It should be said, however, that Manny remains confident that when Vikström pointed to the window and shouted, “Who’s that?” the sidewalk was in fact empty and that Jack Sprat appeared only after Vikström jumped to his feet. Threaten Manny with splinters of bamboo shoved under his fingernails and he’ll still swear the whole business is a trick. This is a problem with Manny: in the struggle between belief and reason, belief often wins, no matter what the evidence may be.
Vikström holds Jack Sprat by the collar of his red coat. “Why’d you run?” he asks with the growl he uses only for police business.
“You were fuckin’ chasing me!” Jack Sprat struggles to break free, but Vikström holds fast.
“I didn’t chase you till you started to run.”
“The fuck you say!”
“Why should I run after you if you weren’t running yourself?”
“Beats me, but I bet you got some phony cop excuse!”
We may see in this exchange Jack Sprat’s own liking for belief over reason, and though Vikström can’t see it, Manny’s nodding in agreement. The detectives had looked for Jack Sprat late the previous day and twice dropped by Caroline Santuzza’s house, but no way would she squeal on her brother. Vikström recalls that Jack Sprat’s real name is Giovanni Lambertenghi, but Manny has forgotten.
Manny pushes forward, elbowing his partner out of the way. “Cut the jokes, Benny!” He turns to Jack Sprat. “Where’s Fat Bob?”
The small man stares at Manny’s black eye, which glistens in the sunlight. “On his way to hell for all I know. And don’t expect me to bring fuckin’ flowers to his funeral.”
“You gonna send him there?” asks Manny quickly.
“I should be so lucky. I told you, I don’t know where he is.”
Vikström now nudges his partner aside and again takes hold of Jack Sprat’s coat. “Why do you think Fat Bob killed Marco?”
Jack Sprat spits on the sidewalk, a silver gob that moves at the speed of a slow bullet. “Bob owed Marco a lot of money. Marco wanted Bob to give him one of his Fat Bobs, but Bob said he didn’t have the title, so Marco could use it for free.”
“Who’s got the title?” asks Vikström.
“Angelina’s got it, and for other bikes as well. And she’s got the title for his house. Marco told me Fat Bob was afraid the bank would seize his shit, so he put it all in Angelina’s name.”
“And you still plan to kill him?” asks Vikström.
“Nah, I got over it.” Jack Sprat looks down at the sidewalk.
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure,” says Jack Sprat, grinning.
This goes back and forth till Manny asks Jack Sprat what he’s doing on Bank Street. Sprat says he plans to get breakfast at a diner down the street. Why there rather than elsewhere? It’s cheaper; the waitress is a personal friend; they got real maple syrup.
This keeps up until Vikström puts a hand on Manny’s shoulder. “We’re late for meeting Marco’s landlord. Let’s go.”
Manny checks his watch and then says to Jack Sprat, “You’re going to see us again soon.”
The detectives turn and nearly bump into the waitress, who still has their check. Vikström digs out a ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change!” He’d like to make a few critical remarks about her being a nuisance, but he wants no further delays.
As they walk back, Manny elbows Vikström in the ribs. “You see how Jack Sprat stared at my black eye? It’s fucking insulting. Even the waitress stared at it.”
“I don’t think that’s right,” says Vikström. “It’s hardly noticeable.”
“You’re a sly son of a bitch,” says Manny. “You’re glad I got a black eye. I wouldn’t be surprised if you even sent that guy to my house to hog the mike. ‘If ever the devil’s plan, / Was made to torment me, It was you, Vikström, it was you.’ I know exactly what you’re doing!”
Vikström’s wish to protest defeats his wish to remain silent. “How can you say such a foolish thing?”
In the sunlight a multitude of delicate colors flicker across the burst capillaries of Manny’s shiner. “You’re good, Vikström,” he says. “You’re really good.”
They continue to Santuzza’s office. Although the day is nearly as warm as Monday, it lacks Monday’s air of celebration. Few people are about. Vikström turns to see if Jack Sprat is still on the street, but instead he sees Fidget entering a diner up the block on the right. Fidget seems to scurry.
“Have you ever known Fidget to spend money on food, like in a restaurant?” asks Vikström.
“What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?” says Manny.
“I was just wondering.”
Santuzza’s landlord, James Polanski, waits for them on the sidewalk. He’s a stout middle-aged man in a blue suit, whose apparent respectability is tempered by a gray ponytail.
Biker, thinks Vikström.
Polanski steps forward to greet them, though he’s mostly focused on Manny’s black eye. “That’s terrible about Marco, fuckin’ terrible. I just saw him last week at the Hog Hurrah, and he looked great.”
Manny is tired of having his black eye confused with prime-time TV. He shakes his head. “Sic transit gloria mundi. Now he’s in a thousand pieces.”
Polanski stiffens. Vikström pushes past Manny and shakes Polanski’s hand. “What my partner means is, you never know what’ll happen next.”
Polanski remains focused on Manny’s black eye as if it were the symptom of a disease he might catch. “That’s true enough.” He holds up a set of keys and jingles them. “I’ll let you into Marco’s office.”
The detectives follow Polanski up the stairs. Vikström whispers to his partner, “What’re you, nuts?”
“He was leering at me.”
“He was only looking at your eye.”
At the top of the stairs is a short hallway with a number of doors. Polanski unlocks the first on the right.
“You’ve other offices up here?” asks Vikström.
“Four altogether—two facing Bank Street and two the river. Marco wanted one facing the street because the trains make a lot of noise. He’s paid up till the end of April, so I guess it’s still his. Or his wife’s. I’m not going to get used to his not being here. We rode together.”
“Cowboys till the end,” says Manny.
“So who rents the other offices?” asks Vikström. He kicks at Manny’s ankle but misses. They enter Marco’s office. On the walls are five colorful posters of Harley-Davidsons showing scantily dressed, big-breasted women with provocative smiles and hard eyes, lolling across their black leather seats.
Polanski gestures with his thumb over his shoulder. “The guy across the hall’s oldest. He moved in when my father was running things. He buys and sells stamps, does pretty well at it. Maybe I bump into him twice a year. Then there’s a woman in back who’s some kind of psychological counselor. She’s not an M.D., I know that much. She’s been here five or six years and has soundproofed the whole office. The fourth guy’s been here a couple of months. I’m not sure what he does—something with numbers. I’m no good with them. My wife does the books.”
“Is he an accountant?” asks Vikström patiently.
“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, he counts things. But he doesn’t do taxes like Marco. You’ll need to ask him what he does.”
Manny stares at Polanski with serious disapproval, but whether he feels actual disapproval or is just trying to intimidate him isn’t clear. He seems about to speak when Polanski’s cell phone rings.
“Excuse me.” Polanski steps into the hall.
Vikström turns impatiently to his partner. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What d’you mean?” Manny looks bewildered.
“Why’re you acting this way?”
“What way?”
“Like you’re a nutcase.”
“A nutcase? Are you calling me a nutcase?” Manny sounds hurt.
Polanski reenters the office. “Sorry about that. Is there
anything in particular you’re looking for?”
A desk by the window has a computer and models of ten motorcycles—Harley-Davidson Die-Cast Collectibles—parked side by side. File cabinet, bookcase, green leatherette visitors’ chairs—more motorcycle figurines are parked on the two windowsills and on top of the file cabinet. They come in all styles and colors. Manny picks up one of them. “These must be a bitch to dust. Crazy.” He begins poking through the desk drawers.
“Marco’s customers were mostly bikers,” says Polanski.
Manny looks up. He holds an address book. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think they’d be old-maid schoolteachers.”
“You ever see Robert Rossi here?” asks Vikström hurriedly.
Polanski sticks out his lower lip as he remembers. “Fat Bob came up here a lot. A lot of bikers did. It was a kind of social place.”
“What about Leon Pappalardo, you see him here?” Vikström asks.
“Yeah, now and then. He used to be a biker, then he got too fat. I mean, too fat even for a biker.”
Vikström and Manny leave with Santuzza’s address book a few minutes later. Manny wants to take the computer, but Vikström doesn’t see the point—or rather, there’s no evidence it would be useful. Mostly Vikström is angry with his partner about his odd remarks.
“What’s going on with you?” he says. “What’s this business about old maids? That guy thought you were nuts.”
“Just livening up the morning,” says Manny with a shrug. “Just putting some pep into the day.”
“Does your eye hurt?”
“Everything hurts. The black eye is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Vikström thinks, This is more of the same. He’s trying to drive me nuts.
“As least he didn’t ask if you were a famous Swedish detective,” says Manny.
TWELVE
The phone calls from Bounty, Inc. begin at eight o’clock Wednesday morning. Weekends, holidays, Christmas, Easter—any day’s the right day to call, says Didi. He’s in a good mood and expects Yvonne Streeter’s thousand dollars today.
“You should take us out to a nice place for dinner,” says Eartha.
Didi gives a laugh that means there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell.
Vaughn, sitting in the dinette, raises a finger. “That’s a conspicuous assumption,” he says.
Connor opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again.
One particular call is of interest to us here, and Eartha makes it at nine forty-five. She wears a headset so she can talk and do her nails at the same time. At the moment she’s applying a gray lacquer called Concrete Catwalk. She dials and listens to a phone ring, or at least what passes for a ring in the twenty-first century.
After a moment comes a suspicious voice: “Hullo?”
“Hi, Bob, I want to warn you that beagle trucks are now cruising the New London streets and your chance to save little Magsie from agonizing nicotine addiction is decreasing by the minute.” Eartha’s purr is a fur-lined gargle.
There’s a pause; then a man says, “How’d you get this number?”
“Only the speedy intervention of Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc. can save Magsie now. Over sixty-five thousand pups vanish into biomedical labs each year. Bob, you want little Magsie turned into a statistic with yellow lips? Just think of your duty as a beagle owner, for Pete’s sake!”
The man grows angry. “How the fuck you get this number? Who is this? I know I know your voice from somewhere.”
Eartha changes her tone to long-suffering patience. “Bob, what’s important are Magsie’s two little lungs, his happiness as a pup. The rest is beside the point… .”
“Fuck Magsie, that’s Angelina’s dog!” the man shouts. “She’s got him in the divorce, and I hope I never see the little shit again. How’d you get this number?”
Eartha quickly checks her list. “Isn’t this Bob Rossi? You paid good money for Magsie. You had him fixed, you had his toenails clipped and teeth cleaned, and you had his ear sewed back on when that bad pit bull next door half ripped it off. Now you want to toss him to the midnight labs?”
Connor hears the name of Eartha’s prospect. He writes a note and puts it in front of her: His name’s Fat Bob. This was mentioned in Tuesday’s New London Day when the victim in the crash was correctly identified as Marco Santuzza and not Robert Rossi.
“I told you, that’s Angelina’s dog. How’d you—”
Eartha interrupts him. “D’you mind if I call you Fat Bob? It’d be a treat for Angelina if you saved her pup.”
There’s a pause. “I know your voice. You been on TV?”
“David Letterman’s a big contributor to Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction. In the great wall honoring our donors, your name could be next to his. Just a small donation would help. Dogs are dying as we speak. Sometimes, late at night, I hear them coughing!”
Fat Bob breathes heavily into the phone. “You’re a friend of Lisowski’s, aren’t you? You’re on their side. Angelina’s selling all my stuff, and I don’t have a cent. So go fuck yourself!”
The phone goes dead. Eartha calls back. A mechanical voice answers, gives a number, and asks if she would like to leave a message.
“That didn’t work very well,” says Eartha, blowing onto her Concrete Catwalk nails. “Who’s Fat Bob?”
“He’s the guy who was supposedly killed on the motorcycle when he hit the dump truck,” says Connor. “Then the dead guy turned out to be someone else.”
“He sounded both angry and frightened,” says Eartha. “He thought I was a friend of someone named Lisowski. I hope he doesn’t find out where we are.”
“There’s not much chance of anyone finding us here,” says Didi with a laugh.
—
W e need to confess that we don’t really know Sal Nicoletti. That is, we can see him from the outside, see his actions, but we don’t know what he’s thinking. His innermost thoughts are closed to us. This can happen to the best of scribblers: some folks are impenetrable. But it doesn’t mean Sal himself is a mystery. We learn much about a person from periods of attentive watching, and we’ve done that. And we know his real name is Dante, or Danny, Barbarella, and that he was the revenue audit supervisor at a Detroit casino who faced being charged with embezzlement until he agreed to testify against his associates, some of whom were his buddies. We could hide this information. We could watch him from the outside and ask, Just who is this fellow? This, after all, is what Connor Raposo has done. But why bother? Sal Nicoletti is Danny Barbarella. It’s as simple as that. Many people reading mystery novels pride themselves on correctly guessing who did what before their spouses, reading the same book, can make the same discovery. We want to save them the effort. Perhaps they guessed from the start that Sal Nicoletti is Danny Barbarella. If so, well done! But it’s not important. It’s like raising your hand in third grade and shouting out, “I know where flies go in winter!”
But we can’t see what goes on in Sal’s head.
One difficulty is his expression, which is sarcastic, disapproving, and superior. We could say more about it: the curved lip, the shrug, the bored nodding of the head, the hooded eyes, and the eyebrows—one can do a lot with thick black eyebrows. They’re like hand gestures; they can be used as alternative speech. We can see this, but we don’t know how deep it goes. Does it rest only on the surface, or does it go all the way to the bottom? Perhaps it’s only camouflage, and a nano-inch beneath the surface Sal’s trembling like a puppy in a hailstorm. Perhaps, in fact, he suffers from irritable bowel syndrome and all these arrogant facial expressions are an attempt to hide the problem when what he really wants is to go to bed and weep.
Then we have his black pompadour that increases his height by three inches, while his boots or elevator shoes take him up another two. Is it arrogance or compensation? When he works on his hair before the mirror, adding the gel, a touch of extra color, and wielding his hairbrush like a boxer wields his fists, does he think, I look fantastic
!? Or does he think, At least I look taller?
We may have our suspicions, but we don’t know. How useful is a plastic exterior that can be cast into a thousand insinuations while the unfortunate store mannequin has to make do with what it gets at the start? We have mentioned this before with Vasco, Didi, and even our two detectives, Manny Streeter and Benny Vikström. Their exteriors conceal conflicted interiors. It resembles apophatic theology: the one truth we can express about God is that we know nothing about God. We are ignorant. But at least we know they are male. That shouldn’t be doubted.
So Wednesday morning Sal emerges from the bathroom with a white towel around his waist, redolent of a Chanel cologne for men that uses synthesized human pheromones for greater sex appeal. His hair shines like a smear of tar with hints of rainbow. His teeth sparkle. Looking at him like this, we see he’s somewhat fleshy. But this disappears with his compression body shirt and his high-waist control boxer briefs, which themselves are hidden by tight black spandex jeans and a white silk skintight top with body art arm stockings displaying lunging orange-and-black tigers. Stick a pin in Sal and he’d pop like a birthday balloon, but as he inspects himself in the mirror, he experiences a sense of comfort, which we may see by his smile, even though he’s forced to breathe in short, quick gasps.
His black eelskin cowboy boot—a style called Los Altos—are a natural 8-B, because Sal has small, delicate feet. However, the raised platform within the shoe and the raised heel increase his height by 2.75 inches. It’s a pity his black silk socks can’t lift him a trifle more, but they are as thin as a vampire’s sigh.
Sal turns from the mirror, pauses, and listens. The house is silent. Céline is downstairs. And the children, where are the children? At this moment the house should be reverberating with Wednesday-morning cartoon shows. But, alas, there are no children. The two we’ve heard discussed are in fact rentals, just as Vasco’s gold Rolex is a rental. It’s so much easier in the long run. They belong to a cousin of Céline’s who lives twenty miles away in Norwich, a single working mother who endures their absence during the week because their caretakers are paying big bucks to create the semblance of your average American family and she needs the money as well as the free time.
Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? Page 14