Is Fat Bob Dead Yet?

by Stephen Dobyns

“Then why’s he hiding from him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Again the detectives saw the lie.

  “So when did you last see Chucky?”

  “This morning when I was leaving Céline’s.”

  A small spark ignited in Vikström’s brain, but it’s the wrong spark, or rather it’s not the primary spark, which would be to ask what Chucky was doing at Céline’s. Instead he asks, “What kind of car’s he got?”

  Connor didn’t give these answers easily. We’ve mostly omitted the denials, complaints, and foot-dragging. At last he said, “He was in a black Denali. But Chucky’s not the kind of guy who drives himself. He gets driven.”

  “Ah,” said Vikström.

  Manny smiled at Vikström, another rarity. “Those two guys at Otto’s were working for Chucky.”

  And once more Vikström said, “Ah.”

  But their sense of accomplishment might have been greater if they’d asked why Chucky had been at Céline’s, which might have led them to realize that Chucky was looking for Fidget and the jewelry that Fidget had pilfered from Sal’s corpse.

  So now we return to the present moment, with Manny and Vikström in the squad room leaning back in their chairs with their feet on their desks and cradling their heads with knitted fingers. Connor remains in the interview room. It’s five o’clock. They are waiting for the FBI agents Orville Percival and Henry Lascombe, otherwise known as Percy and Hank. Let them deal with Chucky, they think. In fact, Manny and Vikström have little choice.

  “Then what’s this business with Chucky,” says Manny, “if Fat Bob doesn’t owe him money?”

  “It means Fat Bob knows something that could hurt Chucky.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe Chucky knows that Fat Bob was trying to blackmail Sal.”

  “It’s got to be more than that.”

  “Maybe Chucky knows something about Sal getting whacked.”

  “More than that.”

  “Maybe Chucky lined up the whacker.”

  “Jesus, Benny, you don’t say ‘whacker,’ you say ‘shooter.’ …”

  The detectives’ promising dispute on correct usage when discussing the criminal netherworld might have lasted another instructive hour, but at that instant their chat is cut short by the FBI agents Percy and Hank, who enter the room with the evident aversion of two men entering the environs of an open latrine. This was their ongoing joke.

  “Good to see you guys hard at work,” says Percy.

  “Don’t bother to get up,” says Hank.

  The agents chuckle a humorless chuckle. They’re similarly dressed in suits of different shades of gray. Manny and Vikström remain with their feet on their desks. They decide not to feel intimidated.

  “That escort who’s pretending to be Sal’s wife,” says Manny. “What was her name? Shirley something? Anyway, she’s gone missing, and we’d like to talk to her. You know where she might be?”

  Doubtless the agents know about Céline’s departure, but they don’t show it. Their cheeks are pink, and their short hair is freshly trimmed. Their appearance differs from that of a male mannequin in the display window of an expensive men’s shop only in the area of the lips: a slight smile with Percy, a slight sneer with Hank.

  “What do you want to talk to her about?” asks Percy.

  “You’re not overstepping your prerogatives, are you?” asks Hank.

  “Getting too ambitious?” asks Percy.

  Manny swings around in his chair, and his feet hit the floor with a thump. “Just answer the fucking question.”

  The agents give him a look that’s supposed to make Manny shrivel up like a wasp squirted with lighter fluid, but he doesn’t. “Her assignment has been completed,” says Hank. “She’d no reason to stay here.”

  “So she went back to Detroit?” asks Vikström.

  “We don’t see how that concerns you,” says Percy.

  “She’s mixed up with the theft of Sal’s jewelry,” says Manny.

  “Small potatoes,” says Hank.

  Vikström and Manny consider various responses. After all, Céline or Shirley was living with a guy who was murdered right downtown on Bank Street. But they can also anticipate the agents’ reply: It’s a federal issue.

  “So who put the fucking flower into the fucking bullet hole?” asks Manny.

  Percy shakes his head. Hank inspects his fingernails.

  But Vikström has begun to wonder why Chucky had been at Céline’s that morning. What was their connection? He sits up in his chair. “Give us Chucky.”

  The two agents blinked loudly.

  “Who’s Chucky?” asks Percy.

  “He’s the guy with the Denali. He smashed up a local man’s windshield.”

  “On purpose,” adds Manny. “It’s an expensive windshield. That’s a felony. He did it twice.”

  The agents move toward the door. “You guys are off your leash,” says Hank.

  “What leash?” inquires Vikström.

  “Hey, hey, wait up,” says Manny. “Let’s not get personal. You guys like to come over to my place tonight, do some karaoke, knock back a few beers?”

  The door clicks shut. The several million dust motes activated by the agents’ brisk departure begin to settle.

  “Fuck me,” says Manny. “That went well, don’t you think?”

  “Forget about the windshield,” says Vikström. “Why was Chucky at Céline’s this morning?”

  “Maybe he wanted to ball her.”

  But Vikström isn’t thinking straight. He should be focused on the connection between Céline and Connor, meaning Chucky and Connor. He should be thinking about Fidget. Instead his fears are focused on the department’s Mountain Bike Patrol. He remembers an old bike in the back of his garage. Maybe it’s time to drag it out, spruce it up, and get his leg muscles in shape.

  —

  One last little bit before the chapter comes to a close. Manny and Vikström are in the Subaru Forester on their way to talk to Angelina Rossi as they try to build a case against Connor, who is in the backseat staring out the window. This time he hasn’t been handcuffed. The detectives have decided he isn’t a flight risk. Connor asks himself if he should find this mildly insulting.

  Manny and Vikström believe that in the New London post office is a second box full to bursting with checks and hard cash that suckers have sent to Bounty, Inc., though the actual name Bounty, Inc. is unknown to them. They also believe that Connor is mixed up with Sal’s death, Céline’s departure, and Chucky’s indefinite presence. And they suspect that Connor and Fat Bob are in league in some way. They claim to understand all sorts of incriminating particulars, which in fact they don’t understand. But to build a case, they must start with Angelina. She has to identify Connor as the degenerate scammer who demanded she fork over hundreds of dollars, twice. Mercifully, as she earlier told Manny, she’d been able to fight him off.

  But Angelina is in a bad mood. She’s been giving Magsie a bath, and at times he nips. For some dog owners, this is tantamount to betrayal—a brutal attack from their dear pup—but she won’t strike him. Instead she shakes her finger very hard and says she’ll withhold his cookie. This is when her doorbell rings. She ignores it, and it rings again. A few seconds later, it rings a third time. Now she has to remove Magsie from the tub when he’s incompletely washed and rinsed. This means gripping him tightly in a towel so he won’t escape through the house, making a mess. And Magsie hates being gripped tightly in a towel. He snarls and snaps. Angelina could turn this into a story as long as War and Peace, but we won’t. She reaches the door with Magsie clamped under her arm and flings it open.

  Manny stands on the stoop facing her with an affectionate smile. Vikström and Connor are a few feet behind.

  “We caught him,” says Manny. “I found the guy who was harassing you. This is him, right?” He beams and points back at Connor.

  Angelina squeezes her bad pup a little harder, and Magsie makes a noise like “Ooof!” She
focuses on Connor. “I’ve never seen that man before in my life!”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The maroon desk chair with wraparound back and padded armrests has wheels that easily slide on the tile floor, forcing Connor to keep one hand gripping the edge of Linda’s desk so he won’t skate across the office, which happened when he first sat down. And as is the case with many old buildings on Bank Street, the floor here is slightly tilted.

  “Why do you think Angelina said she’d never seen you before?” asks Linda. “You can’t just decide she’s crazy. Maybe she likes you.” She wears a man’s white dress shirt with a button-down collar. The top two buttons are open, revealing a substantial wedge of pink flesh. Connor tries not to stare at it. In this he’s only partly successful.

  “That’s absolutely impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.”

  Connor has been describing his difficulties, which began with telling Linda about his visit to Céline’s, though he doesn’t mention the contest between Céline’s nightgown and the cuticle scissors. Then came the double smashing of the Mini-Cooper’s windshield, his lunch with Fat Bob, why the two detectives had arrested him at the post office, and why he’d been set free. The last he blamed on madness or luck—nothing rational.

  “Okay, maybe she’s not crazy, but I can’t think of a better reason. The cops practically fell off the porch. They accused me of bribing her, but I hadn’t gone near her again. She’s scary.” As if in emphasis, Connor’s chair skates another foot or so away from Linda’s desk, and he has to dig his heels against the tiles to bring it to a stop. He rolls back and tethers himself to her desk with his right hand. Linda grins. Connor thinks that somewhere in this nonsense is a metaphor about his approach-avoidance conflict with beautiful women. It’s six o’clock, and they are alone in the office. The only light comes from Linda’s desk lamp and the streetlamps out on Bank Street.

  “Perhaps someone else is bribing her,” says Linda.

  “Possibly, but I can’t think who’d do it.” This is a lie, and Linda gives Connor a long look. “Okay, okay,” says Connor. “My Uncle Didi might have bribed her. He thought we’d end up in jail. Then he said he had a plan, though he didn’t say what it was. He likes being secretive.”

  Manny and Vikström had driven Connor back to the New London police station from Angelina’s. Vikström had remained silent. Manny had said, “You’re fuckin’ lucky,” twenty times. When Connor at last got out of the car, Manny said, “I’m going to be working hard to put your ass in jail, so you better clear outta town.” Connor called a cab to take him from the police station to the auto-glass store to pick up the Mini-Cooper. Then he drove back to Bank Street.

  Half serious, Linda shakes her head. “I don’t see why you keep calling people and scaring them about their dogs. No wonder Angelina was mad.”

  “It’s not just dogs,” says Connor defensively. “And I don’t do the calling—I just collect the money. It’s a family business.”

  “Some family. Prom Queens Anonymous and Orphans from Outer Space. What was the other one? Oh, yes, Free Dogs from Nicotine Addiction. Are there more?”

  “Not dogs, beagles. It’s breed-specific. Bounty, Inc. has lots of phantom organizations. Didi also wanted to use Victims of Roadkill Gastronomy, but we voted him down. It didn’t seem serious enough.”

  “Unlike the others,” says Linda, beginning to laugh again.

  “Right.”

  “And people give money to Orphans from Outer Space?”

  “It’s not a big moneymaker. Didi’s more interested in the process than the money, though he likes the money. And he says the pitch is more important than the actual cause. He claims he once raised a hundred bucks for Organ Grinder Monkey Retirement Ranch, Inc. and fifty for Halfway Houses for Homosexual Horses.”

  “You all must be crazy,” Linda says with severity and delight.

  “People believe in crazier things, like the ones who deny climate change. Reason and proof have hardly any influence over people’s belief systems.”

  “Does Didi say that?”

  “How’d you guess? You probably think we’re crooks.”

  Connor is struck that away from the Winnebago the business of Bounty, Inc. seems vaguely subversive, a manic tomfoolery, originating in Didi himself. But Didi is also serious, though his seriousness derives from a mix of nihilism, anarchism, and his belief in the tradiculous. Or, as Connor has thought, Didi may simply be mad.

  “Well, you may be crooks, but it seems wonderful,” says Linda, laughing.

  Connor shakes his head. “It’s getting too dangerous. After all, I was nearly arrested. I need a new geographical cure, one that comes with the guarantee that I won’t be killed.”

  “My company specializes in geographical cures,” says Linda.

  “I don’t want a round-trip. I want to go someplace and stay awhile.” On the far wall, travel posters of the Greek islands offer themselves up as options. Another poster displays the towers of Sintra. I could escape to Lisbon, thinks Connor. But he has no money.

  “By the way, have you seen Fidget?” Connor now accepts it was Chucky who wanted the gold, not Céline. She’d only been following orders. And he knows that Chucky’s surely out there right now looking for it. But Connor thinks if he himself is the one to find Sal’s jewelry, he might get a reward. After all, Fidget can’t sell the gold, he can only hoard it. Connor has lots of reasons to think it’s okay to take the gold from Fidget. But he doesn’t believe any of them.

  “He seems to have vanished. But someone else is looking for Fidget.”

  “You mean the police?”

  Linda shakes her head. “No, some men in a black SUV with tinted windows. Do you know who they are?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Connor tries to keep his face rigid while Linda looks at him doubtfully. But he doesn’t want to explain about Chucky. And he doesn’t like to think what Chucky might do to Fidget.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t seen them, since they’ve been driving around. But I also have a treat for you. At least I hope it’s a treat.”

  “Like what?” says Connor suspiciously.

  Linda’s smile seems always present at the edges of her lips, ready to emerge. Now it spreads across her face. “It’s not scandalous, if that’s what worries you.”

  “I don’t worry about anything like that,” says Connor quickly. “I’m curious.”

  As Linda grows serious, her smile retreats. Connor thinks she wears no lipstick, which he decides he likes, but in fact she wears a small amount of lip gloss of a shade called Pale Pink. Whatever she wears or doesn’t wear, Connor finds it vastly superior to the green lipstick that Céline wore the previous evening, called Manic Panic Green Envy Metallic Lipstick Goth Deathrock.

  “You said you’d like to see the inside of the old Capitol Theatre that’s been closed for forty years.”

  This was nothing Connor had expected. “I would. Did you get a key?”

  “No, but I met a man who knows who he can ask for one.”

  She tells Connor she’d been in the parking lot behind the theater, examining the theater’s bolted back door. Trash and empty bottles had been scattered in front of it, making Linda think it hadn’t been opened for years.

  “A man asked what I was doing. I thought he was a plainclothes policeman, but he said he worked for the historical society. I told him my friend Connor and I would like to see inside, that you were a writer and wanted to take some pictures.”

  Connor’s on the brink of chastising Linda for lying, but he’s a poor example of truth telling. It isn’t that Connor doesn’t lie, it’s that he’s bad at it. Were he any good, he’d be making fake phone calls along with Eartha and Vaughn.

  “I don’t have a camera,” says Connor, mildly relieved.

  Linda opens a lower drawer of her desk and takes out a Panasonic Lumix. “But I have one.” Seeing that Connor seems hesitant, she asks, “What’s wrong? I even bought two flashlights.” She takes two small flashl
ights from her desk, one red, one blue. “Which do you like?”

  “The guy was just hanging around in the parking lot?”

  “His car was parked there.”

  “Did you see what kind it was?”

  “No, he just pointed behind him. What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing, nothing. So this man has a key?”

  “He has to get it from someone else. He said he’d call me.”

  Connor isn’t sure if he’s hesitant about this man in particular or if the events of the last few days have made him hesitant about everything. But he sees that Linda wants to investigate the theater, and he doesn’t wish to disappoint her.

  “Well, okay then,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

  —

  Dr. Hubert Goodenough leans back in his chair and smiles at the two men sitting on the couch. It’s a friendly smile, a kindly smile. It’s five o’clock, and the sun is setting, but Manny and Vikström still aren’t done for the day.

  “So how does it make you feel?” the doctor asks Vikström. “To share your name with a famous Swedish detective?”

  “Great,” says Vikström tonelessly. “It feels fantastic. I’d write him a letter if he weren’t some made-up asshole person on TV.”

  “Don’t mind him,” says Manny. “He’s actually quite proud.”

  Vikström gives his partner an evil look and turns back to Dr. Goodenough. “Tell us again about the guy who got out of the Denali first, the one in the hoodie.”

  Dr. Goodenough knits his fingers together and rests his chin on top as he stares at the rug. It’s a professional pose he’s used a thousand times to indicate deep thought, but in fact he wishes the detectives would leave soon so he can get home to dinner. What will his wife make tonight? It’s their Russian evening, so it might be beef Stroganoff or chicken Kiev.

  “I hardly saw anything,” says the doctor. “A large man jumped out the back and ran across the street. He was somewhere beneath me, and I couldn’t see him. He wore a dark hoodie with the hood up. He seemed big, that’s all I can say.”

  “What’d he have on his feet: boots, dress shoes, or running shoes?” Manny tries to speak politely, but there’s an edge to his voice. Fuckin’ shrinks are supposed to have sharp observation skills, and this one doesn’t even know how big is big.