Slice

BUCKHEAD

He was getting as flaky as the nutbaskets he worked with, Eichord thought. That morning leaving for work he'd showed Donna what he'd bought for Dana.

“What'd you buy him?” she said with a smile.

“Little sign for his desk.” He'd found a bumper sticker with the word on it and found some desk signs in a drawer upstairs at headquarters. He'd slid one of the signs out and the bright Day-Glo sticker word fit perfectly across the plastic insert. When he slid the sign insert back into its stand, it looked like it had been custom-made for it. Wordlessly he sat the sign on the kitchen table and she screamed with laughter.

“Perfect."

“I'm getting as fruitcake as he is."

“I love it.” Her smile wrinkles deepened and she said, “When you invite them over, be sure you tell Dana that your wife sent him a special invitation—from next door.” They both laughed.

He put the sign back into the sack. This domestic stuff was all right. He could get used to this real quick. They sat finishing breakfast leisurely and he thought to himself how much he'd missed sharing things with someone. Even a stupid joke. Just to have someone you genuinely cared for meant so much. He looked over at this lovable lady and couldn't feel anything but a boundless joy.

“Now whatcha grinnin’ at?” she asked him through a bite of toast.

“My luck, baby,” he said, and went over and had a taste. Crumbs, grape jelly. Donna Eichord—the whole works.

When he finally got to work he was carrying Dana's new sign in a little brown sack that looked like his lunch, and he could hear Chink's voice all the way up on the first landing.

“How come you wanna play Hill Street Blues again, dammit?” he could hear them arguing. “It's been off for a hunnert years."

“I liked it."

“Keerist. You liked the Flying Nun. You been sick since they took Kojak off."

“Go jack off? Go jack off yourself, you little kamikaze reject, if you can find that miniature gherkin you slopes laughingly refer to as a cock.” They went on like this all day. He always wondered how they could have kept it up all those years. After a while it made you tired to hear them. But he loved them, he supposed. And you overlook someone's faults when you love ‘em. He knew they had covered for him a thousand times over the years. Covered for him back when he stayed blitzed to the gills on the job. Of course, they never let up about it either. That was their style. Anything was fair game for these flaky friends of his.

“Good morning,” he'd say, and Lee would look up and shake his head, “Swacked again,” he would sigh, “Four hours late to work. Pathetic. All we ask is whatever you do don't breathe on the captain's shield. He just got it shined yesterday."

“Yeah,” Fat Dana would chime in, “and that heavy a concentration of alcohol will tarnish gold faster'n saltwater'll eat out the bottom of a ‘64 Olds Cutlass."

“Speaking of heavy concentrations of things that eat,” he'd say, and the thing that sometimes passed for witty repartee in Buckhead Station would begin.

Eichord's walk coming down the flight of steps was unmistakable to them and they made him halfway down, and he “overheard” them begin to discuss him at the top of their lungs.

“And another thing about that mother grabbing, headline-grabbing Jack Eichord, man, his EGO is so damn big he no longer thinks he has to shower or bathe. Have you noticed? PHEW!"

“Oh, shucks, yes,” Lee's partner could be heard to say. “Eichord stinks like a wet Saint Bernard's crotch. It's getting so bad—"

“The real question is how you assholes know what a Saint Bernard's crotch smells like,” Eichord said as he reached the door of the Squad Room.

“Hey,” Lee acknowledged his friend's presence. “Don't you love it when he talks dirty."

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Tuny boomed in his announcer voice, “the Major Crimes Task Farce proudly prevents...” He cued his Oriental partner for a fanfare.

“Taaaah-daaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!"

“That Sherlock Holmes of winos, the old skid-row supersleuth himself, let's hear it for the boss of the Bourbon Street beat."

“Taa-daaaaaaaahhhhhhh!"

“Lovable, intoxicating, Blackjack Eichord, human distillery!"

They broke up as Eichord, who had moved behind Dana Tuny, reached over with both hands and gently squeezed the man's prominent chest, which bulged his shirt out to a noticeable degree,

“Up to about a fifty-two-C now, are we? These are getting ripe."

“A fifty-four-D-cup actually. Officer,” Dana told him, “and I wish you wouldn't stop. I'm getting kinda hot from that."

“A teacup?” Lee said incredulously. “Did you say a TEACUP? Hey, that's bullshit. You couldn't fit those baby blimpers into a teacup. You be lucky to squeeze one into a casserole dish."

“I'll squeeze you into a casserole dish, you little dink handjob. I'll fuck you over so many times you'll think you're the center on a Greek football team. I'll—"

“Hey, Big D."

“Eh?"

“Donna sent you something."

“No shit?"

“Yeah. Really, it's starting to bug me a little. I just don't like the way my wife's always thinking about you."

“Uh. Well, what can I say? She knows a real man when she sees one.” Lee screamed with laughter at that one. “Shaddup ya fuckin’ pickleprong. Whatta YOU know about it?"

“Yeah,” Eichord continued, “she just can't get you out of her mind. Wanted me to give you a little something. What do you think we got for you? Huh?” He held up the sack the way you might do with a kid.

“I'm a genius now I know what's inna sack, for shit's sake. What do I look like, Bobbie Fisher?"

“You look like CARRIE Fisher through the tits there, but what's in the sack? Give up? Maybe something you can put on your desk so we'll all know what you are—eh?” He slipped the sign out and put it on Dana's desk. Lee started screaming hysterically as soon as he read the sign. He fell from his chair to the floor and began pounding it with his fists.

“Jesus, cheer up,” Dana told him. “It ain't THAT fuckin’ funny."

“Oh...” He could barely catch his breath he was laughing so hard. “Chunk, my man,” he roared, “oh, yeah, that's perfect—you are a fucking CHOWHOUND!” He went into another fit of screaming laughter.

“Fuckin’ flakes."

“Chowhound,” he said as he fought for air. “Oh, I'm gonna’ fucking DIE."