Saving Room for Dessert

by K. C. Constantine

  Reseta led the boy into the duty room, parked him in a chair next to a desk, unlocked one of the cuffs and locked it to the arm of the chair, then put his pistol in a gun safe in the desk, and sat down and logged on to the computer on that desk. He filled out the booking sheet on the computer screen, then printed several copies, folded one and stuck it in Joseph’s shirt pocket, and put the others in a new manila folder in the bottom desk drawer.

  “I love computers, don’t you, Joseph? Make everything so much easier, so much quicker. Jeez, just six years ago, this would’ve taken, I don’t know, probably a half hour. I could never get the typewriter to line up right with the forms, you know? And the copyin’ machine was broken more than it worked, but no more, uh-uh, now it’s hit a coupla keys, and bingo, there’s your bookin’ sheet.

  “Okay, Joseph, stand up,” Reseta said, hauling the boy up by his arm but stopping suddenly when the boy cried out. “Oooh, did that hurt? Man, I don’t know what’s the matter with me, I forgot you were still cuffed to the chair there, how could I not remember that, huh?”

  “You didn’t forget, you bastard, you did that on purpose, you wait till my mother gets here, you just wait.”

  “Well, while I’m waitin’, c’mon, let’s take some pictures, and then we’ll take your prints, and then we’ll check R and I—or maybe I should check that first, maybe we already got real recent pictures of you. Sit down, take a load off,” Reseta said, pushing the boy down hard in the chair.

  “Oh did that hurt? Woo, I’m sorry. See, I slipped again. I knew that oil was gonna be a problem. Apparently I didn’t get it all off. And you know what else? I forgot to report it to my chief. Oh, he’s not gonna be happy with me about that. But you just sit tight here, Joseph, I’ll be right back.”

  Reseta started to walk toward that part of the duty room where the paper files were kept, but stopped and called to the civilian dispatcher working the radio, former sergeant Vic Stramsky.

  “Hey, Vic, wanna do me a favor?”

  “What’s that, James?”

  “If this young lad here tries to steal that chair or those handcuffs that are attached to it, you be sure and call nine-one-one for me, okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Joseph Maguire squinted at Reseta and then rolled his eyes and groaned.

  “Little police humor there, Joseph. See, couple years ago that wasn’t even funny, that was serious, ’cause we weren’t hooked up to the nine-one-one system. We just got hooked up into it, like what, Vic, I don’t know, three years ago, right?”

  “Right.”

  “The lad’s not laughin’, Vic. I guess you have to be us. Did I mention, Vic, the lad’s mommy is a lawyer? And she’ll be comin’ in soon, you’ll get to meet her, I’m lookin’ forward to meetin’ her myself, ’cause he thinks when she gets here, we’re all gonna be workin’ for her and him and his daddy, the doctor.”

  “You mean we ain’t all workin’ for ’em already?”

  “Apparently not. Or if we are, we’re doin’ a crummy job.”

  Reseta found nothing on Joseph Maguire in the paper records. He came back to the computer and made a show of slapping his forehead. “What am I thinking, Joseph, you know? Do you know what I’m thinking, huh? Sometimes, I swear, if my butt wasn’t attached to the bottom of my back it’d fall off and I’d lose it. You couldn’t’ve been busted before you were ten, were you, Joseph? I don’t believe that. And since we’ve only been usin’ e-records since ’96, I gotta believe I’ll find you right in here.”

  Reseta typed in the boy’s name and hit Enter and waited. Nothing. “Entry not found.”

  “Something’s not right here, Joseph. I would’ve bet a month’s pay you’d been through the system before. You wouldn’t be givin’ me a phony name, would ya? You that crafty?”

  Reseta typed an e-mail to the Pennsylvania State Police Registry, asking for ID confirmation, photos, and fingerprints of Joseph Francis Maguire, but received no response.

  “Hey, Vic, you know anything about the state computers? I’m tryin’ to confirm an ID here, I get nothin’. Last time I got nothin’ like this, they were down for a whole weekend.”

  “I didn’t hear nothin’. Call Troop A, that’s all I know.” Reseta picked up a phone, called Troop A, and got the news that the state police computers were indeed down for routine maintenance and would be down for another twelve hours at least.

  Reseta hung up and glared at the boy. “I’m gonna ask you again. What’s your name?”

  “Told ya.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Joseph Maguire.”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “Francis.”

  “What grade are you in?”

  “I forget.”

  “Who’s your homeroom teacher?”

  “I forget.”

  “What’s your father’s first name?”

  “I forget.”

  “Now you know the state computer’s down, you lost your memory, didn’t ya?”

  “Never had a memory.”

  “Alright, wise guy, let’s get your pictures, get your prints, get you outta my life—at least till tomorrow.”

  Reseta unlocked the cuff attached to the chair, stood the boy up, backed him against a bare, white wall and made him stand there until he got the booking information on the photo board, then used a Polaroid to take front and profile mug shots. After the photos developed, he put them in the same folder he’d put the booking sheet. Then, always keeping the boy in his view, he went looking in several desks until he found a print pad and forms, filled out a form, and took the boy’s prints, putting that form in the same file folder in the same drawer as he’d put all the previous. He dropped the print pad on top of the folder, shoved the drawer shut with his foot, and took the boy to the john and watched him wash the ink off his hands.

  Then he cuffed the boy’s free wrist to the other one and took him back into the duty room, where he retrieved his pistol from the gun safe, holstered it, and hustled the boy toward the door.

  “I’m takin’ this one down the juvey center, Vic. Maybe somebody there knows him.”

  “Hey I wouldn’t dawdle, Rayford’s havin’ more fun with the U.N.”

  “Already? Jesus. Those people made him crazy yesterday. Good God … c’mon, whatever-your-name-is, let’s find out if anybody knows you.”

  Whatever-his-name-was was suddenly acting as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  UNTIL HE’D poured and drunk his first coffee from his own vacuum bottle, Rayford didn’t even drive within two blocks of the United Nations, staying off the entire lengths of Bryan Avenue and Jefferson and Franklin streets. Then he waited another half hour before driving past the Scavellis’ house on Franklin.

  In the meantime, he’d been listening to B.B. King’s latest CD on his portable Sony and checking out the radio traffic, such as it was, between Reseta and Canoza and civilian dispatcher Vic Stramsky. Reseta had caught a kid fight at the Rocksburg Middle School, and Canoza was trying to pop the lock on some lady’s Toyota in the Giant Eagle lot. Canoza’d need some good luck. Toyota locks were tough. Rayford had stood next to a locksmith for twenty-two minutes once while he tried to pop the lock on his ’87 Toyota. Watched him use about a dozen different Slim Jims before one worked.

  But otherwise, it’s beautiful so far, Rayford thought. Let’s let it stay this way, people. Let us aaaaall remember a slightly different version of the immortal words of the prophet Rodney King: let us aaaaaall continue to get along. Lock your keys in your cars, tha’s awright. Beat on your little school buddies, that’s awright too. Bend some fenders, the babies of bodymen need shoes too. But let us do no real harm, people, Polish, Eye-talian, Russian, Ukrainian, whatever your flavor, let us looooooove one another, every-got-damn-body say a-men and hal-ay-fuckin’-lu-ya, awwwwright.…

  Now why’d Nowicki put me down here again? Didn’t I have enough grief yesterday? He knows I did, the man knows I had enough grief with these peopl
e to last me two careers. Had enough last night to last me the next ten years.

  These people. She-it. Niccola Scavelli and his seriously ugly wife, Mary Rose. Occupants of 101 Franklin Street on the corner of Bryan, yessir, if ever there were two people fit the description of “occupants” these two were it. These two people were not the work of amateurs, no thank you ma’am; these two were seriously fucked up by some heavyweight pros. Been to this house twice a year—at least twice—every year since I’ve been in this department. And when they hand me that piece of paper says I have been promoted to sergeant, and that other one says I have been promoted to detective, I am still goin’ be comin’ to this address till these crazy motherfuckers kill each other or go into a nursin’ home, whichever comes first, a-men. Motherfucker oughta be in Mamont right now, many times as I carried his sorry ass up to Mental Health? Catch the dago by the toe, eenie meenie minie mo, hold him a month and let him go, eenie meenie minie mo. She-it. Three times now. Motherfucker is stone craaaaa-zy. But not at his hearings, oh no. At his hearings he’s cool as Johnnie Cochran. But yesterday? The man stone topped out. With all that fries shit?…

  “Sir, did you smear dog crap all over Mr. Hlebec’s doorknobs?”

  “Do you want fries with that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said do you want fries with that?”

  “Sir, try to answer my question—”

  “I’ll answer your question when you answer my question—do you want fries with that or not?”

  “No, sir, I do not want fries with that. Or with anything else either.”

  “Alright, now we’re goin’ places. Hey, Mary Rose? Hold the fries!”

  Mary Rose, hold the fries, Jesus Christ. And last month it was let me take this blow-dryer and go sit in my truck and point it at Mr. Matthew Hlebec and Mrs. Ann Hlebec when they come home from work, and shout how they’re exceeding the walkin’ speed limit when they get out their cars and walk up on their porch. And write everything down, oh yeah, get it all recorded, absolutely, in my little notebook here, times, days, dates, speed of feet on the radar blow-dryer and how many times have they changed lanes without putting on their turn signals and how many times has she tailgated, walked too close to her husband for conditions … aye-yi-mother-fuck-ing-yi, where do these people come from? More important, where they goin go? Lord, please say they ain’t goin’ be with me forever. Please say they ain’t my special honky hell. I need to get Mrs. Romanitsky down here, have her pray for these motherfuckers, maybe she knows somebody do an exorcism or some shit, ’cause Lord, you got to know ain’t nothin’ else worked. Worked, workin’, or goin’ work. Lord, when it comes to these two, you got a ton to answer for.

  Ohhhh man, look there, now why didn’t I stay off this street, what’s that motherfucker goin’ do now? What’s he carryin’? Oh shit. A shovel? Motherfucker got a shovel? Oh mannnnnn!

  Rayford pushed the button for his PA. “Mr. Scavelli, put that down, sir! Don’t go there, sir.”

  Oh man, here we go again, sure as God made dog shit, that motherfucker got a shovel full, ohhh got-damn.…

  Rayford jammed the foot brake and rammed it into park, hustled out to get in front of Scavelli, who was walking sideways with the shovel angled out to his right and behind him, getting ready apparently to hurl its contents onto the front porch of the Hlebecs’ house.

  “Stop right there, sir! Don’t do that!”

  “According to the prophecy, to the ass from where it came out, it shall go back.”

  “Sir, put the shovel down, sir. I’m orderin’ you to stop. Sir, if you throw that over my head, and some of that fall on me? I’m goin’ be really upset, sir. I’m goin’ be seriously disturbed. I washed this uniform and pressed it myself, I do not want even one molecule of that crap on it, you hear? Sir? Stop right there, and put that down!”

  “According to the prophecy, the coloreds will not tell the Italians, the Italians will tell the coloreds, that’s the way it was in the beginning, that’s the way it shall always be.”

  Ohhhh God, here we go with the coloreds again.

  “Sir, I have told you before and I’m goin’ tell you again how we are all brothers and sisters, how we all came out the same tribe in Africa, some of us headed north, some of us headed south, some east, some west, but we are from the same mother and father—”

  “According to the prophecy, the coloreds will wash out their mouth with soap when they tell lies—”

  “Aw enough with this prophecy noise—gimme that shovel! Now, sir! I’m orderin’ you, give me that shovel!”

  Scavelli screwed up his face haughtily and tried to hand it over blade end first.

  “Aw that’s cute,” Rayford said, recoiling from the stench. “Turn it around, sir. Please?”

  Scavelli turned sideways, sidled up to Rayford, and handed it over without further fuss.

  “There. Now that wasn’t so hard, huh? Was that so hard?”

  “According to the prophecy, the coloreds will carry dog shit for the Italians,” Scavelli said, turning and shuffling back toward his house.

  Rayford carried the shovel, a third full of fresh dog droppings, to the storm drain on the corner and hurled the contents into it. He took the shovel back to Scavelli’s house, pushed it into the strip of grass between the curb and the sidewalk a couple of times to clean it as much as possible and then tried to hand it up to Scavelli, who was now on his porch. Scavelli closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his bony chest, and thrust his chin upward.

  Rayford slid the shovel past Scavelli’s feet and turned around in time to see Matt Hlebec attempting to park his maroon Chevy Beretta in the space between the MU and Scavelli’s multicolored Ford pickup. There wasn’t enough room so Rayford hurried to his MU waving to Hlebec and indicating to him that he was going to move. Just as he got in, he saw Scavelli coming down the porch steps with his blow-dryer pointed at Hlebec.

  Oh shit, here we go with the blow-dryer again, Rayford thought, backing up and out into the street so Hlebec could park and then getting back out to be ready to intervene as soon as these two started in on one another.

  Hlebec came out of his Chevy yelling and gesturing first at Rayford and then at Scavelli. “Well good, I don’t have to call you guys, you’re already here, now you can see what I’m talkin’ about—”

  Rayford couldn’t help noticing that as soon as Hlebec spoke, his dog came alive inside his house, jumping up on a wing chair in the living room, shoving aside the curtains with his snout, and barking, then bounding away. In a moment he was back on the chair, his paws on one wing, barking again, and then bounding away again.

  “Just go in your house, sir, please?” Rayford said, watching the dog pushing the curtains around with its snout.

  “My radar gun is new and improved. Not only measures speed, now it measures noise. When he talks he’s louder than a chain saw—”

  “Oh shut the hell up!”

  “I’m not the one with the big mouth, that’s you. I’m not the one with the dog runs loose all over my yard, craps in my yard—in violation of the city ordinance.”

  “My dog’s in the house all day, he never runs loose, how many times you think I have to tell him before it finally sinks in, huh? I walk my dog on a leash, my wife walks the dog on a leash, you been seein’ us do that for ten years, you maniac—”

  “Mr. Hlebec, sir, just go inside, please?”

  “This is a public street, I’m comin’ home from work, I’m allowed to walk into my house without bein’ hassled by this asshole—”

  “Sir? How many times have we been through this? Go inside, sir. Please!”

  “Oh yeah, with the hunky, yeah, please this, sir that—what do the Italians get, huh? I’m orderin’ you—that’s what we get! The coloreds give us orders! But the hunky gets pleeeeeease, please please please, pretty please, oh yeah!!

  “Mr. Scavelli, go inside, please, I don’t want a repeat of yesterday, sir. Please? Go inside, sir.”

  “According to
the prophecy, I’m on my property, I’m allowed to be right here, right where I am.”

  “Yes sir, according to your prophecy, that’s true. But according to my prophecy, you’re not allowed to stand out here and instigate a fight, verbal or otherwise, so go inside please.”

  “Coloreds don’t have no prophecy. All you got is jungle music. All you people know how to do is scratch records, you don’t even know how to play ’em.” Scavelli tried to imitate a rapper scratching an LP record on a turntable while huffing and grunting and jiggling from side to side.

  The man looked so ridiculous Rayford had to turn his face away to keep from laughing.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re here to listen to this yourself.”

  “Heard it all before, Mr. Hlebec, you know that—”

  “No no, uh-uh, what I mean is you’re hearin’ him right from the start, not from when you get here after my wife calls you—”

  “Been respondin’ to these addresses, sir, for six years now. I’ve taken Mr. Scavelli to Mental Health three times myself, and you’ve testified at all three of his hearings, Mr. Hlebec, let’s not forget the facts, okay? So now whyn’t you go inside, sir, please?”

  “’Cause my wife’s comin’ home, should’ve been here already, I don’t know what’s keepin’ her, but I don’t want him harassin’ her. He starts in on her as soon as she gets outta the car—”

  “If you went inside, sir, it would help considerably, okay?”

  “Help you maybe. Not her.”

  Rayford took a deep breath and blew it out and watched the curtains being shoved aside once again, this time with only the tip of the dog’s snout showing. The dog barked four times in a row, then apparently stopped and jumped down again when he couldn’t toss the curtain aside.

  How long were these people goin’ stand here? How long am I goin’ stand here? She comes home, shit’s really goin’ fly—and, aw motherfucker, here she comes now. How’m I goin’ get these two assholes inside now?