Freaky Deaky (20 page)

Juicy said, “I’m tired.”

Donnell said, “Take you two minutes from the time he gets out of his Cadillac. Polack name Mankowski, not near big as you.”

Juicy said, “Mankowski, shit, I know that name, that man’s a cop.”

Donnell straightened him out. The man was suspended, didn’t have a badge or a gun no more, was out of business.

Juicy said, “They took his gun, huh? . . . He’s the motherfucker let Booker blow hisself up.”

Donnell said, “I thought was you and Moselle did that.”

Juicy said, “I wasn’t there. You understand?
He
was there, I wasn’t. He let it happen to my man. Yeah, I’ll bust his legs good.”

“Just one.”

“I’ll give you a deal for the same price. I’ll put him away.”

“Juicy?”

“I’ll take him out someplace and lose his ass. Nobody ever see him again.”

“Juicy? How much just for the one leg?”

Saturday afternoon
Chris had time to kill, so he walked the few blocks from 1300 to the Renaissance Center and went to the show. He saw
Lethal Weapon
and watched how Mel Gibson took care of the bad guys; Chris thinking, So that’s what you do, you shoot ’em. Mel Gibson played a burnout and supposedly didn’t care if he got killed or not, which was harder for Chris to believe than how good Mel was with his fifteen-shot Beretta. Chris’s pistol, the Glock auto, began to dig into his groin as he sat there, so he slipped it into his coat pocket in the dark of the theater watching Mel Gibson. Pretty cool for a burnout. Though he couldn’t imagine a homicide cop being allowed to dress that scruffy, even in L.A. Homicide cops were dudes.

Eleven years ago, when Chris was working out of the Twelfth Precinct in a radio car, there were a couple of guys known as the pizza bandits, white guys who specialized in the armed robbery of private
homes. One of them would ring the bell standing there with a pizza box; the resident would open the door to say he didn’t order a pizza and the second guy would come out of the bushes wearing a ski mask. They’d punch out the man of the house, make the wife, if she wasn’t too old, take her clothes off and fool around with her and then haul away the TVs, silverware, jewelry and so on. They were working through a home not far from where Woody Ricks now lived when the maid got a chance to call 911. It was given to Chris and his partner, robbery in progress, and when they arrived Chris went around to cover the rear while his partner called for backup. Two cars came to assist, the second one wailing, its flashers on, and the pizza bandits dropped what they were doing and ran out the back door. Chris saw
guns in their hands and came a hair away from firing. But he didn’t, he put his .38 on them and said, “Right there. Don’t move,” thinking of other things he could’ve said. Freeze. Drop the guns. They stopped dead, both guys. Chris raised his voice a notch. “Don’t
move
.” One of the guys spoke up fast. “It’s cool,” in an urgent tone of voice. “Nobody’s moving.” Chris raised his voice another notch. “Don’t fucking move a muscle!” The first guy screamed back at him, “I’m not
moving
, man! Look at me!” As the second guy screamed, “I’m
not
fucking moving!” That was the
way it happened, three guys in a backyard at night holding revolvers, all of them scared to death one of the guns was going to go off. Two nights later Chris answered a call, disturbance in a working-class neighborhood, a family argument. He and his partner walked into a house and here was a guy in his undershirt drunk
out of his mind holding a gun on his wife, a woman in hair curlers and a ratty pink housecoat, crying, her nose running. . . . That time Chris kept his voice down, saying to the guy, “You don’t want to shoot your wife. Give me the gun.” Didn’t want to shoot his wife—the guy was dying to shoot her and he did, shot her twice before Chris grabbed the gun away from him, twisting it out of his hand. The woman suffered superficial wounds, went into Emergency that Saturday night and was out of the hospital Monday morning. The guy suffered broken fingers and a shoulder injury where his arm was yanked out of its socket and it kept him in therapy a year. When he had to quit his job at Detroit Forge and Axle he sued the city, the police, and retired to Deltona, Florida, on the settlement. Chris’s precinct commander said, “Why didn’t you shoot the son of a bitch?”

That’s what Mel Gibson would’ve done, shot the drunk spot welder dead. Then you see Mel having to live with it and the next time he has to pull his gun he chokes when he should be squeezing off
rounds and because of it he either gets shot or his partner does, the partner dies and so on.

Before leaving the theater Chris switched the Glock auto from his coat pocket back to his waist, the big grip against his belly. It was five thirty. He had a half hour, time to go across the street and have a couple. Get ready for his meeting.

Late Saturday afternoon, hardly anybody in the place, you could see what Galligan’s looked like; you could see the booths, the posters and photographs on the walls, the brass rail separating the tables from the bar. Chris got a bourbon mist. A guy with a convention badge and a New York accent told him he was attending the dry cleaners show at Cobo Hall. He said he thought Detroit only had shot-and-a-beer joints, this place could be on Third Avenue, Upper East Side. Chris told the guy Detroit had everything: at least one of each. The guy said yeah, was that right? Chris excused himself; he had to make a phone call.

When he was living with Phyllis and they used to meet here after work she’d say, “Hi, guy,” or “Hi, love,” or once in a while, “Hi, tiger,” and he’d feel like an asshole in that five o’clock press of young execs and secretaries turning to see who the tiger was. Phyllis wasn’t trying to be funny, she was
serious. It was her idea, after spending all day in the Trust Department of Manufacturers National Bank, of being hip. Phyllis knew who Sigourney Weaver was, but not Doodles.

When she answered the phone and he said hi, Phyllis said, “Hi, guy. I’ve been wondering when you’d call.”

He could see her in a silky negligee holding the phone in the crook of her neck, hair up, foot on a chair, cotton balls wedged between her toes.

“I want to ask you something,” Chris said.

“If you had called yesterday—no, Thursday,” Phyllis said, “I might’ve given in, asked you to come home. I was feeling sort of down, to tell you the truth. Chris? We did have some laughs, didn’t we?”

He tried to think.

Living with Phyllis, most of the time it meant watching her get ready: Phyllis bathing, painting her nails, anointing her big-girl body with lotions, putting on flimsy, see-through undergarments that showed dark places. . . . He gave her a pair of musical panties one time; you pressed the rose and it played the theme from
Love Story
—“Where do I begin, da
da
da da da da
da
. . .”—which got a laugh, but not much of one. Undergarments were her vestments. But then she’d “dress for power,” as she called it, cover that soft white body in a business suit, and go off to the bank.

He began to say, “Phyllis . . . ?” but she beat him.

“I met a guy yesterday, Chris.”

Then paused, and it intrigued him just enough that he said, “Yeah?”

“A neat guy. Bob owns quite a large plant in Fort Wayne, Indiana. They manufacture dry-cleaning solvents, dyes, spot removers. . . .”

Chris said, “I guess somebody has to.”

Phyllis said in her grave tone, “That isn’t fair, Chris.”

“What isn’t?”

“Taking how you feel out on Bob. Listen, I’m really sorry it didn’t work. I tried, I’m sure you did too. It’s just one of those things.”

“Just one of those crazy flings,” Chris said.

There was another pause.

A trip to the moon on some kind of wings. Gossamer.

“I think I detect a certain tone,” Phyllis said. “I know you, Chris. I know when you’re upset. Your friend Jerry told me what happened and I thought, Oh, the poor guy. On top of everything else.”

“What did he tell you?”

“About your suspension.”

“Phyllis, I just want to ask you something.”

She said, “If you want my opinion, I think it’s the best thing that could happen to you. Now you’ve got a chance to realize your potential and go for it. Get into marketing, that’s where the action is, Chris, where it’s happening.”

“In marketing.” It amazed him she could talk like that in the kind of underwear she wore.

“In a business that’s on the move. You’re a bright guy, Chris, and you’re not afraid to take risks. Think of how many years you could’ve lost your hands, or even your life. We don’t have to go into that, do we? The point I want to make: What did you stand to gain in return? Nothing. No bonus, no profit participation. . . . Chris, my friend Bob that I mentioned? He started out on the road selling days. He worked his way up to sales manager, director of marketing, and when his dad retired he was made president and executive chairman of the board.”

“Phyllis?”

“Yes, Chris.”

“I was wondering, if a guy transfers money from a trust account to a business account and writes you a check, is it good right away, or you have to wait for something to happen?”

There was a silence this time.

Chris waited. He thought of something else and said, “Is this Bob by any chance married?”

Skip strolled through Hart Plaza from Jefferson Avenue down to the embankment close to the river. He took a moment to look at Canada, then strolled back across the sweep of pavement, past a tubular arch of sheet metal, the Noguchi fountain, a mist of
water shining on it. A block from here there was a metal sculpture of Joe Louis’s fist and forearm, artwork for a workingman’s town. Skip’s gaze wandered, ready to settle on any guy in his late thirties who could be a cop: a guy with a certain amount of heft standing in one place, waiting, eyes moving. He spotted a few black guys who could go either way, pushers or narcs, but no one who met his idea of what Mankowski would look like. So he went across Jefferson to Galligan’s, walked in at ten to six, and there was the guy, Mankowski, sitting at the bar.

Skip was pretty sure. The guy didn’t have the heft Skip thought he would, but he was the right age and had enough of a cop look: like an ex-ballplayer who’d spent most of his years in the minors. There was one other guy down the bar and couples wearing convention badges in two of the booths and that was it. Skip took a stool on Mankowski’s left, leaving a stool between them, and asked the bartender for a scotch and water. After taking a good sip, he leaned on the bar, turned his head and looked past his shoulder at Mankowski.

Chris had asked the bartender how the Tigers did today and Tommy told him they were playing tonight, Cleveland was in town. Saying there were
only about five day games on Saturday this year. Saying all the beer drinkers’d be in about ten thirty. Chris had watched the guy in the black satin jacket come in and caught a glimpse of the movie name on the back, in red, as the guy looked around. After Tommy stepped over and poured the guy a scotch, Chris heard him say:

“You ever been to Perry’s in San Francisco? It’s on Union Street. I swear this place looks just like it.”

“It looks like some place to everybody,” Chris said. “Maybe that’s the idea.”

“Well, it’s handy. You stay at any of the hotels, it’s right here.”

Chris said, “Yeah, it’s right here.” He took a quarter turn on the stool to face the guy and said, “But where’s Robin? Didn’t she come with you?”

The guy stayed low, looking past his shoulder. He turned his head to take a drink and then looked this way again. “We ever met, you and I?”

“No, this’s the first time.”

“Well, I’m gonna have to ask, how’d you make me?”

Chris said, “I know you’re not in the dry-cleaning business, Skip. Maybe it’s the ponytail, or the way you talk to your shoulder, like you’re in the chow hall at Milan, I don’t know. Or it’s just you look dirty. You know what I mean?”

Chris watched the guy straighten and do a little
number, a head shake as though he’d been hit. Skip said, “Hey, I don’t want any part of you, man. Take it easy, okay?”

Chris touched the stool between them. “Sit here. I want to tell you something I won’t have to raise my voice.”

Skip shrugged and then slid over, bringing his drink with him, saying, “I know who you are, man. You’re still playing the dick with me. Once a dick—am I right? I bet when you guys had some poor asshole in the chair, asking him questions, I bet you played the hardass, didn’t you? Show ’em no fucking mercy.”

Chris said, “No, I was always the nice guy. I’d stick up for the assholes and pretty soon they’re dying to tell me anything I want to know. Like I say to you, Can I buy you a drink? Or I say, I understand you shoot dynamite like a pro. Rub your ego, see. Then I ask you where Robin is and you tell me. That’s how it works.”

“She’ll meet you after,” Skip said. “Shit, you got me to talk.”

“Why didn’t she come with you?”

“Says she doesn’t know you well enough. See, we got conflicting opinions as to what the fuck you’re up to. If you’re not a cop anymore, what are you? Things like that.”

“I’m on
you
now,” Chris said.

“Jesus, I
know
that, but what else? All I have,
you understand, is hearsay. I’m suppose to find out what your game is, before you talk to Robin. If I don’t like what I hear then you don’t talk to her. It’s like that.”

“All you have to know,” Chris said, “I don’t want to see anything happen to Woody.”

“You don’t work for him. Or do you?”

“I don’t want to see him get hurt. I don’t want to even see him nervous or upset. If I do, I’ll pull the chain on you and you’re gone.”

Skip leaned closer, sliding his elbow along the bar. “You’re telling me what you personally don’t want to see happen. Am I right?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What I mean is, you’re not playing the dick with me now. This’s
you
talking. And what you don’t want is anything could mess up the shakedown you got working.” He said, “Am I right?” Grinning at Chris now. “You get all ready to make your move and somebody steps in front of you. Have to line up, huh, to get a piece of the guy. So you’re saying if anything happens to blow your deal, you’ll turn hardass dick and we’ll be sorry. Well, I can’t fault you for thinking like that. Shit, I would too.”

“Where’s Robin?”

Skip hesitated, easing back, picking up his drink. “You want to tell her yourself, huh?”

Chris said, “I want to make sure she understands.”

“I can tell her, if that’s all you’re worried about.”

“Where is she?”

Skip hesitated again. “It’s up to you. She’s over in a parking lot behind St. Andrews Hall. Couple blocks from here.”

“I know where it is.”

“Sitting in a red VW.”

“I want to see her alone,” Chris said. “You wait here.”

Skip pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to glance at his watch. He looked at Chris then with a mild expression and said it again. “It’s up to you.”

Last November there were rock fans in the alley behind St. Andrews Hall, new-wavers in studded leather, spiked hair in Easter colors; normal-looking fans went unnoticed. Inside this auditorium without seats they pressed in a mass against the stage and rocked to Iggy Pop and his Brits turned loose: Iggy nonstop trying to twist himself in the air to levitate over his reaching fans while Chris, in the low balcony, watched and wondered what it was like to have that energy, to feel that response rising from outstretched hands and lighters flaming and all those eyes never letting go.