TKO

by Tom Schreck

  “I wonder if this qualifies for the seven-second rule,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “I swear, if you start counting I’m going to whack you with this glass,” Rocco said.

  “There’s some sort of chemical in the cigarette that has an anti-Viagra effect,” Jerry Number One said.

  “You mean you see a color other than blue?” Jerry Number Two asked.

  “I’m still thinking of tits—that’s all I can come up with,” TC said.

  “What’s the name of the chemical in the cigarette, Jer?” Rocco asked.

  “Let me think … it’s something like limpfadoraphyl … no that’s not it. It was woodrowdeflatus, I think … hold it, it was micoxaphlopin,” Jerry Number One said.

  “My-cock’s-a-floppin’? That can’t be right,” Rocco said.

  “Nothin’ right about that at all,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “Tits—it’s all I get ever since Jerry Number Two put this seven-second thing in my head,” TC said.

  I didn’t interrupt the brain trust and instead took my seat next to Kelley who was staring at a retrospective featuring a replay of the time Havlicek stole the ball. The Johnny Most call was probably great the first thousand times I heard it, but now it was getting on my nerves.

  “I’m hoping there’s no micoxaphlopin in Coors Light,” I said.

  “Hey, Duff,” Kelley said.

  “I talked to Howard this morning and promised to meet him tonight. You wanna come?” I somehow thought if I just blurted it out, Kelley would take it easier. I was mistaken.

  “You’re fuckin’ nuts, you know that? Do you realize the kind of trouble you’re putting yourself in? I thought you said you were going to call Morris.”

  “The guy’s scared to death and I promised him. I told him you’re cool and that I’d bring you.”

  Kelley didn’t say anything. He just stared at me. His eyes almost bore laser holes through my skin. I took a pull off the Schlitz longneck.

  “I’m meeting him at sundown at the bridge in the park—you in?”

  “Uh geez,” was all Kelley said. He turned away and watched Havlicek sink the runner against Phoenix in ’77.

  12

  Jefferson Park is across town from AJ’s, and with the lights it’s a ten- or fifteen-minute drive. I threw in Elvis’s Promised Land eight-track and clicked through to the fourth program to listen to “If You Talk In Your Sleep.” It’s a haunting song about a couple slinking away to have an affair. It was dark and a little sleazy, which was how I felt going to see a man who had murdered four people and whom most folks believed was responsible for murdering four more.

  I parked by the tennis courts and walked through the rolling knolls of the park, past the statue of Moses, the modern-art sculptures, and the empty tulip beds. I had hit the cobblestone walkway that led toward the bridge when I heard a voice call me from behind.

  “Wait up, nutcase.” It was Kelley.

  “Hey, what’re you doing here?” I said.

  “The Foursome started talking about John Wayne’s colon again, and I figured meeting Howard had to be more pleasant than that.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said.

  We walked the final fifty yards to the bridge and the twilight had given way to the night. The corner of the bridge was dimly lit with one of those retro streetlamps that throw a soft amber hue to everything, which gave the bridge area an even creepier feel. There was no one there yet.

  “I hope we didn’t miss him,” I said.

  “Yeah, that would be a shame,” Kelley said.

  We walked the fifty-foot span of the bridge to check the other side, and there was no sign of Howard or anyone else. The silence Kelley and I stood in made me a tad more nervous, though with Kelley, silence didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, the nervousness gave me a knot in the left side of my chest and my breathing wasn’t as smooth as I liked.

  After a moment passed, Kelley started to walk around the entrance to the bridge in a way that most people would consider mindless strolling. I knew better. He stopped and suddenly squatted.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Blood,” he said.

  Kelley was squatting over a pool of blood the size of a Frisbee.

  “I should call and get a crime-scene team out here, Duff. You okay with that?”

  “Of course.”

  We hung around and waited for the circus to begin. Morris and his gang came along with the special crime-scene guys who looked remarkably less glamorous and, for that matter, less intelligent, than the people on those CSI shows. There were three of them and they scooped up the blood, set up crime-scene tape, and poked around the bushes and the grass. I sort of expected them to wear asbestos suits and have electron microscopes fixed to their heads, but they did most of their work with tweezers and Ziploc bags you could get at CVS. Morris and his guys had their badges clipped to their jackets just like the cops on Law & Order do, though it looked more natural and less forced on Jerry Orbach. My best friend Mullings walked by me and shook his head like he disapproved of my existence, which probably wasn’t going to keep me from sleeping. I had plenty of things running around my head that kept me from sleeping, but whether or not detective Mullings approved of me wasn’t one of them.

  Morris, who so far had seemed like a decent guy, was markedly less polite when he finally got around to talking to me this time. He had his hands inside his trench coat when he walked up the bridge to talk to me. He had a look on his face like he just ate something that had spoiled.

  “We could arrest you for about eleven different things, you know, Dombrowski,” Morris said.

  “Look, I was going to call you, I swear. I was here to meet Howard to bring him to you. I knew it was the only way he’d go,” I said.

  Morris turned toward Kelley.

  “Can you vouch for this nutcase?”

  “Yeah, Detective Morris, what he said is the truth. He’s all right. A little misguided in his energy sometimes, but he’s all right,” Kelley said.

  Morris turned back to me. I took note that both Kelley and Morris had referred to me as a “nutcase.”

  “This time, out of respect for Kelley, I’m not going to make a deal out of you not notifying us before this little rendezvous of yours, but from here on out—no more bullshit, you understand?”

  “Gotcha,” I said.

  There was another twenty minutes or so of more putzing around by the lab guys and intense posturing by the other cops who had honed their whole intense furrowed-brow, tormented-by-the-criminal-world look. There was just something about people who tried so hard to create an image that I found so contrived—like they didn’t have enough inside them to just be who they are. Instead of being themselves, they take on roles and personas to do the work of developing a personality for them.

  Kelley and I walked back to our cars through the park in silence. When we got to our cars, I broke the silence.

  “That’s his blood, you know,” I said.

  “I know,” Kelley said.

  Kelley went to get in his car.

  “Does it change how you’re looking at this whole thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kelley didn’t say anything, he just went to unlock his door.

  “Hey, Kell?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Misguided?”

  13

  By midafternoon Monday, Kelley had called me at the office and confirmed that it was Howard’s blood in the park. You didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to deduce that something went extremely wrong with Howard, but a certain psychiatrist didn’t see that kind of obvious reasoning at all.

  “It could be consistent with Howard’s personality disorder for him to self-mutilate, especially if it could get him sympathy and attention,” Abadon said. We
were all at an afternoon meeting to discuss his situation.

  “Doesn’t it make more sense that he was trying to do the right thing but was scared? Then he was assaulted in the park or something?” I said.

  “That’s what he wants you to believe, Duffy. I think you’re being manipulated,” Claudia said.

  “You don’t think there’s even a small chance that Howard is frightened about the situation and that he believes there’s no way he could be treated fairly?” I said.

  “It’s likely that Rheinhart is getting off on all the media exposure and the misguided attention Duffy is showing him.” Claudia didn’t answer me directly but instead talked to everyone.

  “If you pray, pray that God protects our community during this time,” Abadon said. He had a cross on his lapel today. Dr. Abadon always had a small cross on his jacket lapel but he had never referenced any Christian stuff before.

  “Shouldn’t we support one of our clients—even a little bit?” I said.

  “I believe when a client is clearly perpetuating evil—what I call sin—it is imperative that we don’t give him support,” Abadon said.

  “It bothers me that you’re so certain, Doctor,” I said. Abadon smiled and looked down at his folded hands.

  “We need to move on,” Claudia said.

  I felt some tension in my hands and noticed that my right hand had balled up, halfway forming a fist, and I had a little twitch going in my neck. I suppose, at least according to Abadon, that what I wanted to do right now was sinful. If you asked me, it was as natural as the day is long.

  Though we moved off of Howard, unfortunately for me the meeting wasn’t even close to being done. After we finished discussing Howard, Monique and I had other cases to present to Claudia and Abadon for their review. It was two and half more hours of human-services bliss, and the tedium and arrogance got my systolic blood pressure up as high as Star Jones’s weight.

  When the day finally ended, I needed a comprehensive sanity plan to clear my head. The plan needed to be holistic, and that meant I needed to nurture my inner child with a trip to the gym to hit the bags. Then, I would need to bond with my support group for eight or ten Schlitzes and an order of AJ’s toxic wings. It was a plan that would bring me back to my center.

  I was heading down the steps to the gym when I heard “WASABIIIIIIIII!” followed by a thud that sounded like someone dropped a sack of potatoes from a second-story window.

  As I came through the door, there was Billy in another new outfit, rubbing the back of his head as he sat on the floor. Across the way in the door to his office was Smitty, who stood leaning against the threshold, shaking his head.

  As soon as he saw me, Billy bounded to his feet, stood up straight, and yelled about Japanese horseradish.

  “Bill, again with the horseradish?”

  “Sir?” Billy had a giant red zit on his left cheek the size of a Hershey’s Kiss.

  “Never mind. Look, you and I will train after my workout. Go stretch or something,” I said.

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  “Right.”

  I walked over to Smitty, who was rolling his eyes.

  “Good afternoon, señor,” Smitty said.

  “That’s sensei,” I said. “Show some respect, will ya?”

  “I got a call today.”

  “Yeah, another fight already—let’s do it.”

  “This one was a little different.”

  “Huh?”

  “It was the spiky-haired guy. He’s interested in you. Liked the way the Irish went nuts for you. Figured you’d bring ’em in in the smaller venues all around New York and Boston, and then he could drape the Polish flag around you and take you to Chicago and Milwaukee,” Smitty said.

  “You shittin’ me?”

  “Nope. Talked to him for an hour. He’s got a plan.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He wants you to get one more win, which will give you five straight. That qualifies you for a shot at the NABU belt. The belt is almost worthless, but it will make you a champion and get you a couple of extra thousand every time you fight. That, and you’ll be a small-time headliner.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “None, as far as I can tell. The next fight is to set you up for the title fight, and it will be an easy one. He’s got some guy from Arkansas named Jerry Perryman, who you should go through easily.”

  “When’s this going to happen?”

  “He wants it in two weeks, while you’re still being talked about.”

  “Let’s do it—you up for it?”

  “You know I’m not the spiky-haired guy’s biggest fan, but I can’t see the downside, Duff. This is a hell of an opportunity.”

  Smitty took me through my workout and briefed me about Jerry Perryman, opponent. He wasn’t in great shape but had a fifty-fifty record. That didn’t really mean a whole lot because he did most of his fighting down south where boxing gets really suspect. Promoters put fights on every week and a lot of the same guys fight each other all the time. It’s easy to get twenty wins in the South in a year and half. It’s also easy to get that many losses. Perryman was 20 and 18 and never fought north of Tennessee.

  After my time with Smitty, Billy and I did the karate thing. He evoked Japanese horseradish and insisted on practicing his flying kicks, which he performed with amazing consistency. Amazing, that is, by the way he landed on his back every single time he threw one. The kid had zero natural ability, but he did work hard and for that I respected him. We finished up doing some pushups together, stretching a little to cool down, and then, of course, bowing. I said goodbye to Smitty, and Billy and I headed to the locker room together. Just as we were passing the karate room, Mitchell and Harter were coming out.

  “Two of life’s losers,” Mitchell said. He and Harter had stopped on the stairs blocking our path.

  “Just different sizes and ages. Hey, Billy, are you learning how to be a bigger loser?” Harter said.

  “Is that even possible?” Mitchell added.

  I kept walking and motioned to Billy to come along. I walked between the two tough guys, not breaking stride.

  “Hey, you guys ought to get a comedy routine in a nightclub or something,” I said, and I shouldered my way through the two of them.

  “Duffy—watch your back,” Harter said.

  “Tell you what, guys. Why don’t you guys go rent a Steven Seagull movie and whack off to it. It’ll be a good workout for those dragons on your forearms.”

  “Keep it up, Polack,” Mitchell said.

  “Ooh, yikes. C’mon, Billy, before they start making Bruce Lee noises.”

  Billy and I headed to the locker room without a word to each other, and I could tell he was still freaked out by the interaction. He got quiet and wouldn’t look at me.

  “What’s wrong, kid?” I said.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “C’mon, what’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Look, Bill, don’t let them get to you. They’re pussies on the inside where it counts.”

  “Yes, sir, but don’t you think you should be careful around them?”

  “That’s what they want and we ain’t going to give that to them.”

  I took my karateka home, and even though I tried to kid with him, he was still a little spooked. The fact that these karate guys got into his head to such a degree pissed me off.

  Days like this taxed me and I needed to continue to round out my holistic stress management plan. I had exercised, passed on a little of the ancient martial arts, and now it was time I headed to that bastion of New Age feel goodedness—AJ’s. In addition to unwinding, I wanted to get the full details regarding Howard’s blood, and I knew Kelley would be there.

  “She had them taken out and t
hen put back in?” TC said.

  “Actually, they were taken out, put in, taken out, and put in again,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “Can they even do that? Doesn’t all the tittage get dispersed?” Jerry Number One asked.

  “Tittage? What are you, freakin’ French?” Rocco said.

  “It has to do with whoever she’s married to, I think. Each guy gets to order his own fun-bag size,” TC said.

  “What do they do with, as Rocco calls it, the leftover tittage?” Jerry Number One said.

  “What do you mean?” TC asked.

  “Well, when she gets them reduced, where does the tittage go?” Jerry Number One said.

  “On eBay—I think they auction it,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “What do they put it in?” TC asked.

  “Mason jars, I think,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “I might bid on that. It would be a collector’s item, and if she got a new boyfriend I could sell it to him,” TC said.

  “Man, you guys are boobs—they recycle it for insulation,” Rocco said.

  “How warm could that keep you?” Jerry Number One said.

  “It depends what you did with it,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “There wouldn’t be much, at least not enough to cover an attic,” TC said.

  “I don’t know—have you ever seen her in a bikini?” Jerry Number Two said.

  “Hey—does this count toward the seven-second thing?” TC asked.

  As you might expect, Kelley was turned away, doing his best to watch a replay of a classic women’s golf tournament. I’m guessing none of the competitors had any artificial tittage issues.

  “It was definitely Howard, huh?” I said.

  “Yeah—they checked with the prison and it was his blood,” Kelley said.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think Howard got there and somebody didn’t want him to meet you.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Kell—does this change your view on his guilt?”

  “Yeah, to some extent.”