel so hard her knuckles crackle before slumping forward in a faint.
Five minutes, ten maybe, her eyes flutter open. She looks wildly up and down the road, gets out and jogs a few paces up and back. The man and his creature are gone but Orella knows what she's seen. Ambrose's real killer—a small, blonde and chocolate monkey
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