The woman shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Did you ever talk with Gene?”
She shook her head. “Not really. One time he came over to meet Jane, but she hissed at him. She’s a good judge of character.”
I glanced at the monkey, who was intently stroking the stubble on Jack’s chin. “Yes, she is.”
“But Gene never talked with me. I was about forty years too old for him. Thank God.”
“Who did he hang out with?” I asked.
“All sorts of unsavory people. Bikers, skinheads. Recently, though, his drinking companions were different. I didn’t recognize them. A bald guy. A couple of guys in suits. They were scuzzy in a different way, if you know what I mean. Real oily looking, like used car salesmen or politicians. They’d sit over in that corner and talk.” She pointed to an empty table in a low-lit corner near a dartboard.
“I wonder if his wife would chat with us,” Jack mused.
“She might. She seemed like she was wilder than him. He talked at the top of his voice about how much they fought. Apparently, she liked three-ways.”
I allowed that revolting detail to sink in. The mere idea of Gene having sex with anyone was enough to turn me celibate for life.
“You know anything about a life insurance policy?” My thumb worked at peeling the label off my beer bottle.
She shook her head. “I only know what I’m telling you. He came in on the weekends.”
“Well, thanks for the tips. What’s your name, anyway?”
She waved her hand in the air. “It’s not important. We gotta run. It’s Jane’s bedtime.”
With her muumuu billowing behind her, she and the monkey walked out of the bar.
Jack and I stared at each other. “That was really weird,” I murmured.
He nodded. “Quite mysterious. I think we need to pay the grieving widow Mrs. Robinson a visit.”
“Agreed.”
We finished our beers, waved goodbye to Farah, and headed to the car. Our investigation suddenly felt far more official. And surreal, given that a woman with a monkey on her shoulder had walked up to us in a bar and given us some tips.
“Do you know where Gene’s house is?”
I stopped next to Jack’s car and shook my head. “I used to, but I’m not sure if he still lives there.”
He tossed me the keys. “You drive.”
“OK. Why?” I went around to the driver’s side.
“I’m going to look up his address and navigate.”
“I like your style,” I said.
We climbed in and Jack swiped and tapped on his phone. “I’m looking at the county property appraiser’s office. Thank God for open public records here in Florida...aha. Here it is.”
He read off the address.
“I’m not familiar with that. Sounds like one of those new subdivisions.”
Jack looked up the address on the GPS and the disembodied mechanical voice described where I needed to go.
He tapped and swiped again at his phone screen and let out a low whistle. “I guess gator trapping is a lucrative gig, huh?”
