The Canal

by Daniel Morris

  The other guys were either out or still hadn't come on shift. Joe made a point not to look at Alan's desk as he passed -- the color-coordinated pens and prominently labeled "IN" and "OUT" trays were an affront. The lights in the Lieutenants office were on. Joe stuck his head inside.

  Lieutenant Kozar sat at his typewriter, pecking at keys with one finger. Despite his hair having gone white over the years and the expanding gut, Kozar was essentially the same man Joe had first met decades ago. Same buzz cut, same ensemble of dark tie, dark slacks, white collared shirt. Every lunch was a ham and cheese sandwich with an apple and a grape soda. A man immune to fashion, taste, or variety.

  Kozar didn't look up. "I sensed you were coming. A certain whiff in the air." He glanced at his watch, then stared closely at Joe. "It's early. I'm stunned, quite frankly. And here..." Kozar ran a finger down his face. "You got something."

  Joe rubbed his cheek. A crust, human in nature. A lot of it. Kozar handed him a tissue.

  "Jesus Joe, you don't look so hot. Compared to your usual regrettable state."

  "Had a rough night. Think I caught some bad deli. Some real rogue meat."

  "Those fucking deli's," mused Kozar. "They don't respect the mayo. Condiment fucking TNT."

  Joe perched on a corner of Kozar's desk. He was listing terribly. But that's how it went sometimes.

  "Listen Lieutenant. We gotta talk."

  "Buddy, you don't know half."

  "...How's that?"

  "Let's just say that you picked a hell of a day to show up on time." Kozar frowned. He pulled the paper from his typewriter and handed it over. Joe blearily focused. It was a vacation requisition form, filled out to Kozar's name. Starting today. End date unspecified. In the top margin, Kozar had typed:

  Dear all you downtown pricks,

  Go F yourselves.

  "I don't get it."

  "They've assigned a guy, Joe." Kozar snatched the form back. "Those HQ assholes are asking me to sit this one out. After all the bullshit I been through, with all the years I got under my belt, they decided to go and let some other guy into my shop."

  Joe detected something new here. Something that wasn't a part of Kozar's standard emotional repertoire.

  "This case makes front page and all of a sudden Downtown wants to call the shots. They said it's the Mayor's call. The Mayor's got a guy, they said. A specialist they said." Kozar held up the form again. "Well F them!"

  It was the indignation. The ire. It came off as rather unpracticed, a little bit amateurish. Sort of wild, sort of panicked, but ultimately unsure. And all the more disconcerting because Kozar was a man who was always sure. They weren't in ham and cheese territory anymore. This was more like uncharted ethnic. Saigon take-out. Kabob city.

  "I already talked it over with Marjorie," said Kozar. "We made plans. I'm takin' a vacation, and when this whole thing turns to hell, well, they can come on hand and knee and beg me to come back. And you know what I'm gonna say? I'm gonna say that they're a bunch of disrespecting, low-life--"

  "Easy, Lieutenant," Joe said. "Don't do anything you're gonna regret."

  "Oh. OH. Thank you Mr. Wise Buddha. Thank you for coming all they way down your holy mountain just to drop that shit in my lap. How could I have ever done this without you?

  "Listen Joe, lest you forget -- I'm the only rabbi you've got. So that means this is your problem too. Because I'm the one running interference every time guys start asking too many questions. I'm the one who's watching your back. So don't you, of all people, tell me to take it easy."

  Kozar then sat back in his chair and sighed. He rubbed his eyes. He seemed to rethink things. "I'm sorry Joe. You know what I mean. I'm...I'm outside of myself here." He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and handed one to Joe. Kozar lit them both.

  "Forget it," said Joe.

  "Yeah." Kozar studied him as he smoked. "Question. What was it you said earlier?"

  "What?"

  "You said you wanted to talk. Isn't that what you said? Talk about what?" Kozar lowered his voice. "Something with last night?"

  "It was nothing."

  "Did everything...you know. Your usual thing..."

  "I did what I could."

  "And?"

  "By the book."

  "Well, that's not saying much. Ain't a book I'd particularly care to read. But this thing, then. If I'm gone, you can put this thing to bed right? Just make it go away, like always?"

  "Like always."

  "And if there was something more to tell me, you'd say so, right?"

  "I'm gonna say don't worry about it. I'm gonna say get out of town while you still can--"

  The phone rang. "Sorry," said Kozar. He answered, listened, hung up.

  "He's coming," he said quietly.

  "...The specialist?"

  "Yeah. Some hotshot. Supposed up-and-comer. He had some big case, some big arrest. The Knuckler, was it? Or maybe The Grizzler. Hell if I know. The goddamn papers, naming all these creeps. It was some serial sleazebag or other, that's all I can figure."

  "The Grizzler, was that the guy with the drill?"

  "No, no you're thinking of The Dejugulator."

  "The Dejugulator... I thought that was the guy with the meat hooks."

  "Oh hell, maybe. If that's the case, then I don't remember a drill guy. I remember The East River Masher. And I vaguely remember there being a Night Tickler. But the rest... Jesus, maybe we're just out of touch, us guys. Maybe it really is time for a vacation, a long, unending one. I mean look how far D'Angelo's come. What does he need us for? That kid could do the job in his sleep."

  "He should be less smug."

  "Well, when you're hungry, it helps to be a prick."

  And with that came the voice of the very man himself. "Lieutenant..." Alan coming through the office. As if summoned by the mere mention of his name.

  He wafted into Kozar's room. Joe couldn't help but note all the bright cotton and buttons, and the man's malaise of hygiene.

  "Lieutenant," he sang out, "We've got someone--"

  Alan looked at Joe. Alan's face did a slow collapse.

  "Joe."

  "Alan."

  "Little early in the day for you, isn't it?"

  "Couldn't help myself," said Joe. "What with the good news and all. Who'd we get?"

  Alan paused. "No one. I was saying we've got someone...analyzing. We had some evidence on the body."

  "Oh good. Good work. You'll get a medal, I'm sure." Joe looked at Kozar. "We done?"

  "You tell me."

  "You still taking that vacation?"

  "That's cast in stone as far as I'm concerned. The desert. Dry. Flat. Cheap. Maybe you should come. There'll be room in the car."

  "Vacation?" asked Alan.

  Joe knocked on Kozar's desk. "Take us some pictures." He didn't look at Alan as he left, or at Kozar. Behind him he heard Alan again, a little more alarmed this time.

  "What do you mean, a vacation?"

  *

  It was the stench of Alan's cologne that betrayed him -- a subtle hint of pretension, lingering in the air, eau de misguided asshole. It led Joe across the hall, where it disappeared behind a door. Joe placed his hands upon this door, like a faith healer, feeling the vibrations within. The interrogation rooms were in there. No voices that Joe could hear, but he sensed movement. He and Alan, sure, they had had their problems. But this was the first time Alan had tried brazenly hiding something from him.

  Joe hastily shoved his way inside, where he spun around, ready for anything, waiting for the big A-HA!

  "Josie?" Womack, stirring a coffee. Mildly surprised. "Not the person I was most expecting to see."

  Joe ignored him. Womack was generally benign, but like everyone else in this building -- with the exception of Kozar -- he was ultimately just one more person for Joe to wearily avoid.

  One of the interrogation rooms was nothing but storage for old files and furniture. There was also a cot for naps. Joe had slept there often. Night or day. O
n duty or not. Whenever the mood struck.

  In the other room though, a woman was slumped over the table, face hidden in her arms. Joe peered through the large, one-way mirror.

  "Alan told me," said Joe, pointing inside. "Said you'd fill me in."

  Womack stopped mid-sip. "Oh really."

  "Really."

  Womack smiled knowingly. "Look, Joe. Let me, if I may, speak freely -- why not let the kid have this one, huh? Just this once. It'll be like...like a button in his cap."

  "You saying to let Alan work this case?"

  "Yeah. Suggesting it. Just making mention."

  "Let me ask you something. Why in the hell would anyone want to spend a single minute more near that goddamn canal? Because nobody deserves that place. Not even guys like Alan who think they know better."

  "I-I'm just saying."

  Joe leaned in. "Why don't you make this easy and just tell me what's going on? Because I'm gonna find out in the end, one way or the other."

  "Heyyy." Womack lifted his hands in surrender. "I didn't mean anything by it. We're all amigos here, Joe. Amigos."

  "Then talk."

  Womack shrugged. "No problem, sure. Not much to it. We were hoping she saw something, that's all."

  "Saw what? The murder? The body? What?"

  "Ah, dunno at the moment. Look at her; she's ten sheets to the wind. But a coupla guys caught her mumbling about the canal and something about the bridge."

  "How'd you find her? She call in a report?"

  "Nah, found her on the side of the river."

  Joe tensed. "...Is she sick?"

  "I ain't about to take her temperature, if you know what I mean."

  Joe looked in at the woman again. Closer this time.

  True story. If you fell in the canal -- you died. This was documented. Well, most people died. It depended on how healthy you were. The problem was the ensuing infections. The bacteria in that water was potent enough to kill. Although survival wasn't really that much of a prize either. What went in the canal was never the same coming out. Like Joe. He'd gone in. He'd gone in deep. He also hadn't done it alone -- he knew a woman once, his wife. She went in too. Although by now, she was probably his ex-wife. A woman he hadn't seen or talked to in 20 years. The same woman who was inside that room now.

  "You need to leave," said Joe.

  "This is...this is a joke?"

  Joe felt his face go hot. He took a pot of coffee from the machine. He pulled back his arm, everything in him wound tight, and he prepared to throw.

  "Leave," he said, quietly.

  Womack did as he was told.

  >> CHAPTER FIVE <<

  Who the hell went on vacation? Where the hell was even worth going? Except maybe those domes Alan had read about. Those biosphere experiments where everything was under glass, everything filtered and climate-controlled. But at a time like this? When so much was at stake?

  Kozar didn't understand. There could be no change in leadership and there could be no change in Alan's plan. "Unacceptable," is what Alan had said. Kozar had laughed uncomfortably. "Unacceptable," Alan repeated. Didn't this man see? The importance?

  Alan respected Kozar. But when it came to Joe, he was as hypnotized by the detective's inept mystique as everyone else. But it was even worse with Kozar -- he didn't just condone Joe's behavior, he authorized it. Incomprehensible. Up was down. Left was right. Rationality was out the fucking window. Goddamn Joe -- clouder of men's minds, sower of sorrows. Alan had to make everyone see, he had to prove to them all what a humiliation the guy truly was.

  And then Kozar had the nerve to say to ask: "There is one favor you can do for me, Alan. Would you keep an eye on Joe?"

  Oh, don't worry. No need to even bring it up. Alan would have an eye on Joe, alright. A constant eye, an all-seeing eye, unsleeping, unblinking, there is nothing Joe could do that Alan wouldn't see. He'd see through the man, into the man, beyond him, in all dimensions simultaneously, cubist. Alan would be hiding in Joe's shadow, peeking over his shoulder, rifling through his pockets, analyzing his every tic and stutter until he knew more about Joe than Joe knew about himself, until he could read Joe's future, until he was inside Joe's own brain, intercepting his thoughts, stealing his secrets.

  So yeah, Alan would keep an eye out. And while he was at it, he'd zero in on this new guy, this supposed specialist, he'd let him know what was what. The guy had better be the type to play ball, he better fit the plan, because if he didn't, well, Alan couldn't even conceive of that right now. There was no wasn't. Is no isn't. Couldn't be a didn't. There was no alternate option.

  Which was why Alan was at the precinct's back entrance. He was gonna meet this guy. He was gonna meet the shit out of him.

  Kozar had gotten a call informing him that this man, this Lieutenant Bleecker, would be downstairs in five minutes. And now, exactly five minutes later, an unmarked cruiser drove into the lot and stopped in front of Alan. Alan had been keeping time with his watch, and he had to admit, he was at least impressed by the punctuality. But if this guy thought he was going to change the program, well...

  The driver got out, a cop in full dress, wearing white gloves even, and circled the car with stiff precision, opening the back door.

  That was when Alan saw the hand.

  It reached out, over the top of the door. And those nails, well, they were manicured. Manicured. Glazed to perfection, like they were under plastic, and they sparkled. The cuticles were in strict alignment. Alan swore he could see his own reflection in each nail.

  As for the rest of the man who emerged from the car -- he was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Not a wrinkle, not an audacious wart or mole, not a unibrow, not a rumple, not an unintended bulge to be found. His suit was flat and unmovable, vindictively starched. It was as if he'd stepped brand-new from the factory, or pristine from a hyperbaric chamber.

  "Detective D'Angelo?" the man asked.

  "Yes, sir." Was Alan's voice trembling? It was weak-knee'd with sudden admiration, turning fey, had the vapors. They shook hands. Bleecker's mitts were so pampered that Alan felt honored to be touching them, to be handling such art.

  Bleecker held up a folder. "I was just going over last night's reports. Your reports. You're very thorough, Detective. Meticulous too. And precise."

  "Thank you, sir," said Alan, stunned to be hearing these words, witnessing this miracle.

  There was silence. Bleecker looked up at the station, then looked back down at Alan. "...And you are now officially wasting my fucking time. Let's get going, Detective."

  Alan hurried him inside, while Bleecker talked.

  "HQ has very high expectations. And I'm one to deliver on those expectations. The jails in this state are filled to brimming with a bunch of criminal dickheads that I put there. And I'll tell you what, I put in a few calls and I've already got a chilly cement box waiting for our latest and greatest sick-in-the-head murderer. And maybe the papers ain't given him a name yet, but they will, Alan, they always do. The Sultan of Skin, or The Earl of Epidermis, those will be my own personal recommendations."

  "Those are excellent choices, sir."

  "I know they are, Alan, I know they are. Now, please -- I gotta stand on the steps of this building and speak to the press at a quarter of. So please tell me we've done more than stand around with our thumbs so far up our assholes that we're tickling our throats."

  "Well sir, the investigation at the scene is continuing, and I will personally be attending the autopsy later this morning. Furthermore, we do have a potential witness who I'd like to begin questioning immediately."

  "Good. Except why weren't you telling me this three-point-two minutes ago, D'Angelo--"

  "Alan! Hey, Alan!" Womack was stumbling down the stairs, like some big, somersaulting tractor tire.

  "Who the hell is this?" asked Bleecker.

  "My name's Detective Wom--"

  "Do I need to know you?" Bleecker demanded, examining him.

  "Well, if--"

  "I don't," Bleecke
r decided. He switched beads back to Alan. "Lombardi, I want to meet Lombardi. Get me fucking Lombardi!"

  "Ah, that's what I was trying to tell Alan, here," said Womack. "Joe is with our, uh, witness, broad, lady--"

  Bleecker just started walking. He didn't even know where he was going. Or maybe he did? Or maybe it didn't matter? Maybe wherever he went, that's where he was meant to be? The man was an inspiration.

  Womack quickly whispered to Alan, "You need to get upstairs, buddy, and fast. Joe just came unglued."

  *

  It was the woman who bought her Christmas presents far in advance of December. Joe was sitting beside her, so close their knees touched. He fumbled a cigarette out of his pocket and smoked, sucking on it for dear life.

  He had sat for a while, just looking at her. Years of harsh living had extracted a price -- her hair was pillowed with dreads, the lines of her face went deep, like canyon crevices. She looked half-erased, sun-faded.

  He felt cold, even in the greenhouse of his jacket. Hadn't he suffered enough? Hadn't she? And last night, his dream... It was as if time were turning back on itself. All the old long ago's that he'd manage to bury, crawling once more to the surface.

  Joe brought his hand down hard on the table. Wap!

  There was barely a reaction. He hit the table again. Wap!

  "Are you hearing me?" said Joe.

  Without thinking, he took her face in his hands. Holding her was strange, and he felt ashamed to be doing it, as if he were intruding. She had changed too much. He had changed too much. The years had drained them of any familiar substance, reducing them each to parody, to half-drawn, unrecognizable caricature.

  "You need to listen to me," he rasped. Her skin was overly warm to the touch.

  Rose's eyes stuttered open but their focus was vague, inward. She mumbled something. It sounded like language but he couldn't be sure.