by Peter Manus
But…but…but…(I’ll get it in a second) Ah, yes! But maybe he WANTS me to see him here, parked, watching my place.
Why, though? Why, I ask mine-self, why?
O * PERIOD * M * PERIOD * F * PERIOD * G!!!!!!!!!!!!
It’s because he wants me to be careful. Because he’s really a good cop, although not just in the playing-nice-trying-to-trick-a-confession-out-of-someone-way—he’s actually on my side, and this is because in the very same instant that his partner Escroto fell deeply in hate with me, Burly-Bear fell equally deeply in LOVE with me (truly a far more plausible response to meeting me, if anyone’s asking my HUMBLE opinion).
Okay, enuff fantacizing. I’m off to find a lime and a couple of ice chips, and then to my evening. No more Molly Bloom, I swear! YES YES YES—there it’s out of my system.
GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT
proudblacktrannie @ January 25 02:44 am
u r trashed gurl and so am i (just in from one of those lovely frangelico evenings) but do know that Honey-Bear is sitting out there in his cop car w/ his cop computer open and he is lurking on our conversation. Luv u hon, even more so drunk than sober.
hitman @ January 25 02:48 am
Invite him in, fickel. Play him like he’s playing you. Challenge him to say he knows nothing about this site.
fickel @ January 25 02:54 am
Just back, and realize now that I posted tonight’s entry before I meant to. I was going to tell about my discussion with the Colonel but now I’m suddenly sick of being trashed and just want to chow down a few migraine tabs and sleep it off. Yes, by the way, proudblacktrannie, I am frightened as hell I don’t mind saying because I do not know if I can come up with any “alibi witnesses”—or whatever Burly-Bear wants me to produce for various nights when Mr. Suicide’s diary talks about his evenings with (or often without) “E.”
Anyway, who remembers what they were doing at a moment six months ago when some middle-aged whiner stashed away over in some Fort Point loft happens to be scribbling away about how some freeloader drove him from one orgasm to the next before sneaking off to swap fluids with someone her own age?
So, hitman, what am I supposed to accomplish by going outside and inviting Burly-Bear in? What is this “playing him,” may I ask?
fickel @ January 25 03:02 am
Ummm, hellooooo? No answer, hitman? Forgot to think that part through? Yes, well, I’d guessed as much. G’night, blog. Luv u, lurkers and all.
10
January 25 @ 10:38 pm
>LET ME CALL YOU SCHWEETHEART<
Sooooo, about last night. If my bloggies could politely ignore my post, I will be eternally grateful. Drunken blogging is apparently not part of my repertoire. Shall we see how I do at blogging with a massive hangover?
I’m composing this, btw, in the circa-1948 truck stop diner just off 128 and about four miles down the rural route from the Manor—to my amazement this place has wifi. The Colonel, father-figure that he be, had me up to Concord again tonight, this time to meet his mouthpiece. I’ve stopped here (as usual) for coffee, mostly because I didn’t want to make the drive home in the storm that hit, full force, just as I was jouncing along the last half mile or so toward the highway. Unfortunately, the rain’s only gotten harder in the twenty minutes I’ve been huddled here—sheets of it are shaking the plate-glass window right next to me as I type—and, for those who need mood, there’s even the occasional skitter of lightening, followed a half minute or so later by long, languid belches of thunder. And me, sitting here against this backdrop in my dove-grey fringed tweed Albert Nipon knockoff! Talking major mise-en-scène.
Any-ho, I give you the Colonel’s lawyer: late thirties, well-constructed with a piston-and-steel quality to his movements, shiny black hair sleeked back from his forehead (I’d say damp from the rain but I smelled the pomade)—lovely olive-green suit (Caraceni, anyone?). Overall, he created an impression of being quite handsome in a F. Scott Fitzgerald-y sort of way, and so I assumed he was until at some point I finally happened to look directly at his face, at which point I was surprised to find that the man is actually rather ugly, his eyes flat and empty, nostrils like black holes, lips thin and blood red, facial bone structure somehow cruel and off-kilter. Let me anticipate your view of this lawyer by dubbing him Mr. Groin. The man was nothing if not a complete dick, as you will see.
So Mr. Groin strolls into the Colonel’s sun room unannounced, rapping a couple of knuckles against the door in passing, which was plenty familiar, you ask me, as a way for a lawyer to enter a client’s home at 9:30 pm on a school night. The Colonel doesn’t bat a reptilian eyelid—but then he’s gracious by nature. Our three-way conversation is short and not altogether sweet. Goes sort of like:
Colonel: (in that gruff patrician way of his) Ah, Groin, perfect timing. This is the young lady I was telling you about. Helping me sort out my magnum opus. She’s witnessed a suicide in the subway, and now a couple of detectives are asking her questions about whether she chanced to know the fellow. The police seem to be harboring some half-formulated suspicion that the man was helped along in his determination to end it all. Preposterous, any way you look at it, but frankly the girl’s a bit unglued by the whole thing and I thought you might help out.
Me: (hoping to cut through the damsel-in-distress crap) Actually, I half think that one of the cops is on the make…
Mr. Groin: (cutting me off) Just tell him you’re represented. That’ll get him off your back. (He smiles briefly after saying this—his teeth are so straight and white that I find myself immediately scanning his hairline for plugs.)
Me: But I’m not represented.
Mr. Groin: Oh, I’ll handle it. Professional courtesy. If we need to sue at some point, we’ll talk about fees; until then I’ll consider you (here he drops an eye down my body, then flashes another of those lupine smiles at me) pro bono. (Somehow I’m meant to pick up that he’s just made a funny about my inauspicious assets. He feels in his breast pocket, and I’d have sworn he’s about to come out with one of those sterling silver cigarette cases—available on e-Bay for the fop in every smoker. Instead he flicks me a business card—off-white, fancy stock.) Next time anyone from the police contacts you, you give him my number. Apologize all you want, but stick to your guns. Believe me, they’re used to it.
Me: (taking his card mostly to show the Colonel that I’m grateful he set up this little “meeting”) But what if I’m not completely uninterested in cooperating with the police?
Mr. Groin: (offhandedly) So cooperate. Just cooperate through counsel.
Me: (needing to prod at his generous offer, for some reason) It’s just that, I have to admit that the police are not without reason to be, well, puzzled about a few of the facts. You see—
Mr. Groin: (putting a finger to his lips and shaking his head, as if I’m a child. To my own amazement, it works—I actually shut up on command.) We’re all puzzled about a lot of things that happen, Miss…(here he seemed to be groping momentarily for my name. It surprises me, as he comes across as one of those steel-trap-mind types who never forgets a name, no matter how insignificant its owner—or her tits—may be.)
At this moment, however, we catch the spatter of high heels out on the stairs, along with the jangle of car keys and a cheery: “Fuck me, look at the time! Don’t wait up, sweetie, because I’m crashing at Monica’s.” It’s Mrs. Colonel—a nip-tuck, nouveau-and-loving-it fifty-something who’s gone mano a mano with Father Time and actually seems to have won this round quite handily. She favors flowy silk pantsuits designed to accentuate her always-erect nipples, has the audacity to do her hair in a soft, white-blond pageboy that half covers one aqua-bright eye, and attempts to draw attention from the approaching-but-not-quite-realized wattle under her neck with these major—I could safely say breathtaking—blue diamonds that lie scattered across her clavicle bones, webbed together in a coruscating constellation of white gold that’s pure art. The omnipresent winking weave of blue-white stones, as you can predict, has
led me to dub her “the Peacock” in my catty little bad-girl head. This evening she remains unseen but apparently very much appreciated, as the chuffed look Mr. Groin flicks in the direction of his own crotch reveals altogether too clearly. The Colonel chuckles indulgently as we hear the staccato punch of the Peacock’s heels and then the thwump of the front door closing behind her.
Mr. Groin: So, let me take a very few seconds here to explain how the brain of a cop works in a suicide-slash-possible homicide in the T. PR-wise, they’re looking for the fast fix. They don’t care if it’s accurate or whether it sticks. They want the public’s attention span to be short and sweet, and that happens when the BPD comes off as homing in on a solve while the story’s still above the fold. Sooooo, what could the cops make out of you to feed the good citizens of greater Boston? Let’s see: waspish literary editor by day, dominatrix by night, kills her ex-lover out of some mix of sadism, guilt, and rage.
Me: How utterly theatrical.
Mr. Groin: (I score an eyelid flutter as he discerns that he hasn’t frightened my panties into a twist.) Let me sum it up: you say you’re concerned about the cops being puzzled? They’re not puzzled. They’re looking for a scapegoat, and maybe they’ve got one in you—that’s what they’re mulling over. Later maybe you prove you’re innocent? They’re cool with that, sweetheart, because no one will care.
Me: (impressed at his so readily recognizing me as the sweetheart that I am, but otherwise not wowed) Okay, but putting aside the predatory nature of the BPD, if you’re going to be my lawyer, don’t you need to know everything I know?
Mr. Groin: Not a good idea. What I need to know, I’ll ask and you’ll tell. Capisce?
Me: It’s a plan, I suppose.
So I’m “represented.” Hoo-freaking-ray. Let’s hope Burly-Bear remembers that he’s the one who suggested it.
OMG, UPDATE!!!UPDATE!!!UPDATE!!!
ARE THINGS WORSE THAN I THOUGHT…
OR WHAT!?!
So I am sitting here in the diner, blogging away with a self-amused smirk on my mug, and I just glanced round to give the nod to the coffee lady when who (okay, whom) should I spot but:
the {{{{{MYSTERIOUS HOTTIE}}}}}
This is the second time in the same number of days that I’ve seen this guy here—those of you who pore over every word I blog will verify that I mentioned him in passing last night but forgot to get back to discussing him. In any event, he is presently parked at the counter. I can see his face through the mirror and it is the guy. I mean, who could forget that long, sinewy rumpus masculinus?
Here is what he looks like: dark blond hair, bed-heady in that authentic way. Face scruffy and stubbly, GORGEOUS gray-blue eyes…you get the feeling he smokes in the shower. Bod: a titch over average height and I want to say “lithe” for some reason. Hands large, with big dirt-rimmed thumbs tapping on the rim of his coffee cup. Clothes scrumptiously beat: ancient jacket-coat in a ratty brown corduroy, couple of layers of dark shirts hanging out under the jacket’s bottom, dusty-looking grey jeans below, and some sort of crusty leather boots on his feet. You just know you’d get a big slap in the face of sweat odor if he ever yanked off his T-shirt in your presence—why this seems almost shudderingly attractive I can’t quite articulate.
Is this coincidence, that I am here and he is here, two nights in a row? Is he a “regular,” so that any time I drop by I might as soon spot him as not? Are there regulars at this diner?—it’s a highway stop. The waitress just offered him a warm-up and she didn’t smile or meet his eye, but that could mean she’s used to him. Or maybe she doesn’t dare meet his eye for fear that he’ll detect how heavenly it is just to glance across the counter at him.
OR IS HE A COP, tailing me when I wander while Burly-Bear covers the home turf and works on “opening me up?” I’m keeping my eye on the mirror even as I type this, and will catch him if he glances up to check out my reflection. But even if he does that, what of it? I’m the only young woman in the place, so it would be natural for him to check me out.
What’s he waiting for, tapping those massive thumbs of his…tap, tap, tappity, tap…?
GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT
36-D @ January 25 11:13 pm
Okay, so when do you get to do the naughty with him?
i.went.to.harvard @ January 25 11:15 pm
Why am I not surprised that this is where the conversation goes? fickel: you need a lawyer whether you like him or not, and if he’s aggressive and self-assured, well, isn’t that what you want in a lawyer? fickel?
fickel @ January 26 12:12 am
Okay, I’m back on. I’m home now, locked in my apartment, virginity intact—and running through your comments. I don’t know what I think. I definitely was worried that Mysterious Hottie was a cop back at the diner. Now that the rain and that rather jarring meeting with Mr. Groin are behind me, I think he’s just a guy who goes there to eat. Probably has a night job, a pregnant wife, and three lovely brats under the age of six back at the trailer park.
chinkigirl @ January 26 12:13 am
Young dads bring their dinner to work in a bag, and it’s peanut butter and jelly on white, a box of apple juice and a couple of Ho-Hos. Trust me on this.
proudblacktrannie @ January 26 12:17 am
i am in my boss’s office at work i cant stand not being ON!!! i have 1 simple fact to add to your evening, fickel my deah one:
GIANT THUMBS = GIANT YOU KNOW WHAT.
When you think back on this night, remember those rock-hard thumbs tapping that coffee cup. nuff said gotta go.
hitman @ January 26 12:19 am
Glad to tune in and find the ladies in heat. But back to business: any contact from the actual cop (as opposed to the imagined one)?
fickel @ January 26 12:21 am
If Burly-Bear’s out in my parking lot, he’s done a better job hiding himself tonight.
36-D @ January 26 12:23 am
Does that make you nervous? I mean not knowing where he is or what he’s thinking?
fickel @ January 26 12:24 am
A tad, now that you make me think about it.
hitman @ January 26 12:27 am
Lemme clarify, fick: you want the big cop hanging round, letting slip what the cops are thinking about you while he tries to peek up your skirt. But at the same time you’re swooning over some dirtbag you spot in a diner who looks like his pits reek. What a tough spot you’re in, fickel—whose vertical stick to hop???????
marleybones @ January 26 12:30 am
You really don’t like women much, do you, hitman?
fickel @ January 26 12:34 am
Actually, in a big way hitman is right. Did Burly-Bear tip me off because I’m a woman? That’s pretty likely. Am I letting him see that I notice that he’s a male? You betcha. So as far as all that takes you, you’re right, hitman: I’m “using sex” to get information. However, am I truly toying with him, playing it helpless, dropping hints that if he clears up the mess, he gets to bed me? ’Fraid not, hitman. So if simply being a female who notices a couple of men means being a tease or worse, well, guilty as charged.
hitman @ January 26 12:37 am
oh, you’re guilty, fickel.
fickel @ January 26 12:38 am
Who are you channeling, anyway, Lawrence Tierney?
wazzup! @ January 26 12:39 am
Just tuning in on my way through my Favorites (you are climbing like a hit single to the Netherlands’ number 1 noir site!). Excellent reference…Born to Kill…one of top ten noir on my famous all-stars list!!!!! Please google me up: www.dutchman!
hitman @ January 26 12:42 am
Gotta hand it to you, fick—you got cojones to be blogging away with this crap going on.
hitman @ January 26 01:16 am
fickel? You on?
hitman @ January 26 01:23 am
fickel, you don’t take my junk seriously, do you?
fickel @ January 26 01:42 am
Look, why are you here? Why now? And don’t give me that “noir fan
” line—I don’t buy it.
hitman @ January 26 01:44 am
I am a noir fan, big time. But seriously?
fickel @ January 26 01:50 am
Dead straight, if you’re capable of it.
hitman @ January 26 01:56 am
Fact is I pushed someone once. In front of a train. And yeah, I get the shakes just writing this.
fickel @ January 26 01:57 am
Oh, I’m suitably skeptical. Is there a “why” you’re gearing up to deliver?
hitman @ January 26 02:18 am
I needed to take charge of a situation. I’m wondering if you’re involved in something similar.
fickel @ January 26 02:19 am
Take the psychobabble somewhere else.
hitman @ January 26 02:21 am
Look, sorry if I frightened you.
fickel @ January 26 02:22 am
Frightened me? Do I frighten that easily? Gosh I wasn’t aware of it.
hitman @ January 26 02:25 am
Thought you wanted me to be straight with you.
fickel @ January 26 02:39 am
Look, hitman, I’m not cut out to be someone’s online confessional. Good and evil haven’t lined themselves up tidily in my life, and twenty years of spoon-fed Catholicism didn’t clarify a thing. If it’s absolution you’re circling in on, I’m sorry, but you’ve got the wrong blog.
leo tolstoy @ January 26 02:42 am
The arbiter of good and evil is not what people say and do. It is your heart and yourself.
fickel @ January 26 02:45 am
Long sigh. I need a new url.
11
January 26 @ 10:42 pm
>DIARY OF A SUICIDE-IN-TRAINING<
People have funny things swimming around inside of them. Don’t you ever wonder about what they are?
