Loving Time

Sixty-six

Bobbie was slumped in his chair in the interview room when Daveys walked in with his FBI credentials held in front of him as if he were warding off Satan with a cross.

“Hi, Bob, ma man. I’m Special Agent Daveys, FBI,” he said.

Well, look who joined the party. Bobbie felt like laughing. The other asshole. The Fed. This morning he’d been humiliated at work by spic-and-slope cops. The spic had tried to kill him, and it got him nowhere. Now they had to get this FBI crud he’d seen hanging around the bitch Treadwell to take a crack at him.

“FBI, you hear that, Bob?”

“So what am I supposed to do: shit in my pants?”

“Most people do.”

Bobbie snorted.

“I see you’re a man with a sense of humor. How’re you doing with the police—they treating you all right? You want some coffee, a cigarette?” Bobbie didn’t reply, so Daveys shrugged and lowered himself into a chair.

Bobbie watched the asshole with cold, pale eyes. He’d seen guys like this before. In the service they were the ones who used clubs to do their questioning and made up the answers after their victims were dead. He flinched when Daveys suddenly reached down to his ankle where a gun was strapped. He glanced over at Bobbie with raised eyebrows as he scratched an imaginary itch on his calf.

“I want to make this easy for you, Bob. We know all about you. Everybody here knows everything there is to know about you.”

Bobbie glanced uneasily at the tape recorder. The asshole hadn’t turned it on. Bobbie had a feeling it hadn’t been an oversight. He made some faces at the mirrored wall opposite him, wondered if anyone was watching on the other side of it.

Daveys rubbed the side of his calf just above the butt of the gun. “Make it easy on yourself, Bob, tell me about Dr. Dickey and his drinking problem, how you put the Elavil in the old man’s scotch.” Daveys’s hand moved to the butt of his gun. “Let’s get this over with, save ourselves a lot of time and aggravation.”

Bobbie licked his lips and glanced at the mirror again. Anybody out there, or was this asshole going to finish what the other asshole had started?

“I didn’t off the bastard,” he said finally.

“You didn’t—then who did?”

Bobbie pulled on his ponytail. “You know who did.”

“Oh, Bobbie boy, this is no way to treat the FBI. We’re not stupid, you know. We’ve got the goods here. We’re going to put you away for a long time for what you did to Dr. Dickey.”

“Don’t give me this FBI shit. It means nothing to me.” Bobbie shook his head. They had nothing to charge him with. They had nothing on him that could put him behind bars for a single day, and this asshole knew it. He hadn’t killed Dickey. He wasn’t going down for it.

“Sure it means something to you, Bob. The FBI is everybody’s nightmare. We don’t let go.”

“I’m not going down for it. The bitch was in the room with him. Ever think about that, FBI?” Bobbie waved at the mirror. “Anybody out there? The—fucking—bitch—killed—her—old—man. You gonna let her get away with it?”

“You know, Bob, you’re not being cooperative. Is that smart?” Daveys looked pained. “You want to be smart, Bob, don’t you? You don’t want me to think you’re stupid, do you?”

“You’re trying to fuck me. Why should I give a shit what you think?”

“Because I’m important to you. I can save your life—”

“Can you?” Bobbie sneered.

“—or I can end your life. What do you want it to be?”

Bobbie was silent. He did not see a choice here.

“You know, you’re never going to get another job, Bob. You’re done, finished. Your wiping Dickey is not just a suspicion of ours. We know you did it. Your girlfriend told us you killed him. She told us all about it.”

Bobbie shook his head. Gunn wouldn’t have done that.

“Yes, man, she did. She told us what a bad boy you are.”

Bobbie squirmed in his chair, uneasy. “That’s a load. She doesn’t know shit about it.”

Daveys laughed. “Believe me. I don’t lie.”

Bobbie snorted. “Well, neither do I. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t off the guy. Why should I? His girlfriend did it.”

“Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh.” Daveys got up and slouched over to the chair where Bobbie was sitting. “I don’t want to hear this cowardly shit about Dr. Treadwell. This is a life-or-death matter, understand? Life or death, Bobbie. So make it easy for all of us.” Daveys leaned into Bobbie’s space, crowding him. “I said, speak up.”

Bobbie didn’t speak, didn’t move. He stared at Daveys.

“Are you telling me you’re not a man, Bob? You know what I think you are? I think you’re an un-American sack of shit.” Daveys leaned closer. He whispered, “You smell like a sack of shit, too.”

Bobbie looked down at the gun on Daveys’s ankle. He kept his silence.

“You’re a chicken-shit coward. You kill like a girl, Bob. You’re a disgrace to your country. You fragged an officer in ’Nam. That’s as low as they go. How many innocent people have you killed since, you mulatto sack of shit?”

The blood rushed to Bobbie’s head so fast he was almost blinded by his rage. Then Daveys backed away. For a second Bobbie thought he was going to take out his gun and shoot him right there in the interview room.

“I want a lawyer,” Bobbie managed to croak out. Now he was scared, really scared. “I know my rights,” he cried. “You either let me out of here or you arrest me.”

It was over, and Daveys knew it. He banged his hand on the table. “I want you to know something, asshole. It’s my job to rid society of vermin like you, and I do my job whether I like it or not.” He spun around and smacked the table again.

“You’re a blight on this country, on the whole world, you hear me, you little shit? And I’m going to bring you down not because it’s my job—my job just makes it legal—I’m going to get you because I want to. And I may break you, and you may be dead first.” When Daveys finished talking and hitting the table, he walked out of the room and slammed the door.

An hour later Bobbie was back on the street.