Part 21 (1/2)

”That's sick,” I said.

”You know what we oughta do, buddy? When this fiasco is all over we ought to take a month's leave, go down to the Keys. I got a couple of buddies live down there, sit around all day smoking dope and eating shrimp. That's the f.u.c.kin' life. Or maybe get the h.e.l.l out of the country, hit the islands, Aruba, one of those. Sit around soaking up rays, getting laid, forget all this s.h.i.+t.”

”Wouldn't that be nice?” I said.

”We'll do it,” he said, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, and then he said suddenly, ”Hey, you married?”

”No, are you?”

”h.e.l.l no. What woman in her right mind would spend more than a weekend at the Holiday f.u.c.kin' Inn.”

”That's where you're staying, the Holiday Inn?”

”Yeah. It's kind of like home, y'know. They're all exactly alike, no matter where you are. If you get one of the inside rooms overlooking the pool, the view doesn't even change.”

”I had this little bas.e.m.e.nt apartment when I was in Cincy,” I said. ”I took it by the month because I didn't think I'd be there that long. There weren't even any pictures on the wall. Finally I went out and bought some used books and a couple of cheap prints to try and doll the place up but it didn't work. It always seemed like I was visiting somebody else when I came home.”

”Yeah, I know,” he said. ”It's been like that since Nam. We're disconnected. ”

That was the perfect word for it. Disconnected. For years I had worked with other partners but always at arm's length, like two people b.u.mping each other in a crowd. I didn't know whether they were married, divorced; whether they had kids or hobbies. All I knew was whether they were good or bad cops and that we all suffered from the same anger, frustration, boredom, and loneliness.

”Don't you ever wonder why in h.e.l.l you picked this lousy job?” I asked him.

”That's your trouble right there, Jake, you think too much. You get in trouble when you think too much.”

”No s.h.i.+t?”

”No s.h.i.+t. Thinking can get you killed. You didn't make it through Nam thinking about it. n.o.body did. The thinkers are still over there, doing their thinking on Boot Hill.”

There was a lot of truth in what he said. I was thinking too much. There was this thing about Cisco telling me to forget murder unless it was relevant. That bothered me. h.e.l.l, I was a cop and murder is murder, and part of the job, like it or not, is to keep people alive, like them or not, and keeping them alive meant finding the killer, no matter what Cisco said. It was all part of the territory. And there was the lie about Teddy which I hadn't thought about for years, because I had stuffed it down deep, along with the rest of my memories. I had walked away from the past, or thought I had. I had even stopped dreaming, though dreams are an occupational hazard for anyone who has seen combat. Now the dreams had started again. You can't escape dreams. They sneak up on you in the quiet of the night, shadow and smoke, reminding you of what has been. You don't dream about the war, you dream about things that are far worse. You dream about what might have been.

”h.e.l.l, it's very complicated, Stick,” I said finally. ”I don't think I've got it sorted out enough to talk about. Sometimes I feel like I'm juggling with more b.a.l.l.s than I can handle.”

”Then throw a couple away.”

”I don't know which ones to throw.”

”That's what life's all about,” he said. ”A process of elimination.”

”I thought I had it all worked out before I got here,” I said. ”It was very simple. Very uncomplicated.”

”That's the trap,” he replied. ”Didn't Nam teach you anything, Jake? Life is full of incoming mail. You get comfortable, you get dead.”

”That's what it's all about, Alfie?”

”Sure. It's also the answer to your question. We're cops because we have to keep ducking the incoming. That's what keeps us alive.”

Finally I said, ”Yeah, that's what we'll do, go down to the islands, lay out, and forget it all.”

”That's all that's bugging you, a little cabin fever then?”

”Right.”

He flashed that crazy smile again.

”I don't believe that for a f.u.c.kin' minute,” he said as he cranked up the Black Maria.

23.

HEY, MR. BATMAN.

Cowboy Lewis was waiting in the Warehouse when we got back. The big, rawboned man was sitting at a desk, laboriously hunting and pecking out a report on a form supplied by the department. He didn't worry about the little lines or how many there were. He typed over them, under them, through them, and past them. Getting it down, that was his objective. There were a lot of words x'd out and in one or two places he had forgotten to hit the s.p.a.cer, but I had to give him A for effort. At least he was doing it. His face lit up like the aurora borealis when he saw me.

”Hey, I was writing you a memo,” he said, ripping it out of the Selectomatic in midword. ”I'll just tell you.”

I looked at the partially completed report and told him that would be just fine. The thought occurred to me that I could sign it myself and send it to Cisco. That would probably end his b.i.t.c.hing about my reports, or lack thereof, forever.

”Salvatore says you're interested in that little weed, uh . . . ” He paused, stymied temporarily because he had forgotten the name.

”Cohen?” I helped.

”Yeah. Little four-eyed wimp, got his head on a swivel?” he said, twisting his head furiously back and forth to ill.u.s.trate what he meant.

”That's him,” I replied. ”Unless times have changed, he's the bagman for the outfit.”

”Yeah,” he said, which was his way of agreeing. ”Carries one of those old-timey doctor's bags, black. Hangs on to that sucker like he's got the family jewels in there.”

”That's about what it is,” said Stick, ”the family jewels.”

”I shadowed him three days-Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, last week-and got him cold.” Lewis took out a small black notebook. ”He stays real busy in the morning. Moves around a lot. Goes to the bank every day at two o'clock, just as it closes.”

”Every day?” I asked.

”All three days he went to the bank there on the river.” He nodded.

”This activity in the morning-does he always go to the same places?” Stick asked.

Lewis shook his head. ”He's all over town. But he always seems to wind up on the Strip around noon. Leastwise he did these three days. ”

”Where does he bank?” I queried.

”Seacoast National, down there by the river like I said. Although sometimes he makes deposits at the branches.”

The good-news worm nibbled at my stomach. That was Charles Seaborn's homeplate.

”Cash deposits?” I asked.