Part 26 (1/2)

Viv flicked some tobacco off her tongue. ”That's a craven response, and it's what you should have said first.”

Vindictive Viv.

I tamped my temper down. I made a neutral and nut-neutered statement. ”I didn't have a choice. The LAPD was squeezing me.”

Viv laughed. ”You had a choice. Your options were suicide or direct action.”

I laughed. Viv laughed. It was s.h.i.+tty laughless laughter.

”You blew your most immediate options and your chance to father my child. I suspect that you'll blow whatever else comes your way.”

I popped a few tears. Wicked words and garlic fumes sucked them out of me. A waiter walked up. Viv waved him away.

”You never returned my car, d.i.c.k.”

I shrugged.

”I found another handsome Italian man to impregnate me. He's much more famous than you, and I'm sure that he has a larger p.e.n.i.s.”

I said, ”Who?”

Viv said, ”Dean Martin.”

I dropped my cross. It hit the floor. It made a wop! sound.

I said, ”f.u.c.k Dino. He moves Mob money to the Vatican.”

”Yes, and my husband was a h.o.m.os.e.xual. If you're trying to shock me or t.i.tillate me, you're employing the wrong tactics.”

I wiped my eyes. I wiped my nose. Viv tossed me her napkin.

”Tell me what you want, d.i.c.k. I'm meeting Dean at Chasen's, and I don't want to be late.”

I blew my beak on white linen. ”I want direct action, and I need to talk to Sheriff Biscailuz.”

Viv stood up. ”I'll arrange it in the spirit of what we could have had.”

I smelled her perfume. I recognized it. Joi said she wore it to funerals.

Matchabelli's Mourning Madness.

Viv said, ”Wash my car before you return it.”

9.

I walked in on the Sheriff's arm. Chief Parker almost s.h.i.+t on his living-room floor.

I said, ”What's shakin', Daddy-O?”

Daddy-O went raging red and pulmonary purple. His veins bulged blue and vibrated violet.

The Sheriff sat him down in front of his TV set. He drilled me with Draculean eyes and hexed me from the heart. I knew he couldn't talk. I knew a catatonic cat captured his tongue.

I shut the door. I said, ”Nice pad, baby doll. Those plaid drapes and that wall flag are so you.”

Parker sputtered and spit split syllables. His tortured tongue and paralyzed palate could not connect.

The Sheriff said, ”This won't be fun, Bill. But I can promise you we won't prolong things.”

I grabbed a spot by the TV set. The Sheriff stood beside me. Parker sat two feet behind us.

I checked my watch. I counted down. The TV blipped on, black-magic-style.

Jack Webb in close-up. Duh-duh-duh-duh/duh-duh-duh-duhduuuuh--the Dragnet theme on the sound track. Jack's toking a big stick of tea. He's giggling and goofing on his craaaaazy existence.

He says, ”My name's Friday. I carry a badge. I use it to coerce hookers into b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs. My name used to be Webb, but I got lucky and met this tight-a.s.sed chump Bill Parker, who got laid once in 1924, decided he preferred power to p.u.s.s.y, and took over the Los Angeles Police Department. Duh-duh-duh-duh!”

I turned around. I looked at Parker. I couldn't count the colors he turned.

Jack says, ”Bill hitched his badge to me, or maybe it's the other way around, but who gives a s.h.i.+t when you're making all this money? And if you think Dragnet is all that I'm talking about, you're wrong, 'cause we've got some biiiiiiiiig plans with a Cuban guy names Batista--off-the-record, on the q.t., and very hushhush, and Bill's the number one cop in America, not that f.a.ggot Gay Edgar Hoover, and boy do we have some dirt to f.u.c.k him with if he ever gets uppity! Duh-duh-duh-duh. Duh-duh-duhduh-duuuh!”

I turned around. I looked at Parker. I couldn't peg all the pastel pallors he pa.s.sed through.

Jack Webb laughed. A man laughed offscreen. It sounded like Fred O. Jack Webb flipped out a fat middle finger.

”Hey, Bill, f.u.c.k you! This is for that time you humiliated me at the Jonathan Club, you frigid c.o.c.ksucker! Hey, Bill, your mother f.u.c.ks the mule down in Tj.! Hey, Bill, you better be nice to me or I'll tell Mayor Bowron your boys set him up with that Filipino wh.o.r.e! Hey, Bill--”

I heard a shot. The TV screen imploded. Gla.s.s blew out the back of the set and took out the window behind it.

Diodes decomposed. Wires whipped and wiggled. The console cracked and popped into pieces.

I turned around. I looked at Parker. I kicked the gun out of his hand.

The Sheriff said, ”No slaves. No work farms and no debtors' prisons. No reprisals on Contino, Levant, or their families. No shakedowns on my men and no more attempts to steal money off my budget.”

Parker couldn't talk. The catatonic cat had his tongue. The Sheriff said, ”We're hooked into J. Edgar Hoover and Mayor Bowron's set, and 8,ooo random sets in Los Angeles. Nod to signal your compliance.”

Parker nervously-nellingly nodded and turned six sheets of seraphim white.

The TV debris ignited. It sparked and sputtered and metamorphosed into a mushroom cloud.

I drove back to Harvey's repair shop. I found the whole block leveled and torched to a trash-heap h.e.l.l.

Fire trucks. Rubberneckers. Cop cars.

Soot. Smoke. Ash-afflicted air. A wiped-out wasteland with a single scorched skeleton standing.