Part 42 (2/2)
”You sure don't volunteer much,” the Kid said.
”It was kind of a personal thing,” I said. ”I used to know t.i.tan, a long time ago.”
”Oh.”
”How come you showed up out here?” I asked.
”It was Dutch's idea for Zapata to come out. He said you get in trouble when you're out alone. I was following Graves.”
”Very astute of Dutch.”
”No sweat. Is it any of my business what the f.u.c.k you were doin' out here?”
”O'Brian's b.u.t.ton is running scared. He wants an escort out of town. ”
”Did he give up anything for it?”
I laughed. ”I'm not really sure,” I said. ”According to him it's just one big happy family out there.”
”You believe that?” the Kid asked.
”Sure. I also believe in the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny.”
”Must burn your a.s.s, puttin' in all that work on this bunch and they get wasted all over the place.”
”I don't like murder,” I said, ”no matter who the victims are.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said: ”My stepfather told me once, you take two violins which are perfectly tuned, okay, and you play one, the other one also plays.”
”No kidding,” I said, wondering what in h.e.l.l violins had to do with anything.
”The old fart was full of caca,” the Kid went on, ”but he played the violin. Not good, but he at least played the f.u.c.kin' thing. I couldn't do it, man. Me and the violin, it was war at first sight. Anyways, I figure he's probably right on that score.”
”Uh-huh,” I said, wondering what he was leading up to. Then he told me.
”He only told me one other thing in my whole life that I remember, and that didn't make any sense to me at the time. s.h.i.+t, I was just a kid; it was later on I figured it out, what he meant, I mean. Anyways, what it was, I was p.i.s.sed off, see, because my best friend at the time din't always see things exactly the way I did. The old man says, 'Trouble with you, Fry'-he called me Fry 'cause I was small as a kid; that always p.i.s.sed me off too-'trouble with you, Fry, you think everybody sees things the same as you.' Then he reaches down, scratches his ankle. 'My foot itches. That's reality to me. Yours don't. That's reality to you.' That's it; he goes back to the sports page.
”So, y'know, I'm maybe eight, nine, at the time, what do I know from reality and itching feet. I figure the old man's temporarily unwired. Twenty years later I'm after this creep in the French Quarter, a three-time loser facing a felony; I get him, he's down for the full clock, right? Son of a b.i.t.c.h is always one step a-f.u.c.kin'-way, I can't quite lay my hand on him. I'm thinkin' I know this guy better than anybody, why can't I nail his a.s.s? Then one night I remember what the old fart told me. What I come to realize is that maybe I know this guy's MO, front and back, but I'm not thinking like him, instead I'm thinking like me thinking like him, see what I mean?”
”So did you catch him?” I asked.
”I would have but the dumb son of a b.i.t.c.h shot himself cleaning his .38. Really burned my a.s.s. But I would've had him. So what I been tryin' to do, see, I been thinking like whoever's icing all these people here.”
”And what've you come up with?”
”Not a f.u.c.kin' thing,” he said.
I sighed. For a moment I thought the Kid had come up with something important. But he wasn't finished yet. ”I don't know the why, see,” he went on. ”If I had a handle on the why, I would nail his a.s.s. Or hers. Y'know, it could be a fancy, ever think of that?”
”Well,” I said, rather pompously, ”once we establish motive-”
He cut me off. ”We're not talkin' motive, man. We're not talkin' about motive, we're talkin' about where that f.u.c.ker's head's at. Why he's doin' it. Y'see, life ain't logical. That's the myth. Truth is, nothing is real, it's all what we make it out to be. It's the same thing-when his foot itches and we scratch ours, that's when we nail his a.s.s.”
”Okay,” I said, ”if my foot starts itching I'll let you know.”
He chuckled. ”Think about it,” he said.
”And thanks for the backup.”
”It's what it's all about,” he said.
Five minutes down the road my headlights picked up Zapata. The pickup was idling on the shoulder and he was waving at us with a light. I pulled over.
”Kid, you know where South Longbeach Park is, down at the end of Oceanby?”
”No.”
”Then follow me. Don't drag a.s.s.”
”What the h.e.l.l's going on?” I yelled at him as he crawled back into the pickup.
”There's been a ma.s.sacre out there,” he yelled back, and roared out onto the highway in front of me. He had a red light on the roof and a siren screaming under the hood. I haven't driven like that since I was in high school. Most of the time I was just hanging on to the steering wheel.
It took us thirty minutes to get to South Longbeach. We came in behind the theater, a grim and foreboding specter in the darkness, even knowing as little as we did.
This one had drawn the biggest crowd yet, at least a dozen cop cars, red and blue lights flas.h.i.+ng everywhere.
The bra.s.s b.u.t.tons were in a semicircle about fifty yards in diameter around the front of the theater. n.o.body got inside the circle, including them. Several men from homicide were stretching a yellow crime scene banner around the perimeter of the movie house and car.
Nick Salvatore, smoking a cherry cigar, was sitting on the fender of his car, looking as sad as a ba.s.set hound. Dutch was sitting sideways on the front seat of his car, his legs stretched out into the street.
”It's funny,” he said, to n.o.body at all. Then he looked around and said, ”Is this whole thing getting funny to anybody else or is it just me?”
”What the h.e.l.l happened?” I asked.
”Somebody tried to top the Saint Valentine's Day Ma.s.sacre,” Dutch said.
”Right in front of my f.u.c.kin' eyes,” Salvatore said, shaking his head.
Dutch was shaking his head too. ”The last four days, that's a year's work for the geniuses in homicide. If we're real lucky, they might turn up a clue by the next census.”
”Who is it this time?” I asked.
”The family man,” said Dutch. ”That's what I remember you saying about him. A big family man.”
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