Tough Day for the Army by John Warner Page A

and restaurants with white tablecloths. Our steel drummers and Pan flautists and organ grinders are licensed and bonded, and apparent stranglings are not even a semi-regular occurrence. As we neared the center square I could see orange cones with yellow tape stretched between them cordoning off the area where Giuseppe was found, his usual spot. A group of people knotted at the scene, sharing shrugs. I started to walk toward them, but the monkey tugged me away.
    â€œYou don’t want to return to the scene of the crime,” he said. “Very suspicious.”
    â€œBut I wasn’t there to begin with.”
    â€œOnce again, I remind you of the thumbprint, not to mention the slip of paper in his back pocket with your address and phone number on it. Clearly you two had a connection. Now you need some money. Thank God you got your wallet back.”
    The monkey tugged me over to a street ATM and gestured toward the screen. The machine sucked my card inside, and I blocked the monkey from the keyboard as I punched in my code, but as I glanced over my shoulder I saw that he wasn’t even looking at me and instead scanned the street, lightly hopping from one foot to the other.
    â€œHey,” the monkey said as I slipped the money into my wallet and reclaimed my card. “I bet I can tell you where you got your shoes at.”
    I looked down at my shoes, nondescript brown loafers, bought at Constance’s insistence that I, for once, spend more than thirty dollars on shoes. I remembered the day, her squeezing my arm in encouragement as I flipped my credit card across the counter. They were great shoes, comfortable. Durable. Swedish. Available just about anywhere.
    I’m not stupid. I was suspicious. “How could you possibly know where I got my shoes?”
    â€œI just do.”
    â€œI don’t believe you.”
    â€œDo you not believe me two hundred bucks’ worth?”
    I was already out seven bucks and a potential murder rap to this monkey. I was Constanceless. What else was there to lose, other than a couple hundred bucks? “You’re on,” I said.
    â€œYou got them on your feet,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYour feet—you got them on your feet.”
    â€œI don’t get it,” I said.
    The monkey cupped his elbow in one hand and used the other to massage his temple. “I said, ‘I bet I can tell you where you got your shoes at,’ and you said, ‘You’re on,’ for two hundred bucks, no less, and I said, ‘You got them on your feet,’ which is 100 percent true, which means you owe me the double c-note.”
    I’d had just about enough of this monkey. “That’s stupid, and I’m not paying.”
    â€œToo late,” the monkey said, snapping his fingers and flashing a roll of twenties. I pulled out my wallet and looked inside. All the money I’d withdrawn from the ATM was gone. “That was three hundred.”
    â€œInterest,” the monkey said, grabbing my arm and once again tugging me down the street toward wherever we were going next.
    â€œNow,” he said, speaking as we walked, or rather I walked and he waddled along next to me, bowlegged, shambling. “This next part is going to be hard for you, but it’s a sort of bad news, good news thing and I’ve really already told you the bad news.”
    â€œWhich part was that?”
    â€œThe part that Constance is not right for you and that she’s already moved on to someone else. That’s true, and you’re about to be confronted with incontrovertible evidence of it, which will likely be painful because you humans are irrational creatures who hold onto beliefs despite all signs to the contrary. The irrational belief in this instance being that Constance might have ever loved you, just in case I’m not being clear.”
    I was getting pretty fucking tired of this monkey. This was a seriously annoying monkey. I