Little Easter

Polyester Suits, Dacron Shirts, Nylon Socks and Vinyl Shoes

I played along. I was still without answers, but I played along. God, it was scary to see the ease with which MacClough manipulated the uniforms. Uniformed cops, in spite of their resentment and envy, can act awfully like novice priests in the presence of the Pope when presented with the gold and enamel of a detective’s shield. They can’t help themselves. From their first day on the job they shoot for that shield. They shoot for the day they can dress in polyester suits, dacron shirts, nylon socks and vinyl shoes. They shoot for the day when someone can kiss their rings. It’s funny. It didn’t seem to matter that Johnny was retired and that he was supposed to have returned the shield and that he was two counties removed from his former jurisdiction. It didn’t seem to matter and he knew it.

The Suffolk Homicide detectives were considerably less impressed, but MacClough was light on his feet. Now it was his turn to kiss some ass and kiss some ring and genuflect till his knees got sore. This song and dance wasn’t as much fun as watching Johnny control the uniforms, but it worked just as well. These guys seemed pretty receptive to our cock and bull story.

My words were just a variation on a theme. I was going to throw my buddy, John MacClough, a party celebrating five years of retirement. Unfortunately, I wasn’t well acquainted with his old sleuthing pals. So, I was making the rounds of his ex-partners and such, trying to enlist their help. O’Toole was just one name on this list I had. We’d spoken once before and had agreed to meet soon. He’d called me this morning to say it was a good day for him. When I showed up, the door was open and he was dead. I guess I panicked a little and called MacClough. He came straight away and that’s when I called the cops. Johnny stood firmly at my right shoulder throughout my telling, shaking his head in religious agreement.

We both knew the story would hold up. The phone records would show the O’Toole call to me and mine to Johnny. The times of our separate arrivals would check out. And, if the Suffolk detectives bothered checking on my party yarn, they’d find a half-dozen New York City cops who’d testify that I had, in fact, approached them with that concept. Things were going just swimmingly considering I’d just found my second body in as many months. But such smooth sailing has never been in my stars.

I recognized the belly even before its bearer was entirely through the front door. Detective Sergeant Mickelson shook a few hands, slapped a few backs and walked right up to me. He could see the consternation in my eyes. He liked that. I could see that in his.

“Well, well, Mr. Klein,” he feigned surprise and shook my hand. “Palm’s a little sweaty for such a cold day.”

“Finding bodies sort of unnerves me.”

“Shit, Klein, I thought you’d be getting pretty used to it by now,” the fat detective needled. “If you were as good at finding crude oil as bodies, the fucking Arabs would go broke.”

I decided to jump out of the hole he was digging me. “Yeah and if you were as good at police work as you are at eating, the world would be crime free.”

“Okay, cocksucker,” Mickelson put his face in mine, “let’s hear this week’s bullshit story.”

He heard it. He didn’t like it. But he wasn’t going to like it anyway. That was his schtick.

“You’re improving, Klein,” Buddha belly complimented. “At least this time I can almost believe you. Who knows, by the time you find your next carcass maybe you’ll be good enough to fool me.”

“We live in hope.” I smiled.

“You know, Klein, that broad you found on the train platform’s got a real interesting biography,” the enlightened detective switched gears and bodies.

“Really? No, I didn’t know that.”

“It’s fascinating stuff,” he prodded. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“When I’m done with it, it’s gonna lead right to your friend’s door,” he pointed across the room at MacClough. “I feel it in my belly. And-”

“-your belly’s never wrong,” I cut him off and finished. “There’s always a first time.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “but this ain’t it. I’m gonna tie this all together into one pretty little bundle. And when I do, your ass and his’ll be tucked neatly inside.”

“Thanks for the warning, Detective,” I scratched my ass and yawned to cover the turmoil in my intestines. “Can I go now?”

“You can go,” Mickelson granted my request. “Klein!” he called me back. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me now? Maybe I can keep you clear of the fallout and soften your buddy’s fall. No cop likes to see another cop. . You know what I mean.”

“I know,” I shook my head that I understood. “Mickelson,” I whispered in his ear, “go fuck yourself.” I walked away before the fat man could react.

Mickelson was right. His fucking belly was right. All roads led to John Francis MacClough. I was taking one of those roads when an amused detective shooed me away. MacClough was off limits to me currently. He was too busy entertaining the troops with old war stories from his days on the job to be bothered with the trivia that was me. I get interrogated and he gets laughs. Good thing I never labored under the illusion of fairness.

On my way out, the forensic team relieved me of some of my wardrobe; my green ramie sweater and motorcycle jacket. Nitrate tests again! I was pissed. It was too cold out for this crap. Last time the clothing had been Johnny’s. The cops said it couldn’t be avoided. I saw Mickelson where I’d left him, laughing at my predicament. That was better. Now I was getting laughs, too. Maybe life was fair. I smiled. I left.