Slice dje-5

by Rex Miller

  But the ha-has still took a back seat to the romance.

  “You're something, you know that,” he said to her, cupping her long lovely neck and feeling the smoothness of her bare shoulders as they got ready for bed.

  “Something is the word. But is it something good? That's the question."

  “Something awfully good.” He stroked the long fine hair that she would comb out, letting it fall nearly to her waist. “Like corn silk."

  “What does a city guy know about corn silk? Bet you never shucked an ear of field corn in your life."

  “Wrong,” he said, making a buzzer sound. “Sorry, ma'am, this means another article of your clothing has to come off for an incorrect answer. Pay up.” He slipped the straps of the nightgown over her beautiful shoulders. She had large, firm breasts. He was always asking her when the silly putty was gonna shift. They were too good to be true. She was built like a Texas hourglass. With plenty of sand in the top.

  CHICAGO

  The huge man wakes in darkness, and fumbles for his flashlight. He switches it on and sees the form of the sleeping woman nearby.

  “Wake up,” he rumbles, and she sits up blinking like a bat, the blinding light in her eyes.

  “Eh? What? Who's there?"

  “Get up. Light the lantern,” he tells her, and she slowly sits up, rubbing herself. “LIGHT THE LANTERN.” She comes awake fully and begins obeying his command. Eventually a coal-oil-kerosene-like odor permeates the stench of their immediate surroundings and he says, “Did you bring me what I told you?"

  “Okay. Pippy brings the good boy his fine things.” Amazingly she had brought him a sack containing some of the items he'd asked for. So she wasn't altogether useless. He snatched a can of Spam and quickly keyed it open, slapping the rectangle of meat and congealed grease out into his huge hand. Without even wiping the packing gelatin off, he took a ferocious bite, swallowing two-thirds of the meat in a single bite. In less than five minutes the old woman watched him consume the entire contents of a bag of groceries. “Good Big Boy eats all his fine dinner.” She waited for his next utterance.

  He looked at her with some degree of irritation. He had tortured and killed people who had irritated him less than she did. Yet he felt no particular rage against her. She was somewhere along the evolutionary ladder between mankind and animal. He might let her live awhile longer if she didn't annoy him further.

  “Look, see Pepper's puppy. He can walk just like the doggies with four foots. You look real close and only see three foots on puppy. See?"

  He lurched to his feet, taking the heavy bag in one hand and the lantern in the other.

  “Listen to what I tell you, sonny boy,” she commanded in a stern voice that caused him to glance at her, and the hard eyes looked for just a fraction of a heartbeat but she wasn't worth bothering with, and he was too tired to even shrug. Daniel turned away from her, the light sending ghostly movement of oily shadows over them, and he could hear her voice from the blackness behind him saying something about “pretty Pip would eat her dessert” as he lumbered out of the subworld for the last time.

  He had known where he was going to come up and he scrutinized the street carefully before he felt comfortable with the idea of coming out of the manhole. There was an alley immediately behind him, and as he slid the heavy cover out of the way and squeezed through the opening, a Billy Batsonizing boom of thunder cracked down out of the sky and Chaingang's mighty lungs filled with the almost overpowering pungency of “fresh” Chicago air.

  WINDER (EAST BUCKHEAD)

  The two rednecks were in a cheap motel on the outskirts of town. Wire-skinny and hard-rock tough, the mean mammer-jammer calling himself Bo Johnson crumpled up the empty Bud and flung it viciously across the room in the direction of the wastebasket. He glowered at the white trash peckerwood he'd gotten saddled with.

  “I mean, sweet JESUS you gin’ ta hafta start LISTENIN’ TO ME ya goin’ to end us both up back inna fuckin’ slammer, ya know.” He was pacing the small room and his nervous energy was as scary to the other man as a loose high-voltage line crackling in the air beside him. It had been different inside.

  Them and the other white boys against the smokes and Messicans. But shit, he wouldn’ let up onna man.

  “Well, hell,” he began.

  “Well hell iz right, John. Sweet JESUS youuns can fuck somp'n up. DAMN. I couldn’ fuckin’ BELIEVE it, I mean we go up air'n shit ‘n ya go ‘n write MY fuckin’ name inna damn book. What in the seventeen sweet names of the damn DEVIL couldya be thinkin’ about, huh?"

  “Shit, it ain't mah fault, Wendell, an’ I didn't write YOUR name any more'n you wrote MY name,"

  “I wrote YOUR name? WHAT THE HOLY HAPPY FUCK YA TALKIN’ ABOUT, BOY?” The stupid one, whose name was John Monroe, flinched at the screaming, wondering if the people next door would hear the hollerin'. He made the calm-down gesture with palms out in front of him, as if warding off evil, saying, “Ya done wrote PARTA my name,” talking in a whisper, trying to placate the other man with his tone, “JOHN-son. Get it? Ya done writ Bo JOHN-son onna damn card ‘n, shit, ya know, then I got sorta confused an'—"

  “Ya got sorta confused awright.” At least he was talking in a halfway normal voice you couldn't hear a block away if you was deaf. “Well, hell, man, I jes’ writ the first fuckin’ thing come in my head, so I put down there I was Bob Wendell, now that ain't using—Well it is your name but I mean it ain't either ‘cause hell anybody lookin’ for somebody named Wendell De Witt, they ain't gonna’ put two and two together there ya know like Bob Wendell don't even sound like Wendell De Witt or nothin’ and even—"

  “See what I mean, John, you don't fucking LISTEN to what I'm tellin’ ya. You got to start payin’ attenshun to me, goddammit.” He smacked a hard fist into his other hand and it sounded like the loudest possible tooth-rattling slam of a door. “JESUS IN HEAVEN, ya goin’ ta git us tripped up iffn’ ya don't pay a-fuckin'-TENshun.” Monroe imagined what it would be like to get hit in the face with that hand.

  “I'm sorry."

  “You're sorry,” he mimicked, “you're confused. See that don't help. Ya understan’ what I'm tryin’ to tell ya?” Monroe nodded but he had to say it,

  “Yeah, but if we ‘uns had stayed in the same damn room we wouldna hadda write on two cards we coulda writ like we was brothers or somethin'."

  “I done already said in the car.” He was shaking his head in total exasperation.” I don't WANNA stay in the same room like a coupla fuckin’ faggots."

  “Hell, I ain't no faggot."

  “I never said ya was a faggot. You're as dumb as fuckin’ stone but I never done accused ya of being no dick-suckin', ball-lickin', cunt-asshole turd-packin’ faggot. What I said was—and listen to what I'm sayin’ ‘cause I AIN'T GOIN’ TA SAY IT AGAIN, I never said ya was no faggot. I said I don't-want-to-stay inna-same-fuckin'-room-like-we-was-two-faggots. Get it? AWRIGHT."

  “But—"

  “I had my fill of that shit when I was in goddamn jail and that is plain enough of that shit for me. I ain't stayin’ inna same room with somethin’ I ain't fuckin'. ‘Less you want me to start dickin’ YOU inna ass ya better git that shit straight goddammit."

  “Shit I can be with that awright. I never could abide no faggots myself. I let one suck me off one time when I was out in California—"

  “Yeah, well I don't think we got time to go in to all that shit right now, man. We gonna do somethin’ here or not? Because if we ain't, then I'm gonna make somethin’ happen on my OWN, ya unnerstand?"

  “Hey.” Monroe tilted his head. “I hear ya'. I want to go for some of that shit."

  “That's the way I like ta hear ya talk. Now let's plan how we're goin’ ta git them pipes."

  “Dale's got him a nice little Beretta, man.” He pantomimed holding a handgun and played like he shot the lamp. “PPPPSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHH HHKKKKKK KKKKKKKEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWW!"

  “We ain't goin’ ta use no traceable pipes, butt-wipe. Ack like you got some fuc
kin’ sense."

  The other man as if in agreement hawked up a gooey oyster and spit it in the general direction of the motel wastebasket.

  “What we goin’ do is go down to Helferd's."

  “Uh-huh."

  “Go down there about eleven-thirty onna Friday night when the cops is all out lookin’ for pussy or eatin’ goddamn donuts, and we goin’ ta throw a couple bricks through the fuckin’ window and take the first three or four guns we can grab outta there."

  “Don't they got no burger alarm?” he asked, unconscious of his malaprop.

  “Jesus sweet Christ. Of COURSE they gotta fuckin’ BURGLAR alarm ass-wipe, we ain't gonna STAY there fer shit's sake, we goin’ ta SMASH the fuckin’ glass, GRAB the fuckin’ guns, an’ BOOK. How long ya’ think that'll take?"

  “Oh, I guess—"

  “It'll take nineteen SECONDS is how long it'll fuckin’ take.” He was proud of his command of the situation. “I got a piece a’ windshield glass, and that shit is strong, and timed what'd take to sledgehammer through it ‘n reach in and take a couple a’ pipes and book. Nineteen seconds. A cop cain't wipe his fuckin’ heinie in nineteen seconds. We're outta there."

  “How about bullets? Where we gonna—"

  “We BUY some bullets. Okay?"

  “Yeah, but we need pistols or some shit. They ain't got nothing but big-ass rifles inna window of Helferd's last time we was by there. I want me a nice Beretta like double-o-seven, ‘n go—” He pointed at the door and went “PPPPPPKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKEEEEEEEEEE WWWWWWWWWWW! PSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHKK EEEEEEEEEEWWWW!” Sweet Jesus, the man named Wendell De Witt thought. I've got me a fuckin’ imbecile here.

  “We take what's inna window. We ain't goin’ in an’ fuck around all night with no goddamn showcases. We grab rifles if there's rifles inna window, we grab shotguns iffn’ nair's shotguns. Okay?"

  “Yeah, sure, that's cool. But how we gonna go walkin’ inna fuckin’ bank with fuckin’ big ole hunting rifles with goddamn telescopes ‘n shit all over ‘em?"

  “Mmmmmm.” He sighed as if he hurt, pulling the tab on another Budweiser and flinging it away from him. “I swear ta Christ. We're gonna saw them off.” He said this with patience in his tone, that sweet sound he got right when he turned real mean. John Monroe had heard him talk like that once right before he proceeded to kick the living shit out of these two slick dudes in the goddamn gas station. Just whomped on the sides of their heads till the gray shit come out. He didn't say nothing, only nodded yes.

  “Okay.” Wendell smiled. “So now we got our pipes all nice and sawed off.” He pointed his finger at Monroe and went, “PPPPKKKKKKKKKKKEEEEEEEWWW” the way a person will try to do when you can tell they ain't never played guns when they was a kid because they can't make the noise. “And then we go ask some a’ these fuckers to part with their money. How does THAT sound to ya?"

  “Let's do it. Shit. I know a perfect place. That new little American Finance office out there where Long John Silver is, ya know? Onna highway?"

  “Fuck that. I had a guy I knew in jail hit a little place like that ‘n he only come out with three thousand dollars in his sack. Shit. I ain't goin’ to do the crime if I cain't have a time. We'll hit a fuckin’ bank."

  “Yeah. Shit, we can hit a bank,” John Monroe said without an ounce of conviction in his voice.

  “Yeah."

  “Like ta make sure they ain't a whole buncha assholes standin’ around. Shit, they can throw an’ alarm and shit an’ you know, a couple a’ people cain't cover no whole fuckin’ bank."

  “We ain't goin’ that route. We're gonna waltz innair with the fuckin’ president of the damn bank."

  “No shit?"

  “I wouldn't shit mah favorite turd, would I?” he said with a big mean smile.

  BUCKHEAD

  He was getting as flaky as the nutbaskets he worked with, Eichord thought. That morning leaving for work he'd showed Donna what he'd bought for Dana.

  “What'd you buy him?” she said with a smile.

  “Little sign for his desk.” He'd found a bumper sticker with the word on it and found some desk signs in a drawer upstairs at headquarters. He'd slid one of the signs out and the bright Day-Glo sticker word fit perfectly across the plastic insert. When he slid the sign insert back into its stand, it looked like it had been custom-made for it. Wordlessly he sat the sign on the kitchen table and she screamed with laughter.

  “Perfect."

  “I'm getting as fruitcake as he is."

  “I love it.” Her smile wrinkles deepened and she said, “When you invite them over, be sure you tell Dana that your wife sent him a special invitation—from next door.” They both laughed.

  He put the sign back into the sack. This domestic stuff was all right. He could get used to this real quick. They sat finishing breakfast leisurely and he thought to himself how much he'd missed sharing things with someone. Even a stupid joke. Just to have someone you genuinely cared for meant so much. He looked over at this lovable lady and couldn't feel anything but a boundless joy.

  “Now whatcha grinnin’ at?” she asked him through a bite of toast.

  “My luck, baby,” he said, and went over and had a taste. Crumbs, grape jelly. Donna Eichord—the whole works.

  When he finally got to work he was carrying Dana's new sign in a little brown sack that looked like his lunch, and he could hear Chink's voice all the way up on the first landing.

  “How come you wanna play Hill Street Blues again, dammit?” he could hear them arguing. “It's been off for a hunnert years."

  “I liked it."

  “Keerist. You liked the Flying Nun. You been sick since they took Kojak off."

  “Go jack off? Go jack off yourself, you little kamikaze reject, if you can find that miniature gherkin you slopes laughingly refer to as a cock.” They went on like this all day. He always wondered how they could have kept it up all those years. After a while it made you tired to hear them. But he loved them, he supposed. And you overlook someone's faults when you love ‘em. He knew they had covered for him a thousand times over the years. Covered for him back when he stayed blitzed to the gills on the job. Of course, they never let up about it either. That was their style. Anything was fair game for these flaky friends of his.

  “Good morning,” he'd say, and Lee would look up and shake his head, “Swacked again,” he would sigh, “Four hours late to work. Pathetic. All we ask is whatever you do don't breathe on the captain's shield. He just got it shined yesterday."

  “Yeah,” Fat Dana would chime in, “and that heavy a concentration of alcohol will tarnish gold faster'n saltwater'll eat out the bottom of a ‘64 Olds Cutlass."

  “Speaking of heavy concentrations of things that eat,” he'd say, and the thing that sometimes passed for witty repartee in Buckhead Station would begin.

  Eichord's walk coming down the flight of steps was unmistakable to them and they made him halfway down, and he “overheard” them begin to discuss him at the top of their lungs.

  “And another thing about that mother grabbing, headline-grabbing Jack Eichord, man, his EGO is so damn big he no longer thinks he has to shower or bathe. Have you noticed? PHEW!"

  “Oh, shucks, yes,” Lee's partner could be heard to say. “Eichord stinks like a wet Saint Bernard's crotch. It's getting so bad—"

  “The real question is how you assholes know what a Saint Bernard's crotch smells like,” Eichord said as he reached the door of the Squad Room.

  “Hey,” Lee acknowledged his friend's presence. “Don't you love it when he talks dirty."

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Tuny boomed in his announcer voice, “the Major Crimes Task Farce proudly prevents...” He cued his Oriental partner for a fanfare.

  “Taaaah-daaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!"

  “That Sherlock Holmes of winos, the old skid-row supersleuth himself, let's hear it for the boss of the Bourbon Street beat."

  “Taa-daaaaaaaahhhhhhh!"

  “Lovable, intoxicating, Blackjack Eichord, human distillery!"<
br />
  They broke up as Eichord, who had moved behind Dana Tuny, reached over with both hands and gently squeezed the man's prominent chest, which bulged his shirt out to a noticeable degree,

  “Up to about a fifty-two-C now, are we? These are getting ripe."

  “A fifty-four-D-cup actually. Officer,” Dana told him, “and I wish you wouldn't stop. I'm getting kinda hot from that."

  “A teacup?” Lee said incredulously. “Did you say a TEACUP? Hey, that's bullshit. You couldn't fit those baby blimpers into a teacup. You be lucky to squeeze one into a casserole dish."

  “I'll squeeze you into a casserole dish, you little dink handjob. I'll fuck you over so many times you'll think you're the center on a Greek football team. I'll—"

  “Hey, Big D."

  “Eh?"

  “Donna sent you something."

  “No shit?"

  “Yeah. Really, it's starting to bug me a little. I just don't like the way my wife's always thinking about you."

  “Uh. Well, what can I say? She knows a real man when she sees one.” Lee screamed with laughter at that one. “Shaddup ya fuckin’ pickleprong. Whatta YOU know about it?"

  “Yeah,” Eichord continued, “she just can't get you out of her mind. Wanted me to give you a little something. What do you think we got for you? Huh?” He held up the sack the way you might do with a kid.

  “I'm a genius now I know what's inna sack, for shit's sake. What do I look like, Bobbie Fisher?"

  “You look like CARRIE Fisher through the tits there, but what's in the sack? Give up? Maybe something you can put on your desk so we'll all know what you are—eh?” He slipped the sign out and put it on Dana's desk. Lee started screaming hysterically as soon as he read the sign. He fell from his chair to the floor and began pounding it with his fists.

  “Jesus, cheer up,” Dana told him. “It ain't THAT fuckin’ funny."

  “Oh...” He could barely catch his breath he was laughing so hard. “Chunk, my man,” he roared, “oh, yeah, that's perfect—you are a fucking CHOWHOUND!” He went into another fit of screaming laughter.