Roger is naked.

“I thought he’d be wearing a diaper.”

“Creswell said he was well trained. I guess he’s house trained, too,” Henley says, her tone one of awe as we approach the wild animal who lives with our client in a pristine two-story Connecticut colonial.

Roger swings from the top of the enclosure in Creswell’s living room. We take careful, measured steps toward the huge wire cage that runs from the floor to the ceiling and looks like it would fit in a zoo. Inside is a miniature forest, and Roger seems to enjoy it—he jumps from the wire to a branch on a little replica of a tree. Then he leaps to the front of the cage and sticks a small hand through the holes.

Henley points at him and covers her mouth. A dart of worry shoots through me, since she looks scared. But instead, she bounces on her heels and suppresses a childlike shriek. She spins around, doubles over, and says, “Oh my God, he’s so fucking cute!”

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her swear.

She spins back and grabs my arm, clutching me in excitement. “Look at him! Just. Look. At. Him.”

Roger is, by any definition of the word, a pipsqueak. He’s a Callimico monkey, Creswell told me as I’d parked the car and looked for the key. He’s a rescue from Bolivia, and his right arm is permanently injured. That’s why he lives here.

He’s all black and no bigger than a squirrel. His tail is a yard long. His hand is the tiniest thing I’ve ever seen, and his fingers are long. His fur gleams so brightly he could be a monkey shampoo model.

“Is he going to throw anything at us?” Henley asks as we near the cage.

A quick scan of Creswell’s clean living room, from the immaculate hardwood floors to the shimmering glass coffee table and unmarked, unscratched beige leather couch, tells me that the man wasn’t lying when he said Roger was well trained. There’s not a trace of monkey projectile or monkey mark anywhere.

“He doesn’t seem to be taking aim at you with any missiles,” I say as we reach the cage.

Roger’s small brown eyes widen and he shoots out his hand, clasping as much of Henley’s shoulder as he can grasp. “Oh my God,” she shrieks.

“Is he still the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Her smile is huge as she nods. “He’s adorable. I’m in love with him.”

I raise my eyebrows as Roger makes a chattering noise, like a little lovebird in a tree. “I think he’s in love with you, too.”

Following Creswell’s instructions, I unlock the door to the enclosure, opening it slowly. Roger yanks his paw back into the cage. I’ll be honest—I’m expecting the primate to just take off. To race across the living room, scamper up the stairs, and swing from the chandeliers. And I’m ready with my arms wide open to try to catch the guy if he gives me a run for my money.

Memo to bookies: Bet on the monkey, not the man.

The second the door creaks open, Roger leaps—but not across the living room. He flings himself at Henley with a happy shriek. A look of terror flicks across Henley’s eyes, but it morphs quickly to a wild thrill as she welcomes him in her arms. His tail seems to have a mind of its own, and he wraps it around her waist. She cuddles him in the crook of her arm, snuggling the tiniest creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Henley coos at him. It is the sound of a woman falling for a child. “Hey there, sweet thing,” she says to him in a soft, doting tone.

Roger bares his teeth in a smile then makes his lovebird chatter once more.

“Told you so. The dude is smitten,” I say, as Henley strokes his chin. Roger lifts it higher, giving her full access for a petting session.

“Gah! I’m smitten, too. I thought he was going to throw poo at me or jerk off.”

I crack up. “And instead, he’s putting out for you.”

Henley shoots me a stern stare. “He is not putting out. He’s a sweet boy.” She looks at the monkey in her arms. “Are you a sweet boy, Roger? Yes, you are. You’re such a sweet boy. Do you want a banana?”

On that note, Henley strides out of the living room in her purple dress, a black primate snug up against her, me behind her. She heads to the state-of-the-art kitchen with its marble island counter and Sub-Zero fridge. A back door with a small dog entry cut into it leads to the yard. Perhaps Creswell has a dog, too. Or maybe Roger uses the dog door. Henley grabs a banana from a fruit bowl. Roger shakes his head and leans away from her, snagging a slice of a Macintosh apple that’s been left on a plate. Maybe it’s the remains of his lunch. He bites into it and then finishes the wedge a minute later.

“He even eats apple chunks adorably,” Henley says, so completely head-over-heels for Roger.

I look at my watch as a bird squawks from the yard. “We should get the calming monkey to Creswell.”

Henley wraps an arm tighter around him. “Unless I steal him first,” she says then adopts an evil tone. “Muahaha. Roger is mine. He’s coming home with me.”

I tip my forehead to the front door. “First the monkey bread. Now the monkey love. What’ll be next?”

“Monkey business,” Henley says as we leave. She snags her umbrella from the front porch, pops it open, and covers Roger with it, like a doting mama.

I shake my head, amused.

She nudges my side with her elbow. “Aww. Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a monkey, Max.”

“Not unless he can have monkey sex with you.”

She covers one of his ears with her hand. “Don’t talk that way in front of Roger. He’s young and impressionable.”

“And you’re far gone,” I say as I open the car door. Gently, Henley sets Roger in the back, next to the wine and champagne. He grabs the buckle that I’m pretty sure was designed to strap in golf clubs, and slings it over the world’s smallest waist. Clearly, this isn’t Roger’s first rodeo. He’s a regular passenger.

As I hit the gas, with the woman I’m crazy for in the front seat and a miniature monkey in the backseat of my prized Blue Betty, I’m right where I was a few minutes ago, and that means it’s time to finally deal with the elephant in the room.

Or really, to get the monkey off my back.