Is Fat Bob Dead Yet?: A Novel

by Stephen Dobyns

  Manny and Vikström aren’t sure they believe him. Then Manny gives Lisowski a card. “Call us when it comes back to you. Okay? And don’t forget, we want the pistol or else.” Manny opens the door.

  “Wait a second,” says Vikström. “That red Fat Bob out in front, you took it from Fat Bob’s garage, didn’t you?”

  Lisowski opens his mouth as he constructs what he hopes will be a credible lie. But there’s no point. The detectives can check the VIN number.

  “I bought it from Angelina. She had the title. We’re a number.”

  “A number?” asks Manny.

  “We’ve been dating.”

  “Jesus Christ, and you’re alive to talk about it?” Manny wants to ask if Angelina really has tangles of pubic hair from her thighs to her belly, but he can’t get up the nerve, which seems unusual for Manny.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Vikström tells his partner.

  The detectives consider taking Lisowski downtown, but it wouldn’t be worth the effort. The trouble is, with the FBI buzzing around, the main focus is on Sal and the casinos. They’ve no interest in Fat Bob or the motorcycles. Manny and Vikström still want to talk to Fat Bob and learn more about why Jack Sprat wants to kill him, but they don’t think they can charge him with anything. And then there’s Fidget.

  Walking back to the Subaru, Manny’s impressed that Vikström recognized the red Fat Bob, but he won’t compliment him on his sharp eyes. Instead he says with a sigh, “Can’t wait to get back to the box.”

  Vikström, whose mind is still on Lisowski, mishears. “You fight?”

  “Hunh?” says Manny.

  “You box? What’s your weight?”

  “Karaoke box, asshole, karaoke box!”

  “Ah,” says Vikström, who likes boxing and had thought that he and his partner might share a common interest.

  —

  During the day Vaughn and Eartha make their calls. We’ve heard these before, and not much difference is to be found from one to the next except in terms of gusto and a bit of ad-libbing. After all, they have a script. But here’s one we need to mention: a call that Vaughn made in the morning.

  He dials, and a woman answers. “Yeah?”

  Frantic question. “Angelina, is Magsie right there by your side?”

  Angelina notes the familiar voice. After all, her parents had lots of Vaughn Monroe’s albums, not just Riders in the Sky but also On the Moon-beam, There! I’ve Sung It Again, and Ruby, with the Moon Maids and Moon Men. She’s also stunned that yesterday she talked to Eartha Kitt about Prom Queens Anonymous and now she’s talking to Vaughn Monroe. But first things first. “How’d you get this number?”

  “Please, please, Angelina, no delays! Is Magsie in the house?”

  “I think he’s upstairs.” Her voice contains a hint of uncertainty.

  “Run go see! It’s important! I’d be crushed if anything’s happened!”

  Angelina sets down the phone and hurries off. Although she thinks, Nutcase, nutcase, she wants to make sure Magsie’s safe.

  Two minutes pass as Vaughn puts clear polish on his nails. Then Angelina returns. “Okay, wise guy, Magsie’s right here on my lap.”

  “Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness. The dog trucks are out, and they’re gobbling up beagles all over town. I’ve seen fistfuls of fur in the gutters!”

  “Gobbling?”

  “They steal them from right under your nose and sell them to midnight labs for research. They make them smoke nonfiltered cigarettes! You must, must, must put your trust in FBNA! Your donation will be your pup’s lifeblood.”

  “What’s FBNA?”

  “Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc. It’s all that stands between your pup and years of torment.”

  Angelina puts up a good fight, but at last she offers fifty bucks, and she might have given more if she weren’t saving up for her face-lift, et cetera. Anyway, she’s already contributed fifty bucks to Prom Queens Anonymous.

  Vaughn reads from his script. “Am I to understand that your love for Magsie is worth only fifty dollars? Your dear pup has given you thousands of hours of love and devotion, and your fifty-dollar pledge adds up to a hundredth of a penny for each of those hours. To my mind that’s a shocking admission. Tell me, Angelina, do you secretly hate your little dog?”

  “Fuck you, you son of a bitch! You’re lucky I can’t twist your balls off!”

  In his work Vaughn has heard this sort of anger before. What he listens for, however, are the choked sobs beneath the shouting. And he thinks he hears them.

  “Please, Angelina, no personal attacks. It’s Magsie’s welfare that matters here. We need to speak calmly. What about one hundred?”

  “It’s fifty or nothing, shithead! Unless you want a motorcycle. I got a bunch of them, all Harleys. I’ll sell you one cheap.”

  We shouldn’t think that Angelina is a fan of motorcycles. Her life with Fat Bob has led to a serious hatred of Harleys, since she suspects he prefers the touch of his Fat Bob to her own caresses, which is probably true. But Fat Bob is at the edge of bankruptcy. He owes money to lots of people. And, as said before, Angelina holds the titles to the Harleys in the garage on Montauk Avenue. She doesn’t hold these titles out of kindness; it’s simple leverage. It lets her make Fat Bob jump through hoops.

  “I’m sorry,” says Vaughn, “we don’t do merchandise.”

  They haggle some more. At last Didi signals to Vaughn to accept the fifty bucks. Time is money, and the conversation is lasting too long.

  Then, before Angelina hangs up, she asks, “Tell me, d’you know Eartha Kitt?”

  Vaughn Monroe rumbles with a sound comparable to distant, stampeding cattle. “The name’s familiar, but I like male singers best, tenors and baritones. Does she live around here?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder.”

  —

  The day progresses. Connor has no luck in finding Fidget, so by late afternoon he’s picked up the mail from the P.O. and stopped at a dozen houses where people have promised sums ranging from fifty to one hundred dollars. As said before, these actions spike Connor’s anxiety to lunar levels, since each could lead to his arrest. But every so often Didi has called with another bunch of names. Soon Connor will head back to the Winnebago, but now he has time for one last visit: Angelina Rossi.

  The name rings a bell, but Connor ignores the subliminal warning. And maybe Angelina’s house looks familiar, but he’s already visited many houses, and at the moment he is busily comparing the attractions of Linda and Céline. Each, to Connor’s mind, has trunkloads of allure, so to compare them is serious work.

  He hurries up the steps and rings the bell. Again he experiences a subliminal discomfort. There’s the metallic rattle of locks being unfastened, and the door opens.

  “You!” barks Angelina.

  The scales fall from Connor’s eyes, and he squeezes his expression into one of happy incredulity. “What a glad surprise!” His smile hovers at the cusp of lockjaw.

  “I just gave you money yesterday!” says Angelina through the screen. “You’re supposed to work for Prom Queens Anonymous. What’s going on?”

  Connor knows if he bolts down the street, Angelina will pursue him. Were he a dog, he’d roll over and pee a little. He laughs gaily. “Oh, I see your mistake. You think I’m actually employed by PQA, Inc. No, no, no. To save money for their prime target, these groups, with others, have formed a consortium to see to the gathering and distribution of funds. Occasionally I visit the same house five or six times.”

  Angelina believes none of this. “And what about Eartha Kitt and Vaughn Monroe? What kind of trick is that?”

  “Charities employ many voices: Julie London, the Big Bopper, Lupe Fiasco. As for me, I don’t like it, but management claims it lifts the comfort level of donors.”

  “So it’s a trick!”

  “No, no, no!” Connor feels sweat forming on his forehead on this otherwise cool day. “It’s like a beautiful woman wearing perfume. Does she need the pe
rfume? Can you call it a trick? Of course not. It only adds a touch of magnitude to the package.”

  Angelina keeps lobbing shells of grievance, and Connor dodges them. At last he says, “Do you have the check right now?”

  Angelina looks steely, and Connor looks benign. In fact, Angelina tries to look generous, because she’s formulated a plan, while Connor tries not to show panic. Each sees the deception of the other.

  “I don’t have it right now,” says Angelina, “but I’m expecting it soon. Would you like to come in and wait?”

  Connor’s benign expression acquires hints of terror. No way will he enter Angelina’s house. He glances at his watch and makes a sad face. “I have several more appointments. Could I come back around seven?”

  “I’ve just baked brownies,” says Angelina, who has never baked anything sweet in her life. “I’m sure they’re still warm. I bet you’d like a couple with a cup of coffee.” She pushes open the door.

  “We’re on a pretty tight schedule. Save the brownies for later. Shall we make it seven o’clock?” He tries to back down the steps without falling.

  We don’t know if Connor’s education included the tale of Medusa with her rattlesnake ringlets and knack of turning men to stone, but he suspects Angelina’s skills fall in that area of expertise. He also knows she intends to call the police. He walks quickly to the Mini-Cooper, almost a run. He’ll deposit the checks he’s picked up during the day in the FBNA account and return to the Winnebago.

  —

  Connor is driving back to Brewster when his cell phone tweedles. It’s Vasco.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Zeco?”

  Connor imagines many possible answers, but he says, “Driving back to the Winnebago.” It’s sunset, and the sky is red behind him.

  “Not now, you silly fuck. What do you mean going over to Céline’s? You got to stay away from there. You’ll get yourself hurt. Chucky’s furious.”

  Connor is more angered at being called a “silly fuck” than interested in why Chucky might be furious.

  “She invited me. She’s upset.”

  “You think she’s a grieving widow? Sal Nicoletti’s name is Danny Barbarella, and he’s from Detroit, like you said. The whole thing’s an FBI setup. Céline’s an escort hired to play a part. No wife, no kids, it’s all bullshit. Stay away from her.”

  “She called, and I went over. That’s all. I feel sorry for her.”

  “You’re caught in something too big for you. Shall I tell her you’re a cheap little charity con man? How’s she going to feel when she learns you’re the one who outed Danny? Céline stood to make a good chunk of money from this charade. How’ll she like it when she hears you fucked it up?”

  Connor hears slot machines jangling in the background and doesn’t answer. He wants to think his brother is lying, but he doesn’t know why Vasco should lie.

  “There’re guys that don’t like you, and Chucky’s at the top of the list. He hurts people. It’s his job. He wants you to find Fidget and to stay away from Céline. You go to her house again, bad things will happen. I’m just passing on the message.”

  NINETEEN

  Manny drives down Eugene O’Neill Drive, three lanes heading into town. It’s Thursday afternoon. He and Vikström are coming from Lisowski’s Hog Hurrah. Their disappointment isn’t as bad as broken toothpicks in a toddler’s Christmas stocking, but it’s disappointment nonetheless. As for Eugene O’Neill, Manny believes he was a former New London mayor, but he’s not sure. He could ask Vikström, who knows that sort of thing, but he doesn’t want to give Vikström the opportunity to be right. Better to be wrong and silent than to see Vikström smirk. Merely the chance of this, for Manny, is an irritant.

  “I just can’t fuckin’ believe,” says Manny, “that Lisowski is banging Angelina. He didn’t even have any black-and-blue marks.”

  “Maybe they’re still at the hand-holding stage,” says Vikström.

  “You kidding? She’s a crocodile. They don’t nibble—they gulp. One bite and he’s gone. He’s lucky to be alive. She’s walking vagina dentata.”

  “Vagina what?”

  “Pussy with teeth. It’s Latin—the Romans had it. That’s why their empire fell.”

  Manny’s brain is moving too fast for Vikström. “Has it occurred to you that Lisowski might have busted into Burns Insurance and stolen Fat Bob’s computer?”

  “Say more.” Uh-oh, here’s Vikström being right again, Manny thinks.

  “It happened Monday night or early Tuesday morning when most people thought Fat Bob was dead. Angelina might want the computer to see if Fat Bob had any hidden money or other stuff she could get from him. She wouldn’t break in herself, but if she and Lisowski were ‘a number,’ she might get him to do it. Like, who else would do it?”

  Manny is silent, then says, “Fat Bob might do it himself to hide his tracks, or a thug from the casino might do it to see if Bob had any ‘hidden money,’ as you say.”

  “Sure, those are possibilities, but Lisowski had already shot up Fat Bob’s Fat Bob. He might have broken into Burns’s place around then or later.”

  “So how do we hang it on him?”

  “That’s the trouble, I don’t know. But if we get a hold of his pistol and ballistics can tie it to the shells we found around the shot-up Fat Bob, then that’s a start.”

  “If, if, if,” says Manny. He hates disappointment. It’s often with him twenty-four hours a day. So when it shows up, he takes it out on Vikström, his special target.

  Vikström, on the other hand, meets disappointment philosophically, or what he calls philosophically, meaning they’ll find their answers soon or, conversely, they won’t. And in two or three days, the disappointing event or person or fact will be buried under the weight of a dozen new cases.

  Looking out the passenger window, Vikström thinks that proving Lisowski shot up Fat Bob’s Fat Bob would mean getting search warrants for the Hog Hurrah and Lisowski’s house to look for the pistol. But their supervisor, Detective Sergeant Masters, would never sign off on it. He hears her saying, Is this another one of your hunches, Detective? And he imagines her sarcasm dripping like fat from a cheap steak. Anyway, the pistol might be at Angelina’s—or simply elsewhere—and they’ll never find it.

  At the moment the detectives are on their way to talk to Angelina, which does nothing to improve their mood. They again want to ask her about Fat Bob and where he might be found. And they may ask about Lisowski and his pistol. Vikström believes that Angelina won’t be as angry as she was the other night, which will make her easier to talk to. So the visit is Vikström’s idea. Manny has no wish to see Angelina again. His annoyance with Vikström is like semi-molten magma bubbling near the surface.

  Out of the blue, Manny says, “I’ve been meaning to tell you: you don’t want to pronounce it like ‘okeyDOkey’ or ‘upsy-DAIsy.’ It’s not like that. Only beginners pronounce it ‘kar-ee-O-kee.’ The real pronunciation is ‘KAR-e-o-KEE.’ That’s how the Japanese pronounce it, and that’s how we should pronounce it.”

  Vikström feels he’s been struck in the head by a sock full of wet sand. Where had this attack come from? “You always pronounce it ‘kar-ee-O-kee.’”

  “That’s because I don’t want to be accused of showing off. How’s it going to seem if the only ones to pronounce it correctly are me, the Japanese, and maybe a few Koreans? So you’ve got to start saying it right.”

  Vikström begins to protest but asks himself, Is it really worth it? “You mean like ‘CARE-e-o-KEY’?”

  “That’s not bad, but it’s still not correct. You got to hit the first syllable like ‘KAR,’ more of a K sound than hard C; and ‘KAR’ is pronounced somewhere between ‘KAR’ and ‘CARE.’ Let’s hear you do it.”

  Vikström begins to feel sullen, but he gives it a try. “KAR, KAR, KAR!”

  “That’s good, but not good enough. Say ‘KAR, KAR, KAR!’”

  “For Pete’s sake, that’s what I said!”

  �
��No, you’re slipping off the diphthong. Look, don’t get pissed I’m trying to help. You’ll have to practice it at home till you get it right. Now for the hard part. It’s not ‘KAR-e-o-KEY.’ It’s ‘KAR-e-o-KEEEEE’! Try it.”

  “CARE-e-o-KEE!”

  “Better, but it won’t win no cigar. Hit that last syllable hard.”

  Vikström feels trapped in Manny’s irritating game as he might feel trapped in a jail cell. “CARE-e-o-KEEE, CARE-e-o-KEEEEE!”

  The Subaru has stopped in Angelina Rossi’s driveway. Angelina’s on the front porch; she looks at Vikström as if he were fighting his way out of his human form into something Martian. She’s not sure whether to run into the house and call the police or to pretend that she’s suddenly gone deaf and has heard nothing.

  Vikström sees Angelina on the porch with her eyes squeezed half shut and her mouth half open. He turns to Manny. He doesn’t shout, but he grinds his teeth.

  “That’s much better,” says Manny, getting out of the car. “We’ll do the whole thing again later.”

  “Fat fucking chance,” mutters Vikström as Manny slams the car door.

  Soon Vikström and Manny stand in Angelina’s living room while she hovers in the doorway of the kitchen—a possible escape—and her beagle, Magsie, dances in front of the detectives barking its little heart out. Angelina wears tight jeans and a dark turtleneck sweater—lingering echoes, perhaps, of having been a prom queen.

  Vikström’s afraid he’ll have to kick the dog if it attacks.

  Manny says, “We got one of those. Call it Schultzie. Cutest thing in the world.”

  Angelina chooses not to be diverted from the main subject. She nods toward Vikström. “Why was that guy screaming in your car?”

  Manny holds up a finger. “Not screaming. Shouting. There’s a difference.”

  Angelina isn’t satisfied. “I should call the police and get a conjunction.”

  Vikström tries to bend his features into a warm smile. “We’d like to ask a few more questions about Fat Bob. You have any pictures?”

  “I burned them, like I told you last time. I burned everything, even burned his jockstrap. Whyn’t you lock up the con men who want to steal my pup? The guy was just here for the second fucking time trying to get my money. I just called 911. That’s why you showed up, right?”