Who Killed the Fonz?
Page 13
Sauer stopped, looked up. “What is that?” he said. “Lightning?”
There was a light coming in through the window in the wall by the door—a very bright light that was growing steadily brighter as the thunder grew louder, more intense.
Sauer and Sealock looked at each other.
Sealock said, “Check it out.”
Sauer put down the needle, giving Richie a few blessed moments more of life. He spent them trying uselessly to break free.
Sauer went to the front door, opened it. The light burst into the room. It was blinding. Everyone turned their heads from the door. The noise was deafening. And it was not thunder.
Sauer looked back at Sealock. He was scared.
Sauer raised his gun with one hand, used his other hand to shade his eyes. He went through the door and disappeared into the light. It seemed to consume him. The roar cut off. Richie heard Sauer scream. Then a single gunshot. Then there was silence. Nothing but the light.
Sealock sat on the edge of the bed, frozen, watching the door. “Sauer?” he said, hesitant. His voice was suddenly very small. “What do I do?” he whispered to himself. “What do I do?”
Richie’s eyes had adjusted to the light. He could look into it. A figure appeared. The rays of light hit it and shattered on all sides of it. It began moving toward them. It was a person. A single, solitary figure. Richie could not see who it was. The figure walked slowly, staggering toward the room, growing larger and larger with every step.
The figure’s silhouette was unmistakable.
But it made no sense.
Richie’s heart knew better than his mind. It was leaping already before he could understand what he was seeing.
Because the figure emerged, stepping out of the shadows, and they all saw who it was.
The jacket—perfect.
The jeans—perfect.
The hair—perfect.
Maybe he was a little grayed and maybe he walked with a limp, his face grimacing with every step; maybe he wasn’t as thin as he had been as a kid, and maybe his eyes had heavy dark circles under them now and there were cuts on his bearded face—but none of it mattered—he was still how Richie remembered him.
Just like how we all remembered him.
He stepped into the room. He was wincing in pain and clutching his ribs. He took a slow look around. His gaze stopped on Richie. He leaned back. He stuck out his arms, raised his thumbs.
“Ay,” he said.
• • •
SEALOCK STOOD. “IT’S IMPOSSIBLE.”
That’s exactly what it was, Richie was thinking—a miracle. He was laughing through the fabric in his mouth. Eyes shut, whole body shaking with relieved delirium.
Fonzie reached behind himself, into his waistband. He pointed Sauer’s gun at Sealock. He stuck his other hand out and lowered it, and Sealock sat back down. “Park it,” Fonzie said. “I got something to show you.” Keeping the gun on Sealock, he straightened his jacket then went to the bed, to Margo and Richie. He was trying to hide his limp.
He pulled the bandanna out of Margo’s mouth. She was sobbing, laughing through her tears.
He put his hands on the sides of her face and said, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know they had you.” He kissed her. “I would have come right away.” He had the keys to her cuffs—he had taken them off Sauer.
“I know.”
“I would have kicked down the door, I would have never let him touch you. You know that, right? You know that?”
“I know it, Arthur. I know.”
He got her cuffs off, and she put her hands on both sides of his head and kissed him, locked her hands behind his neck, and held him there. Sealock made a noise like a trapped animal. Fonzie opened his eyes and looked at him, but Sealock, eyeing the gun, stayed where he was. Fonzie looked at Richie. Margo let him go. He reached over, plucked the pillowcase out of Richie’s mouth. “Hiya, Red. Nice bracelets. Wanna take them off?” As he moved around the bed to free Richie, he saw Potsie and Ralph on the floor. “What are you two doing down there?” He bent down, took the towels out of their mouths. “You better stay put. Keep you from bungling this any further.”
“I don’t believe this,” Sealock said. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
Fonzie shrugged. “And you’re supposed to be a good guy.” Sealock was standing up again. Fonzie said, raising his voice, “Where do you think you’re going? I said park it.” Sealock sat. “It’s storytime. You don’t want to miss storytime, do you?”
Sealock said nothing. He remained sitting in silence.
Fonzie said, “It was a dark stormy night. Well, maybe not so much stormy as misty, but you get the picture. There I was, riding along on the bridge, minding my own business. Out of nowhere some cop comes up and starts hassling me. No big deal—nothing I ain’t used to. But this time was different. This one didn’t just want to tease me for having a little personality, or bust me for having a mind of my own, oh, no no—this cop wanted to take me out. I knew exactly who was behind it: the creep screwing over my old friends, the jerk bringing pain to the finest woman I’ve ever known. She brought me back to the land of the living and now said creep was trying to knock me back out of it. This cop gives me a bump, I go skidding, I could have recovered, maybe, but it would only delay the inevitable. So I let myself hit the guardrail.” He put his hands over his chest. “It broke my heart seeing my bike go through that. I flew over the handlebars, and made like Greg Louganis. I hit the water perfect. Nary a splash. We’re talking gold medal all the way—unless the Soviet judge screwed me. I let the current take me down the shore a few miles. When I finally got out of the water, I had some minor boo-boos, but nothing a little dab of motor oil here and there couldn’t fix. Then I got straight to work.”
Sealock was shaking his head and saying calmly, “It’s unbelievable.”
Richie said, “How’d you know where to find us tonight?”
“Mary at the front desk. She’s an old girlfriend. She tipped me off. All my old girlfriends have been hiding me, protecting me, keeping me and my secret safe. That’s something you never learned, Sealock. You treat people right, they treat you right in return.”
Margo said, “You said you got to work—got to work how?”
“Avenging my own death. And building my case against this bucket of slime, to make sure he’d never so much as get a look at the governor’s mansion.”
“It’s unbelievable,” Sealock said again. His voice was almost taunting.
“I know it is,” Fonzie said. “People had hope in you.”
“No—what you’re saying, it’s not believable. Whatever you plan to say, whoever you plan to tell, who do you think is going to believe you? You have no confession. You have no evidence at all. It’s your word against mine. You’re nothing. An overgrown juvenile delinquent stuck in his glory days. But me? I’ve got connections in this town.”
Fonzie shrugged and pulled something out of the inside pocket of his jacket. A bundle of documents, folded in half. “Yeah, you’ve got your connections,” he said, “and I’ve got mine.” He peeled one of the documents off the stack and threw it at Sealock. “Like Sheila at First Wisconsin Bank.” He threw another document. “And Monica at Second Wisconsin Bank.” He threw another. “Michelle at Wisconsin Telephone.” He held the last in the air a moment. “Then there’s Ruth at Sackett-Wilhelm. She was especially helpful. A real sweetheart.” He threw the final document at Sealock, who had not moved, did not even look at the paper.
Richie was going around picking them up off the floor. “It’s all here,” he said, sorting through them. “Bank activity. Phone records. Handwritten notes. Office visitor logs. It’s everything we need.”
There came a flurry of sirens outside, far away. They were screaming. Several Milwaukee Police Department cars arrived, jumping the curb into the motel parking lot.
“We have to get out of here,” Richie said. “We don’t know who else Sealock is working with. The cops are in on it! Go!”
Richie said, “Careful, Fonzie, he’s in on it.”
Kirk said, “In on what?”
“Fonzie’s murder.”
“How could I have murdered him? He’s standing right here.”
“Attempted murder then.”
Kirk said, “Son, listen to me and listen closely. I have no pleasures in life but one: arresting, hounding, and otherwise harassing Arthur Fonzarelli. Without him around, I wouldn’t have any pastimes. I’d have to take up stamp collecting. Who wants to do that?”
Fonzie said, “He’s right, Richie. He’s clear. He’s here because I called him.”
Kirk said, “Fonzarelli.”
“Yeah?”
“You have to understand—”
“Sure.”
“There was so much.”
“I know.”
“The governor, the city—this place isn’t what it used to be.”
“You’re telling me.”
“I’m trying to apologize.”
“Forget about it.”
“I blew it on this one. I wasn’t as good as I should have been. There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”
One of the other cops shouted, “Drop it!”
They all turned to him, then to who he was shouting at. In the commotion in that little crowded room, they had all almost forgotten about Sealock. In one hand he held the syringe containing the hot shot that Sauer had been ready to inject into Richie’s bloodstream. His other arm was extended, its sleeve up. He held the syringe with the needle pointed downward, right up against his skin, ready to plunge its contents into himself.
“No, no, no,” Fonzie said quietly, reaching toward him.
Sealock put his thumb on the plunger. Margo cried out.
Before he could do himself in, something on the TV caught his eye, made him stop.
It was a massive empty space—gray, concrete. There was little light. It took a moment to realize there was somebody in that airplane hangar–size room. This man was at the far end of it, heading toward the camera. As he grew closer you started to make out his gray suit, his blue tie. The machinery had been turned off. He was alone. He walked straight ahead, in a perfect line. His strong jaw was set. His eyes were steady, but kind. He was undaunted by the magnitude of the space, the dormant might of the equipment. His wooden soles clapped on the bare stone floor, and that was all you heard.
Then from either side of him, coming from outside the frame, appeared people. They were workers, swarming in, falling in behind him, smiles on their faces, pride. There were a thousand of them. And they kept coming. A multitude of workers that just never stopped. Their safety goggles around their necks, their gloves in their hands. They were all in blue jumpsuits. On the right side of their chest, their name. On the other side, over their heart, their company’s: Sackett-Wilhelm.
The camera remained still. The workers and this man they followed were walking toward it, a procession of cheerful steadfastness. They were secure, behind their leader. Their savior. And all you heard were the footsteps. The steady, unstoppable walking of people marching forward—toward greater things, better days.
They kept coming. It was like they were going to walk right over the camera, trampling it and anything else in their way. Just as the frame would have cut off his head, the leader stopped. The workers stopped with him. Now there was nothing but silence. The leader looked into the camera. He was on the screen and in the room. There were two of them, and they were impossible to reconcile. On the screen Sealock’s eyes twinkled as he looked into the camera, into the room, and said his line:
“Don’t just take it from me.”
A sudden cut to a new camera angle, from high above, showing the entire mass of the gathered workers. It filled the factory. It could have been the crowd at a rock concert. All at once they cried out, “Vote Sealock!” and cheered, waving their hands and arms, ecstatic. And then, also all at once, every machine in that place turned on, roared to life.
The screen went black.
In the room, Sealock dropped the needle. He was shaking his head in admiration and looking at Richie with a big smile. He rose to his feet, clapping. They all watched him. What finally stopped his clapping was Kirk taking his hands by the wrists, twisting them behind his back, and cuffing them. Kirk led him out of the room and put him in the back of a squad car and took him to jail, discarding the wreckage that used to be a hero.
THE WEEKEND COMES
BENNIGAN’S WAS DEAD. THE STAFF lined up at the windows, looking out longingly across the street at the party that had killed it. The only cars in its lot were those that couldn’t find spots at Arnold’s Drive-In. No one was chasing them out. All any of the waiters and bartenders cared about tonight was the clock running out on their shifts so they could rip off their green shirts and go join the party.
The Arnold’s parking lot had not been this crowded since the days when it had been filled with carhops. Even the turnout at Fonzie’s funeral was nothing compared to this. Lieutenant Kirk and his police officers were there directing traffic, politely guiding cars to empty spots. There was not a ticket book to be seen—all parking rules were suspended for the evening, at the behest of the guest of honor. Kirk was happy to oblige him.
From the open window of an arriving car blasted Frank Stallone’s “Far from Over.” In the long, disorderly line clamoring to get inside, a woman who was three-fourths Aqua Net and one-fourth leopard print spandex yelled out, “Far from over is right!” A cheer went up through the crowd.
Because last night, mere days after they thought he was dead, the Lord of Cool had risen again and proven himself immortal.
Some come back for Easter Sunday, others come back for Saturday night.
• • •
INSIDE, THE BAND ON THE riser, men who work, was in the second verse of “Separate Ways” by Journey. Potsie Weber on vocals. Ralph Malph on bass. Each member wore a similar Springsteen-esque ensemble of a flannel shirt with sleeves cut off, and torn blue jeans, and a bandanna around his head. Above the drummer, a Sackett-Wilhelm second-shift assembler, was a banner proclaiming:
FONZIE LIVES!
• • •
THE DANCE FLOOR WAS BEYOND capacity, the air dank with sweat. Margo and Fonzie stood at the outer edges, Fonzie’s arm around his woman, taking in the scene. He was cleaned up and wearing his leather jacket—the only person who could even think about wearing a coat in that steaming hot room—and even so he still had not broken a sweat, not a single strand of his salt-and-pepper hair out of place.
Al snaked through the crowd, emerging from between two gyrating women with his face glowing red from the heat and the exhilaration, delivering plates to a table. He dropped them off, then came over and threw his arms around Fonzie, kissed his cheek.
“How you doing, Al?” said Fonzie.
“How am I doing? Are you kidding me? You’re alive, they’re loving my meatballs, they’re loving my fish! I’m out of chicken parmigiana, I’m out of lasagna—I’m out of my head. What a night! What a night!” He took Fonzie by the arm. Fonzie flinched in pain and pulled it back, but Al didn’t notice. “I never would have made it,” Al said. “I told myself I would have found a way. We accept things. You know? We get used to them. But now? Looking at it? It would have been horrible, Fonzie. Horrible. It would not have worked. Not for any of us. We need you on this earth. So please, stay on it, will you?”
There were kids there who must have been from the colleges. Marquette, or UW–Milwaukee. A group of them pushed through, getting between Al and Fonzie. Al had more food to run, so he waved at Fonzie and said he would see him around.
“Wow,” one of the kids said, looking around, “this place is the real thing. Why have
n’t we ever come here before? What were we doing going to Bennigan’s all this time?”
“From now on,” another one said, “we party at Arnold’s.”
A chant rose up from the dance floor. Clapping and stomping. They were all looking at Fonzie. He waved them off.
Margo said to the Fonz, “What are they saying?” She listened. “Call sick? What’s call sick?”
The Fonz said, “No, baby. Not call sick.” He took a step forward. “They want the Cossack.” Before she could ask what the Cossack was, he took off his jacket, handed it to her. He stepped onto the dance floor and was greeted by rapture. They cleared space for him. The band was drawing out the break, giving him a good groove to work with. He started off modestly, but as the pace of the music picked up, so did his flailing, his kicks and heel clicks. He gained momentum. Squatting down to the ground and springing up onto his heels, his arms and feet bursting forward and out. Then arms crossed, high-step kicking from a squat. The crowd clapped along, stomped their feet. They could not believe he still had it in him.
Twenty years ago he first executed the dance, right here on this very dance floor. It was a dance-a-thon. Richie’s little sister, Joanie, was his partner. She wanted nothing in the world but to win, and Fonzie had promised to help her. He had been exhausted after fourteen hours of dancing. Then, like now, he was injured from a motorcycle accident. It seemed to be his fate to suffer for his passions then dance after. He seemed to be done. Could hardly stand up. He lost consciousness. The paramedics on-site were carrying him out on a stretcher. But Joanie knew what everyone knew, which is that the Fonz is never out. She stopped the stretcher and whispered into his ear: “If you don’t get off that thing and keep dancing, I’m giving you a crew cut in your sleep.” The threat to his hair was motivation enough. He was born again. He found the strength somewhere to climb off the stretcher and exhibit an impossible surge of crazed dancing to win it all. Somehow he danced harder, better, after he had seemed down for good. It was the same tonight—even his younger self would not have stood a chance against him now.