Who Killed the Fonz?

by James Boice

  “The edit is running long,” he told her. “It’s going to be one more day. Maybe more.”

  As usual, she could tell something was wrong.

  “Richard.”

  “You know, it’s what happens. It’s not right yet. We have to make it right. I love you. And Richie Jr. And Caroline. I love you all very much. Very much.” Then he said, “Good night, Lori Beth.”

  He did not know if it would be the last time he ever spoke to her.

  • • •

  HE COULD NOT SLEEP. HE kept jolting upright with every car that passed by on the otherwise silent, tree-lined street, thinking it was Officer Sauer, that he had found him here. Officer Sauer or Lieutenant Kirk—who for all Richard knew was still involved in all this. He worried about putting Potsie and his family in danger by hiding out here. What a good guy Potsie was. One of the best people he had ever known. He and Ralph both. That had always been true, but maybe he had forgotten it—it was certainly highlighted now, after all this. There are no friends like the kind you make when you’re young. It is like you meet the earth’s best people before you turn eighteen, and then after that it’s just a matter of learning the true depth of their goodness, and being continually astounded by it, by how there is no bottom to it, the goodness just goes and goes.

  His body was antsy with the urge to leave—take off, get a cab, go to the airport, fly home—but he did not act on it, he just lay there, his mind spinning, not knowing what to do or what to think, wondering if he was making a mistake and if so how serious it was, and how grave its consequences would be. He thought of Fonzie and how much he wished the story he had fed Sealock tonight was true—he wished that Fonzie was still alive. Being friends again with Ralph and Potsie was great, but he wished he could be friends again with Fonzie too. If he had that, he would have it all. God, how he wished Fonzie was alive. He might have even made the wish out loud. You might have called it a prayer.

  FRIDAY

  THE CHEESEHEAD LODGE HAD SEEN better days. Most of them were right around the first Super Bowl.

  In the parking lot the orange sodium lights were on. Night had fallen. They found their rooms—room 15 and room 66, which were next door to each other, connected by a door. The rooms at the Cheesehead Lodge, which was laid out like a motel, were numbered after the jersey numbers of famous Green Bay Packers players. The office had rented them Bart Starr and Ray Nitschke.

  They opened the door to Bart Starr. They smelled the room before they saw it—a moldy musk hit them like a bear hug. Richard flipped on the light, revealing walls covered in wood paneling on which hung portraits, action photos, oil paintings, and framed, signed jerseys of the legendary quarterback. The closet was made to look like a locker, nameplate included. The carpet was Packer yellow. The archaic television was Packer green. The lamps in the corner and on the bedside tables had Packer helmets for a base, wedges of cheese for the shade. Packer ashtrays sat overflowing with cold, smoked butts.

  “Hey,” Ralph said, carrying a box of recording equipment, “this place is nice.”

  He went through the connecting door to Ray Nitschke and began setting up the microphone and tape recorder. A taped confession was their only hope for proving Sealock had Fonzie murdered. Richard would meet with him in Bart Starr while Potsie and Ralph hid in Ray Nitschke, secretly recording the conversation through the wall. Richard watched Ralph. He examined the microphone. “Are you sure this thing is strong enough to work?”

  “That’s a Neumann,” Ralph told him. “Top of the line. That thing’s so sensitive it could make a mouse’s fart sound like a cymbal crash.”

  Richard knocked on the wall between the two rooms. “About as thin as they get. Just don’t sneeze or anything. He’ll hear you.”

  “What do you think we are, idiots?” Ralph was trying to untangle a cord.

  Potsie was looking through the blinds out at the parking lot. He turned around. “Man, this is cool. It’s just like Miami Vice.”

  “It’s on tonight,” Ralph said. “Think we’ll be done in time to watch it?”

  Potsie said, “We better be. You know, people tell me I remind them of Crockett.”

  “No way,” Ralph said. “If anyone’s Crockett, it’s me.”

  Potsie said, “I’m Crockett. You’re Tubbs.”

  “You’re Crockett’s pet alligator.”

  “No way are you Crockett. You’re not cool enough to be Crockett. Richard, tell Potsie he’s not cool enough to be Crockett.”

  Potsie said, “He doesn’t care about Miami Vice, he probably watches Falcon Crest.”

  “Enough goofing around,” Richard said, “we’ve only got a few minutes.”

  Ralph set the mixer and tape recorder on the table—crusted with old spilled beer—and sat down in one of the chairs, slipped on the headphones, and hit the switch on the tape recorder. “Okay,” he said to Potsie, giving him a thumbs-up, “let’s check the levels.”

  Potsie nodded, a competent assistant. He leaned down into the microphone and shouted into it, “TESTING TESTING!”

  Ralph winced, tore off the headphones. “Ah!” he said. He stuck a finger in his ear.

  “Sorry,” Potsie said. “Hey Richard, let’s test it out.” Richard went next door and spoke while Potsie and Ralph recorded through the wall. “Hello, hello,” he said. He returned and they played it back. He listened through the headphones—his voice was clear.

  “Okay,” Richard said. “Are we ready?”

  Potsie said, “Ready, Richard.”

  “Ralph? We ready?” He did not answer. “Ralph.” Ralph looked up, like he had been daydreaming. “We ready?”

  He gave Richard a thumbs-up. “Yeah, Richard.” He stuck a finger in his ear again, opened and closed his mouth, like his jaw hurt.

  “Okay. Good luck. And, guys. One last thing.”

  “What’s that?” Potsie said.

  “From now on? I’m Richie.”

  There was a knock on the front door of the other room.

  • • •

  IN HIS OFFICE AT HIS house just yesterday, sealock had been an entirely different person, so kind and warmhearted and good, but this man standing here outside the open door of the motel room was all menace and viciousness. Richie had the feeling this was not Sealock but a body snatcher, though he knew it was the other way around: this was the real guy and it was the other who had been the fake. Sealock was looking at him sideways, his head turned slightly, his chin tucked into his chest, sick pallor to his skin. “You carrying?” he said to Richie in a tight voice filled with phlegm.

  “No,” Richie said without thinking it over, then thought better of it and changed his answer. “I mean, yeah, maybe, I might be. What about you?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you if I was.” Sealock stepped inside, shoving past Richie.

  “Neither would I,” Richie said lamely. “Where is it?”

  Sealock reached inside his coat and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Richie. Inside was a check for a million dollars, from a corporation Richie had never heard of with an address in the Cayman Islands.

  Sealock looked around at the room. “I hate the Packers. Football, hunting—that’s all anyone in this state cares about. It’s depressing.” Then he turned to Richie and said, “Okay, hands up.”

  Richie hesitated.

  Sealock was impatient. “I have to search you for a wire,” he explained. “Come on, shirt up.”

  Richie felt smart because he knew Sealock would not find one. Yes, he had been real smart. He was proud of himself for thinking everything through. He lifted the tail of his shirt and turned in a circle. Sealock stayed across the room, keeping his distance, watching with evident distaste. Compared to what Sealock was wearing—a fancy double-breasted suit that was probably Belvest, shiny expensive-looking black wingtips that were probably Hugo Boss—Richie felt like he was dressed very poorly in flannel and denim. It was this new way Sealock was looking at him—like he was nothing, like he was scum. No longer a hotshot who could do
something for him. Just another loser. This was the true way Sealock saw Milwaukeeans, Richie realized.

  Sealock was satisfied he was not being recorded. He stepped back and told Richie, “Cover yourself. And consider doing a sit-up now and again. You have no definition in your abs. No wonder you’re failing, Richard: you look like garbage.”

  “Why’d you do it?” Richie said, trying to get him talking. “Why’d you make that deal with Sackett-Wilhelm? How could you have done that to all those people?”

  “What did I do? I didn’t take away their jobs. That decision was made. All I did was give them another year of work, of security. If not for me, they all would be on the street right now. Because of me, their families are fed, and they don’t have to worry. Fonzie wanted to take that away from them. So who’s the bad guy and who’s the good one here, Richard?”

  “You’re so twisted you can’t even see the difference anymore.”

  “No, I can see it. He had principles, right? Morals?”

  “Exactly.”

  Sealock smiled at him. “Sure.” Then he turned his head toward the door and called out, “Okay, Officer.”

  The door opened. In stepped Officer Sauer, who had been waiting right outside.

  He was in uniform and had Margo—his forearm across her throat, a gun to her head. She was gagged with a bandanna. Her eyes were big and white with rage and terror. They fell on Richie but did not seem to see him. Margo fought in his grip, squealing through the gag, but the cop easily restrained her. Her hands were cuffed behind her back. In Sauer’s hand not holding the gun was clutched a small black bag that looked like a shaving kit.

  “What is this?” Richie said. His eyes darted to the wall behind which were Potsie and Ralph.

  “Some moral code,” Sealock said.

  Sauer put down the satchel and shoved Margo onto the bed. Sealock and Sauer did not give Richie an explanation. She was still looking that way at Richie but now tears were falling down her cheeks. The way Sauer was handling her was how a farmer handles a lamb on the way to the chopping block.

  Richie scrambled to regain control. “What’s going on?” It was desperate, hopeless. Sealock shushed him like he was an annoying child. He shushed Margo too. Sauer was uncuffing one of her hands in order to chain her to the headboard. He tried to hold the free hand down, but she got it loose and punched him in the mouth. He cursed and spit blood. Sealock was laughing at him. Sauer cursed again, wiped his mouth with his hand, then got her hand secured. Her arms were splayed wide against the headboard. She struggled, but it was no use. She turned her head and faced a mirror on the wall. Once she saw herself, she calmed down, went still and silent, except for a sad little moan, like her reflection was somebody else, another person, a child on TV.

  “I give her credit,” Sealock said. “She was smart. I never had a clue. She hid it well. Luckily, the city of Milwaukee has well-trained law-enforcement officers, because last night on the bridge Officer Sauer here caught the motorcycle’s plate. Didn’t think that through, did you?” he said to Margo. “He ran it, found it was registered to Fonzie. For a while there, we actually thought Fonzie really was alive, that we had failed to kill him. I had that check issued and was really going to give it to you tonight.”

  It was all Richie could do to keep his eyeballs from looking to the wall, behind which was the microphone recording what Sealock had just confessed to. We got him. Run. Take it to the paper. Send their reporters down here. Don’t call the cops—they’re in on it. Go. Run. Already be gone.

  “But then Sauer, thorough as he is, traced the motorcycle’s title back to the Harley dealership that sold it. The owner had a pretty interesting story. He said he didn’t sell any Harley to Fonzie—Fonzie was a Triumph man, everyone knew that—but he’d sold one to the girl Fonzie was with. Fonzie was just there to help her pick it out. Guy said he remembered she was a gorgeous woman. Tall. She had short dark hair, like what’s her name—‘Love Is a Battlefield.’ She wore big sunglasses even inside, like she did not want to be recognized. Guy said he figured she must be somebody famous who didn’t want to be bothered. An actress, maybe.” He turned to Margo—looked at her in pure disgust. “Or a model.”

  Her eyes were closed. Tears were still falling down the side of her face into her ears. Her chest was heaving.

  “Do you know,” Sealock said, his voice rising, “do you have any clue what would have happened if the voters of Wisconsin had found out you were screwing around on me? And with some mechanic? Some nobody? They’d have all thought I was weak. Weak. No one likes a weakling—and no one sure as hell votes for one.”

  Sauer had another set of cuffs. He handed his gun to Sealock, who pointed it at Richie. “No, no,” Richie said. Then Sauer was wrestling him to the bed beside Margo, cuffing him just like she was.

  “However,” Sealock said, tapping his finger thoughtfully on his lips. “My wife cheating on me with some slick Hollywood hotshot? One of those West Coast creeps with no respect for traditional family values? The great Richard Cunningham comes back to the town he left in the dust and seduces former model Margo Sealock, who everyone knows secretly deep down always thought she was too good for Milwaukee. She couldn’t resist. They shacked up at this motel. Her moral weakness extended beyond mere adultery—she was also a drug fiend.”

  Sauer went to the small satchel he had brought in. He unzipped it, opened it. The heroin and syringe inside still had the labels from the Milwaukee Police Department evidence room. There was a Bic disposable lighter in there, a spoon, a cotton ball. Sauer went to the table, sat down, and began cooking up two massive shots.

  “Twelve pounds they pulled in at that bust the other day,” said Sealock. “They won’t miss a few grams.”

  Sauer placed the needle in the liquid and drew back the plunger, filling the syringe.

  Sealock said, “But oh no.” His face took on an unconvincing frown. “They do too much. It’s a shame. And, unfortunately, an all-too-common occurrence in society today. They should have listened to the first lady, Nancy Reagan: Just Say No. Guess they didn’t know their own limits. Just like Fonzie riding too fast on a wet road. That poor Martin Sealock. That poor boy of his. Sealock knows firsthand the dangers of drugs. If anyone can fix it, he can. I gotta thank you, Richard. This will work way better than your commercial. And speaking of . . .” He glanced at the clock, then turned on the TV. “I think it should be airing soon.”

  Through the wall came a very loud voice from the next room. “HEY, POTSIE, THIS IS BAD, I THINK WE SHOULD CALL 911.” Then, “WHAT’D YOU HIT ME FOR? I AM WHISPERING.”

  Richie’s blood became cold and thick.

  Sauer froze and looked up at Sealock, who was turning with a very surprised but also very pleased expression on his face toward the source of the voice. “Ah,” Sealock said, delighted. He walked up to the wall, extended one finger, and pinned it there—thump. “Gotcha,” he whispered. He looked at Richie with a grin, then nodded his head at Sauer. He did not have to; Sauer was already taking the gun back from him and going to the door connecting the two rooms. He vanished into it and returned holding Potsie and Ralph both by the collars of their shirts.

  “Well hello,” Sealock said to them, like they had come by to visit.

  “Sorry, Richie,” Potsie said.

  “No,” Richie said, “I am.”

  Sauer stuffed towels into Potsie’s and Ralph’s mouths and used the cords from the recording equipment to tie their hands and their belts to bind their ankles then lay them on the floor like two rolls of carpet. Then he stood up and went back into the Ray Nitschke room. He returned with the tape of the confession Sealock had just inadvertently recorded. The tape they needed to put him away. He handed it to Sealock, who looked it over then ripped out all its ribbon and tore it, destroying it.

  Gone.

  He and Sauer looked down at Potsie and Ralph.

  “What do you want to do with them?” said Sauer.

  Sealock shrugged. “Kill them.”

>   “I only have enough for two.”

  “Then take them out somewhere and put a bullet in their heads. But first finish them off,” he said, indicating Richie and Margo. “And make it fast—I have a speech at the teachers’ union in an hour.” He hummed “Boys of Summer” as he turned away, sat on the edge of the bed at Richie’s and Margo’s feet, and watched the television. It was nearly eight—Richie’s commercial was set to air in just a few minutes.

  Sauer was approaching Richie with the syringe, loaded up with the hot shot.

  Richie could only think of Caroline and Richie Jr. and Lori Beth. Marion too. What would they think if he was found dead in bed with another woman? It would look just as bad as Sealock wanted. Nobody alive to tell them the truth. They would all have to carry that with them the rest of their lives—the idea that they had not really known him at all, that he had been just as much a fraud as Sealock really was.

  “Don’t do this, Martin,” he said.

  “Shut up.” Then he said to Sauer, “Shut him up.”

  Sauer snatched the pillow from under Richie’s head. He took off the pillowcase and shoved it into Richie’s mouth. Richie choked. His eyes watered.

  “We should strip them,” Sauer said.

  “Why?” said Sealock.

  “It would lend credibility.”

  “Do it after,” said Sealock.

  Richie could hear the faint rolling sounds of thunder outside. A storm beginning. Sauer was taking Richie’s forearm, twisting it to reveal the fleshy white underside. The needle was dripping. Sauer was cold, inhuman as he lowered it to Richie’s skin. Once the needle pricked through and the plunger went down, death would be almost instant. Richie squirmed and screamed into the pillowcase but it was all useless, there was nothing to be done.

  The storm outside was coming on very quickly—the thunder was booming. Irritated, Sealock turned the TV up louder and leaned closer to it. He did not want to miss even one second of his own performance when the commercial aired.