Bad Monkey

So, here's the thing about fishing stories...

they always start on a boat.

It was a thick, hot Florida day.

You wouldn't know it from all the expensive gear,

but James Mayberry had never fished before.

- Locked in? I'm good. Is it good? - Good? There you go.

- Yeah. Let's do it. - All right, here we go.

You know what they say, you always remember your first time.

Lou! Louisa! Honey, I still don't have that beer.

- Can we fix that, please? - Okay.

I said okay.

Gotta love a honeymoon charter. Warms the heart.

You're fun to talk to. You got a real spark.

Fish on! Game time, boys!

Christ.

- Will you give me some space, please? - Geez.

I got a fish. I'm getting it.

Get it up. There it is.

Yeah! Bring it in, baby.

- What the fuck! Shit! - Oh, my God!

- What is that? - That's not a fish.

- Oh, my God! - Captain, that's not a fish!

- Yeah, I see that. - Oh, my God!

- Yo, check out his finger, dude. - Sick!

What do you think, maybe a shark got him? I'm thinking Great White.

Seen my fair share of shark shows.

That's how it happens. One minute, you're kicking it. Next minute, boom!

Chewed to shit.

I gotta radio the Coast Guard.

You do that. I'm gonna text my friends. Muggo's gonna shit his pants.

We're in the memory-making business.

Oh, yeah.

Andrew Yancy's cell phone had been ringing all morning,

but he had chosen to ignore it. It was too nice a day.

He was a simple man, and as such, he enjoyed simple pleasures.

A good drink now and then. A chair with a view.

And most importantly, a place to call home.

He loved damn near all of it.

He didn't even mind the occasional uninvited visitor

that munched on his bushes.

This was his happy place.

Yancy, you ever answer your phone?

Easy, loud feet.

Look at this handsome guy over here.

Those things are covered in ticks.

Jesus.

You know, there's so much construction around nowadays

that the Key deer barely even come around.

Can you believe the size of that dump? I'm gonna burn it down.

Don't burn it down.

I'll make sure no one's inside, but it's gonna burn.

Okay. Burn it down. Sonny wants you to take a quick road trip to Miami.

The county code is 35 feet, and this shitheap here is 45 feet.

It's the Keys, bro. No one follows the building code.

Okay, you, Miami, a little police business.

- In and out. - I can't do it, Ro.

I'm technically not even a detective anymore.

Do we really have to do this dance?

Who's dancing? There's no dance.

I'm suspended. What... How am I dancing?

- No, it's the, like... The back-and-forth. - There's no back-and-forth.

My brother, you want your job back very badly, right?

- Yes. - Well, I've got something in my car

that the sheriff wants you to drive to Miami.

Look at me, I'm falling asleep.

- I'm so tired. - Yeah. I know you have your pride.

So, if you wanna pretend for a minute

that you don't wanna do this errand, that's fine.

But don't make me stand around here for fucking ever holding my dick.

People can't suspend me and then expect things from me.

- It's not how it works. - Whatever.

That's Barbancourt. Right?

Thankfully, yes.

But I unfortunately don't have a glass for you.

I'll take yours.

Before he got suspended, Yancy and Ro were partners,

and hell, sometimes that's even worse than being married.

Over the years, Ro had learned how to get exactly what he wanted from his friend.

All it took was a little patience.

So what's in the car?

That's all they found?

No, man, the head's in the passenger seat.

If you're too grouchy to answer the question,

just say, "I'm too grouchy to answer."

Don't have to hit me with the "head in the passenger seat."

It's already been over to the coroner. He says

the vic was a "white male, mid-40s."

Says that the middle finger thing was probably just "random rigor mortis."

He still took a picture with it.

Such a dipshit.

I'm late for Natalia's soccer game.

I would absolutely love to come,

except I would rather do literally anything

other than watch children play soccer. But I got it.

Hey, do me a favor.

No coaching from the sideline, not getting hot and yelling.

I know you're Puerto Rican, but do your best.

You sure you wanna leave it out there all night? Shit's evidence, man.

Who's gonna jack an arm?

I don't know, raccoons? They got those little fingers.

Here we go. We're taking it in.

- Thank you. - Yep. You got it.

Call me when you get to Miami.

I can't hear you. I'm already done talking with you.

Like I said, just like a married couple.

Love you.

Andrew, I can't have that arm here.

Negative publicity like this, not good for business.

- It'll hurt tourism. - That's horseshit, Sonny.

The sheriff was a local Bubba named Sonny Summers.

He won office 'cause he was the only candidate not in federal custody.

First of all, that floating arm can't hurt tourism.

Nothing's gonna keep these fucking idiots out of the water.

That beach on the Rickenbacker Causeway is filled with raw sewage.

People are still out there every day just swimming in shit, Sonny.

Look, this is different, okay?

The clown who reeled in the damn thing already posted a pic on social media.

Goddamn it. I'm gonna nip this in the butt.

Bud, right? You nip things in the bud.

Maybe you do. I need that arm gone.

Sonny, the odds of that limb floating down here are pretty fucking slim.

The Gulf Stream flows north.

No, duh. I was born here.

What if Miami doesn't take the arm?

Persuade them.

Bottom line, tomorrow I'm announcing

that the investigation has been turned over to the authorities

of Miami-Dade County.

- Counting on you here. - Yeah, that doesn't seem smart.

Listen to me.

I'm only gonna go up there on one condition.

I am dying at home.

I need you to lift my suspension.

You're gonna have to talk to your girlfriend. Bonnie's your problem.

And she didn't think twice about telling the ADA

that you violently and deliberately assaulted her husband.

That's why I never, ever think with my dick.

Yeah. You're actually known for that. You do zero dick thinking.

Our love is like a streaking comet.

Those are her words. Not mine. Kind of pretty though.

It might have been from one of the books she gave me.

- Get the arm out of my town. - She gives me books.

Yancy didn't love driving to Miami.

A lot of bad memories up there.

On the other hand, it did feel good to be doing any kind of police work again.

It'd been a while.

Hey, how's it going?

It's going. May I help you?

My name is Andrew Yancy. I'm from the Keys.

And please help yourself to a popsicle, but crabs are off-limits.

I'm gonna eat those later.

Okay.

That's a random rigor mortis.

I feel weird even saying it to you 'cause you would know that probably.

Got a lot of elbow room in here, must be nice for a workspace.

It's like an open floor plan.

Everyone wants this in their work now. More open, less close.

I don't mind morgues, especially in the summer.

Nice and cool.

Always around 60 degrees, you know?

I'm so sorry. I completely forgot to ask you what your feelings on morgues were.

Are you being mean or funny?

Mean funny. Now, please.

Totally.

I'm no shark expert.

Gonna have to bother a marine biologist for that one.

Okay, Dr. Rosa Campesino. I like your name.

I feel blessed.

So you brought this all the way from the Keys because...

My sheriff felt that this particular appendage

might belong to one of your victims and could hopefully stay here in Miami,

where random severed arms

are an everyday thing. So, pretty please?

Yeah, I've got the county's current inventory

- on body parts. - Okay?

And none of them match a black-haired, white male in his 40s.

Fucknuts.

Fucknuts, for real.

But did you notice his watch is missing?

You see this?

If someone took that, you know, that could make it a homicide.

Yeah, well, my sheriff is not gonna love the word homicide.

How about this? Maybe the shark that mangled the poor fucker

also likes to eat watches.

I mean, if someone took the watch, why would they not swipe the wedding ring too?

That looks like it's platinum.

Look at you making a good point.

That's not the first time. Ask around.

You know what, that humerus is hacked up pretty bad.

Now we're talking. Maybe the guy went out fishing by himself.

He's a lonely gentleman. And then he backed into the boat's propeller.

- That's how my grandfather died. - No, he didn't.

Yeah, he's still alive. But you know, could've happened.

Yeah, maybe.

It does look a little like a propeller wound.

Definitely propeller-like, if not all the way, it's a propeller.

- You're good. - Still doesn't make it my problem.

You're killing me, Rosa.

Please don't say what I think you're about to say.

Sorry, not my case.