Don’t Monkey with the Family Business

By Meara Kincade

The door falls shut behind me, an ominous sound sealing the fate of businessman Edward J. Wyles.

“Farewell, Miss Grieves,” his secretary chirps, unaware of what transpired in the office behind her.

Barely acknowledging her words, I stride from the room, my right hip dipping every step thanks to this cursed limp.

I enter the elevator at the end of the hall and press the lobby’s button. After the doors shut, the elevator plummets fifteen floors. The higher they are, the harder they fall.

Once on the sidewalk, I fade into the crowd—just another peon escaping her cubicle during lunchtime. At precisely 12:50 p.m., I sit on a wire chair situated outside a Parisian café. A newspaper rustles as the man across from me flips a page. “Report.”

I examine my nails. “Crumbled like a house of cards.”

“Well done, daughter.”

A waitress sets a steaming cup of coffee before Father, and he stops reading to retrieve a sweetener packet from the container in his left breast pocket. I should have him change the container’s location—he’s being too predictable.

And in our business, you can’t afford that.

“You’ll help Ritchie with his first job.” Father’s spoon clinks against the cup as he stirs in the sweetener.

I raise an eyebrow. “He’s joining the family business?”

“Yes.”

At his dismissive tone, I stand.

“And Ethel?”

I pause.

Father meets my gaze. “Don’t let him shame the Grieves name.”

A smile forged from steel forms on my lips. “Understood.”

***

Standing at the corner of Anderson and Elm, I scowl at my watch as Ritchie’s car pulls into a nearby alley twenty-seven minutes after our meeting time.

“You’re late.” I spice the words with a pinch of reproach once Ritchie joins me. “And”—I scan his Hawaiian shirt—“oddly dressed.”

He slaps my shoulder playfully. “You’re the oddly dressed one, cuz. I thought the first rule was to blend in.”

“Don’t quote the rule book to me. I wrote half of it.” I limp after him to the entrance of a bar called The Yodeling Monkey.

What idiot named this place?

“You distract the bartender; I’ll get the goods.”

Before I can reply, he steers me inside. “Hey, Jimmy!”

Two dozen people, including the bartender, look at us. Goodbye, subtlety.

Ritchie half-drags me to the bar where a smiling Jimmy greets us. “What can I getchya, Ritchie, my man?”

“Afraid I can’t stay for a beer—I’ve got just enough time to whip the boys at cards before my cousin and I are due for family dinner. Put anything she gets on my tab, will ya?”

“Of course. Go get ‘em.” Jimmy nods seriously.

Ritchie claps him on the shoulder. “You’re the best.”

Seconds later, Ritchie disappears among the other patrons as he strides to the far front corner of the building.

Resigning myself, I climb onto a stool.

“You’re his cousin, huh?” Jimmy looks skeptical.

Join the club.

He shrugs. “What can I getchya?”

A different mission. “Nothing.”

Only a fool would compromise her mental capabilities during a job.

Glancing around, I notice people playing games, drinking beer, and laughing uproariously.

Tapping my fingers on the counter, I ask, “How long have you owned this establishment?” More like a madhouse.

Jimmy leans against the bar. “Going on three years now. Named after my dear Caroline.”

“Caroline?”

“My monkey.”

I freeze for a moment. “Monkey?”

“Yep.” He drags a cloth across the counter. “Seemed appropriate since she’s always believed I could run a business.”

This guy’s nuttier than the bar peanuts.

“Usually, she greets the guests, but she has Wednesdays off, so she’s upstairs resting.”

Or not. Behind Jimmy, I spot a rather suspicious-looking Ritchie lugging a furry lump toward the kitchen. How is no one else seeing this? Oblivious idiots. And idiotic cousin for not being more covert.

Jimmy glances at the peanut boat in front of me. “Need to refill this.”

He grabs it and turns toward the kitchen door—which will take him right to Ritchie and the kidnapped Caroline. Not on my watch. “How does a monkey greet guests?”

Jimmy sets the container down, distracted for now. “Sits on a stool by the door and yodels at ‘em. On Saturdays, she performs her greatest hits.”

Hurry up, Ritchie. “How… delightful.”

“Customers seem to think so,” Jimmy replies obliviously as he fills a customer’s glass.

Ritchie, you owe me. As if summoned by my thought, he materializes at my side, and I level an icy stare at him.

Ritchie ignores me. “Thanks for looking after her, Jimmy.”

“No problem. How’d it go?”

Ritchie shakes his head. “Can’t win ‘em all. Anyway, gotta run—can’t keep our family waiting. See ya!”

Jimmy waves as we leave. Once outside, Ritchie leads me into the alley where he parked his car.

“So?” I hiss.

“She’s in the car.”

Stepping around him, I spy Caroline bound and gagged in the backseat. She glares at me as I climb into the passenger seat, and I maintain eye contact until she looks away. “You’re holding her for ransom?”

“Yep.” He slides behind the wheel and turns the ignition. “Nothing personal, Caroline. Just business.”

We used to be a respectable crime syndicate. “How’d you capture her anyway?”

“It involved a highlighter, a kitchen sink—”

I hold up a hand. “Never mind.”

Ten minutes later, Ritchie pulls into the back parking lot of his apartment building.

“What’s the plan to sneak in?”

Without hesitation, he says, “I’ll need a rubber ducky, a chinchilla, and a clown outfit in your size.”

My glare—which makes mob bosses cower—doesn’t faze Ritchie. “It’d be simpler to blow a fuse.”

“But there’s less pizzaz.”

I huff. “Show me the breaker box.”

Thirteen minutes later, despite grumblings about my lack of style, we’re toting Caroline up the back stairway while the building manager fixes the fuse box. As Ritchie peers into the fifth-floor hallway, I shake my head.

The things I do for family.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Meara Kincade has always loved falling into a good story which led to a passion for crafting her own tales that share light and hope with a broken world. When she isn’t writing one of her works-in-progress, she can be found playing piano, composing songs, cuddling her family’s (somewhat unwilling) cats, and accidentally taking the cows on field trips to see the chickens.