Is Fat Bob Dead Yet?: A Novel

by Stephen Dobyns

  Actually, we know this cop, who’s a state police detective named Woody Potter. We met him when Manny and Vikström came out to Brewster and found the dead Leon Pappalardo. Later the three police officers went to the Brewster Brew, where Vikström made himself sick eating an oversize banana split.

  “The rig’s registered in San Diego, your license lists an address in San Diego, and the Mini-Cooper has a California license plate. Is that where you’re visiting from?”

  Connor has no idea who the Mini-Cooper belongs to. Maybe Didi, maybe someone else. He’s trying to come up with a plausible answer, when there’s a shout. Vaughn’s galloping toward him, dropping pages from yellow pads in his wake. A cop begins to draw his weapon, but Woody waves him back. In that moment Vaughn leaps on Connor, giving him a fearsome hug and sending both to the ground.

  Connor returns the hug while trying not to be smothered. He rubs the top of Vaughn’s head. Vaughn’s motorcycle cap has fallen off, and Woody picks it up and looks inside. “Marco Santuzza,” he says. “A friend of yours?”

  Vaughn yells, “Squat team, squat team!”

  It’s hard for Connor to conjure up a credible lie with Vaughn squeezing him. “I picked it up at the accident,” says Connor. He gets to his feet with Vaughn hanging on to his arm. “I didn’t see it was Santuzza’s till later. Now it belongs to Vaughn.”

  Woody Potter regards Vaughn thoughtfully. He doesn’t care about the cap one way or the other. It’s a Connecticut cap, not a Rhode Island cap. He gives it to Vaughn, who puts it quickly on his head, pulling it down to his eyebrows.

  “So what’s with this kid?” asks Woody. “What’s his problem? He gave me a license plate number. He’d memorized it. You have any ideas about that?”

  “He’s incinerating something,” says Vaughn. “What’s he incinerating?”

  Connor puts his arm around Vaughn’s shoulder. “I don’t think anything’s wrong with him. He’s different, that’s all. Maybe he’s got Asperger’s. He’s terrific with numbers, so if he gave you a plate number, it’s probably important.”

  “He says he’s an orphan from outer space.”

  “Yeah, he does that. He lives in San Diego. I brought him with me.”

  “So who shot up the Winnebago?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.” He nods at Vaughn.

  “They held me hostile! They wanted to shoot me behind my back!”

  Connor thinks that whoever shot up the Winnebago was told to do so by Chucky, meaning it was probably Jimbo and Joesy. But Connor has no wish to say anything that would get Chucky arrested. He doesn’t want to make Chucky madder at him than he already is. And he doesn’t want to meet Jimbo and Joesy again. His plan, vague though it is, is to take Vaughn and drive back to San Diego. But whenever he thinks about this, he also finds himself thinking about Linda.

  The cop returns with Connor’s driver’s license. “This guy’s clean, and the car belongs to him.”

  “Me?” says Connor.

  “It’s a surprise to you?” Who are these people? Woody thinks.

  “No, no, I guess I’d forgotten.” Connor knows this is another of Didi’s tricks and that somewhere Didi has an IOU or a bill of sale showing that the car really belongs to Didi, but he won’t claim the car until he’s sure it won’t get him into trouble—that is, it hasn’t been used in a crime or in some other dark enterprise.

  “Forgotten?” says Woody.

  “I’ve got a lot of cars at home, and this one’s new. It keeps slipping my mind.”

  Woody sees that Connor is lying, but he doesn’t have a clear reason to arrest him. As for Vaughn, Woody doesn’t want to take charge of him. He can’t let him stay in the Winnebago; he can’t put him in a hospital; he can’t stick him in a booby hatch or jail. Although not a child, Vaughn is clearly harmless and childlike. Woody’s worry is that he’ll have to take him home until something else can be arranged, like a suitable halfway house. He figures his wife and stepson will put up with it, but Vaughn himself might protest. The whole business is a potential can of worms.

  “You can’t stay here. The rig’s technically a crime scene. Do you have someplace else to go? You’ll have to take your friend.”

  “We’ve got to evaporate,” says Vaughn cheerfully.

  “I’ve got someone in New London I can stay with,” says Connor. Surprise, surprise, he’ll tell Linda. I’ve brought the orphan from outer space.

  “You’ll be safe?”

  “Safe? Why not?”

  “Some guys put fifty bullets into your rig. It’s not exactly a sign of friendship.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Will I be fine? thought Connor. He didn’t know.

  “Okay, I’ll need your friend’s name and address, also some other stuff.”

  As these details are sorted out, Vaughn goes to collect his yellow pads.

  “Can I go inside and get some stuff?” asks Connor. “Like clothes?”

  “I’m afraid not. You’d be tampering with a crime scene.”

  “What’s the crime?”

  “Shooting the blazes out of the place.”

  —

  Around two in the morning, Vikström is awakened from troubled sleep by the ringing of the phone. Actually, Maud shakes him awake, calling, “Benny, Benny!”

  It’s a sergeant from police headquarters. “We got the license plate of that Denali you were looking for. It was spotted over in Rhode Island. You said you wanted to know if it turned up. And a Rhode Island state cop wants you to call him.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  As a bowling ball gathers speed down a waterslide, so we accelerate as our friends join together at the finish. Some, however, can be left to their own devices. Angelina, thrilled by the way Milo Lisowski shot up Fat Bob’s Fat Bob on Monday evening, has accepted his overtures, and they’ve begun to date, meaning they’re screwing each other silly. Also, in Sunday’s New London Day will appear Angelina’s classified ad seeking members for the first chapter of Prom Queens Anonymous. The only nuisance is that Fat Bob keeps calling with threats and demanding his bikes back.

  Nor will we see more of Orville Percival and Henry Lascombe. Their work in New London is done, and they’re returned to the FBI field office in Detroit. We’ll miss their upbeat appreciation of their own importance. Nor will we see Brewster police chief Brendan Gazzola, Rhode Island State Police detective Woody Potter, Caroline Santuzza, Céline, Fat Bob’s friend Otto, Mr. Burns of Burns Insurance, Dr. Hubert Goodenough, and others—we wish them the best in new undertakings.

  Others we’ll see shortly. Fat Bob, for instance, spends the night cruising New London streets like a fly refusing to settle. Whenever he pauses, as at a red light, he hears the high whine of Jack Sprat’s scooter getting closer. How Jack Sprat can so quickly figure out his location is a mystery to Fat Bob, even though his aftermarket exhaust pipes idle at one hundred decibels. But Jack is secretary of a local scooter club called the Vicious White-Faced Hornets. So a dozen of his scooter pals also cruise the streets, and after midnight Fat Bob’s noisy pipes are child’s play to locate. In this instance the biker slogan “Loud pipes save lives” may lead to a contrary outcome.

  Is Fat Bob to blame for Marco’s death? We’ve discussed this before, and we’re unsure. Sal wanted Fat Bob to meet him at his office at a specific time that Monday morning. The very specificity worried Fat Bob, so he offered Marco a test drive on a Fat Bob, since Marco was already headed for his own office in the same building as Sal’s office. We know the result. Fat Bob swears he meant no harm, but Dr. Goodenough, if we had access to his services, might suggest that Fat Bob had an unconscious desire, et cetera. This isn’t enough to send Fat Bob to prison, but surely it’s enough to rile up Marco’s murderous brother-in-law.

  Also, Fat Bob knew that Sal was Dante Barbarella, and perhaps he made a modest attempt at blackmail, since he’s always in need of money. Once Sal was dead, Fat Bob felt certain that Chucky was to blame. Ho, ho, Fat Bob might think, if I can’t get money fro
m Sal, I’ll get it from Chucky, meaning that Chucky would pay to shut him up. Does this show Fat Bob’s ambition, desperation, or incredible stupidity? Dr. Goodenough might suggest the last. In any case, Fat Bob knew that Chucky was looking for him, just as Jack Sprat was looking for him. But he wants to meet them on his terms rather than theirs, so he keeps moving.

  Isn’t it often true in life that someone fucks up and nothing happens; then he fucks up again and nothing happens; a third time ditto; a fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh times ditto. Then, on the eighth time, the whole world falls on his head. That’s what happened to Fat Bob. No wonder he calls life unfair. And every couple of hours, his ex-wife calls him with a message: “You fuckin’ scumbag, I just sold your last bike to a scam artist for pennies and Milo’s dick’s a foot longer than yours. How d’you like them apples?” And of course Fat Bob calls back with threats of his own.

  —

  Early Saturday morning Manny and Vikström sit at their desks and consider the world’s defects. One defect for Vikström is the defect that led a desk sergeant to call him at two a.m. to give him the Denali’s plate number: information that came by way of the trooper, Woody Potter. Then, an hour later, Woody called to say that the two thugs in the Denali had kidnapped Vaughn and shot up a Winnebago, destroying it. He also said he’d talked to Connor Raposo, who was, Woody expected, a person of interest for Vikström. Then Woody gave Vikström Linda’s New London address: an apartment on Cedar Grove. Woody’s call constituted the second defect.

  Vikström tried to go back to sleep but could only think of the fucking Denali. So around six he went to his office, where he found Manny, humming. But the humming was the least of it. What made it a defect was the amount, because in a one-hour period Manny hummed or whistled “Riders in the Sky” maybe a hundred times. Vikström was certain that Manny was waiting for him to shout, “Shut the fuck up!” and so Vikström remained silent and suffered.

  As for Manny, he wasn’t disturbed by nighttime phone calls, because each night he made sure the phones in his house were turned off. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t brooding about defects. The main defect is whatever defect caused Yvonne to give a thousand smackers to Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc. It didn’t matter that it was her money; it’s the principle of the thing, whatever that principle might be. So main defect number two was the defect that kept him from being able to locate the scumbag responsible for defect number one.

  This is the trouble with defects: They never come singly. So defects one and two led to defect number three, which was more of a defective situation than a distinct defect. This had arisen from Manny’s insistence that Yvonne knew more than she really knew, meaning she must be acquainted with the scumbag referred to in defect number two. This led to troubles, which formed further defects. Specifically, for the last two nights Yvonne had refused to make dinner and had slept in the guest room with their beagle, Schultzie. Tiptoeing up to the guest-room door late at night, Manny could hear his wife’s giggles and the low, moaning howls that Schultzie made to express pleasure in having his belly scratched.

  A further feature of this defective situation was that for two nights Yvonne had refused to visit the karaoke box, forcing Manny to run the show himself. But Manny lacked Yvonne’s charm as master of ceremonies. He tended to tell his guests when to sing and when not to sing. After all, he was a cop. Ordering was easier than asking. As a result, some guests left early and some didn’t come back the next night. Also, without Yvonne, Manny’s singing voice lacked its natural authority. He needed her praise. It didn’t matter if others liked him or not. Sharps and flats were all the same to him. But last night one of the guests had actually booed.

  Manny’s catalog of defects has reached this low spot when Vikström asks, “You ever do any newer songs in your singing box?”

  Vikström’s words enter Manny’s ears the way a dentist’s drill might initiate a root canal with insufficient Novocain. Manny doesn’t shout, but his syllables emerge from between his teeth. “No post-1960 songs. That’s the rule. I’ve said that before.”

  “What about ‘Hey Jude’?”

  It should be said that Vikström’s questions emerge from a mixed agenda. He wants to stop Manny from humming “Riders in the Sky,” and he wants to show Manny his attitude change toward karaoke boxes as a way of improving office morale.

  “‘Hey Jude’ is post-1960.”

  “You sure?”

  “Fuckin’ right I’m sure. It was released in 1968.”

  “So they might have sung an earlier version of ‘Hey Jude’ in 1960, like an earlier draft.”

  “It never happened. The Beatles weren’t even formed as a band till 1960.”

  “But they might have had it on the back burner in 1960, like unconsciously.”

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you!?” Manny shouts.

  Part of Vikström’s apparent attitude change to karaoke is his decision to try a little singing even though he’s tone-deaf. But he doesn’t want to do those old songs. He wants the Beatles.

  “What about ‘All You Need Is Love’?”

  “What did I fuckin’ say?” These are words that Manny shouts.

  Vikström has begun folding an origami crane, which is something his wife, Maud, has been teaching him. But all his cranes look like paper airplanes. His paper-folding skills display a clumsiness that is equivalent to tone deafness.

  “What if I introduced you to a new singing star as long as you kept it quiet?”

  “Like who?”

  “Me. I bet I could do it, as long as I could sing the Beatles.”

  Vikström’s offer is for Manny the ultimate insult. It couldn’t be any worse if Vikström had walked onto the little karaoke stage and taken a dump on the tiles. The affront would be as great. Manny jumps to his feet and goes to pick up a computer monitor. Perhaps he means to throw it at Vikström. Luckily for Vikström, their boss, Detective Sergeant Masters, appears at this moment.

  “There’s trouble in an apartment on Cedar Grove,” she says. “Three people were dragged away. One was shouting about ‘violet goatnapping.’ Crazy stuff.”

  —

  Connor and Vaughn reach Linda’s apartment around 2:30 a.m. Luckily, Connor had called to warn her. Vaughn doesn’t make eye contact with her and instead focuses on the ceiling as he holds his motorcycle cap to his chest with both hands. He has a red bruise on his chin from where Joesy struck him. Vaughn is smaller than Linda expected; his short, peroxided hair stands up at angles vaguely like her own. A head shaped like a loaf of bread with a pink bump of a nose, a blue left eye, a green right eye, a wide mouth, his uncertain age—Linda knows perfectly well that Vaughn isn’t an orphan from outer space, but she sees how people might think so. But it’s his voice that strikes her most, a rippling baritone like eddying chamois cloth. Maybe she’s heard of Vaughn Monroe, she can’t recall; maybe her parents listened to him. But Vaughn sounds just the way she thinks a famous singer should sound.

  “Does he sing?” she asks Connor, as if Vaughn weren’t in the room.

  “I’ve never heard him sing.” Connor turns to Vaughn. “Do you sing?”

  Vaughn’s smile shows even rows of little teeth. “Mission impassable. I’m a suppository of wicked notes.”

  “Is this how he always talks?”

  “It’s more pronounced when he’s nervous.”

  Vaughn gives another beatific smile. “I suffer from inflammable language due to a deformation of character.”

  Linda feels the light-headedness often experienced by Vaughn’s interlocutors. She retreats to the kitchen, leaving offers of hot chocolate in her wake.

  Connor describes to Linda what he learned from Woody Potter and what he thought he learned from Vaughn about his interaction with Jimbo and Joesy. He again worries that he’s getting Linda mixed up with troubles not her own.

  After the hot chocolate, Linda works out the sleeping arrangements. She’d like to invite Connor to her bed but feels it’s the wrong time
. And Connor would like to sleep in her bed, but he isn’t sure how to broach the subject. So he sleeps on the couch, and Vaughn sleeps on the floor on several yoga mats. Only Vaughn feels satisfied with the arrangement.

  During the rest of the night, we hear tossing, turning, and a little snoring that we ignore as irrelevant. What’s relevant is the pounding on Linda’s door shortly after six. Linda hurries to the door in her pajamas. Maybe she thinks it’s a neighbor with a sick cat. Before Connor can say, “I think that’s a bad idea,” she opens the door an inch and has it roughly shoved open the rest of the way by Joesy and Jimbo.

  “Shark attack!” shouts Vaughn.

  “Shut him up or we toss him out the window,” says Joesy.

  Linda approaches him angrily. “How dare you say something so mean?”

  Joesy steps back. He hadn’t thought of it as mean. It’s just business. So he says harshly, “Business is business.”

  Linda looks for her cell phone. “I’m calling the police. Get out of here now!”

  During this exchange Connor slowly gets to his feet and Vaughn sits on the yoga mats with a blanket over his head. Connor’s impressed by Linda’s behavior, but he’s also worried by it. After a moment Linda finds her cell phone in the pocket of her winter coat. Before she can use it, Jimbo limps toward her, grabs the phone, and slides it across the floor to Joesy, who stamps on it. From under the blanket, Vaughn shouts, “Include me out!”

  Linda gives Jimbo a push. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

  Connor, now standing, says, “They work for Chucky.”

  As Jimbo regains his balance, Linda gives him another push. We recall that Jimbo has had the third toe on his left foot eradicated by Vasco, so he’s shaky on his pins.

  “I don’t care if they work for Donald Trump!” shouts Linda. “They need to leave! I should have the police on speed dial. Get out of here!”

  Joesy has drawn his pistol and aims it at Vaughn. “Shut up or I’ll pop the retard. I won’t kill him, but I’ll put a hole in him.”

  “You’re basically a sissy,” says Linda, stepping back.