Slice

BUCKHEAD METRO

“Don't say it. Whatever it is. I can tell by the look on your face. Whatever it is I just don't want to hear about it. Keep it to yourself.” Eichord was half-serious.

“How can you tell anything about anything by the look on my face. Don't you know I'm an inscrutable fucking slope?"

“Not today. You're very scrutable today and I don't like what I see in your scru."

“Scru you, too, G.I.” He twisted in the seat. Paranoid.

“Promises, promises.” Eichord looked in the direction of his old friend's glance. “Chrissakes stop that shit you faked me right out of my shoes, man.” They laughed. Jack had teased Lee for years about his inscrutability and his head fakes.

“Fucking NFL lost a great wide receiver when you joined the cops,” Lee said, shaking his head and laughing. “Jesus, I hate it when you do that to me. I'll be saying something and you look so SERIOUS all of a sudden and those eyes go BOIIINNNG like you just saw a naked lady in a tree and every damn time I look where you're looking. Remind me never to play touch football with you."

“I'm antsy down here. Fucking IAD could tail us ten different ways. Put a beeper under the car like in the movies. Shit. Tap the cigarette lighter."

“I really don't want to hear that shit, man. How many times I got to say it. Keep all that shit to yourself."

“I can't."

“Say what?"

“I can't, Jack. I know you don't want to hear it but I got nobody else I can talk to. I can't put this shit on Dana, you know that."

“Oh, right. You can't put it on precious Dana but old Jack—that's different. You can put it on me all right. No sweat."

“You know that's not what I mean, asshole. Dana, shit, he's like my brother. I love that fat schmuck. But he's ... weak. You know what I mean. He'd fucking go to pieces under this. You're all I got, pops. I gotta talk to somebody. I—I can't put this on Peggy. And Dana. Shit. All he wants to know is should HE take some."

“Uh huh. The question is, why talk at all. I ain't the confessional."

“Shit, I can't help it, man, I'm scared,” and with that this hard-nosed, two-fisted, tough-talking wiseguy-type Detective Sergeant James Lee, the same James Lee who had saved Eichord's butt in the Orient, James Jimmie the Chink Lee, was bawling like a little baby and Eichord was looking at him not believing it and knowing that it was the beginning of something bad. Then again, Lee cried easily.

“What the fuck,” he said in his quietest voice when Lee had gotten the giggles and stopped sobbing. “Just where I want to be tonight. I'm married to the most beautiful woman in the world. She's made me a nice, cozy home. Where am I? Am I home kissin’ my lady? Roasting my toes in front of a roaring bowl of popcorn? Noooooooooo. I'm in the basement of Metro Parking watching you have a fucking nervous breakdown. What did I do to deserve this?"

“It's too hot to roast your toes in front of a roaring bowl of popcorn. Roast your balls on one of these.” Lee popped the tab on a beer can and passed it to Eichord as he snuffled. Lee then realized what he'd done and snatched it away spilling foam on Jack's hand.

“Sorry, man—"

“Oh, thanks a ton.” Jack wiped it off.

“Shit. I forgot,” he said meekly.

“Nu?"

“I took twelve thousand dollars.” Just like that. No preamble. Nothing. Just—care for a beer? Or by the way, I know you don't want to hear this but would you mind becoming an accessory to robbery?

“Ohhhhhh,” Eichord breathed out and tried not to inhale again. Ever. It didn't work.

“I'm sorry."

“You're telling me."

“Okay. So why am I in trouble, you ask. I mean, I'm a big boy. I take twelve kay and I got my reasons. I must know I can deal with it. Am I having guilt pangs? Second thoughts? A troubled conscience? No. I'm scared shitless I'm gonna get caught.” Lee poured out the whole story, Eichord saying, “You goddamn MORON,” or some variation thereof, every few minutes. At the end of the summation Lee said, “So meanwhile, they got the dudes. One of ‘em rolled over for immunity. And you know the fucking feds, man. So this thing gets tallied up, it's a $28,145.00 bank robbery, and they've backtracked $16,145 up to the doors of Buckhead Mercantile. So somewhere in between the shooting of the guard inside the bank and the front door, twelve grand got lost."

“Ummmmm.” A groan of pain. He just wasn't fucking believing any of it. Not a word. “You ARE going to tell me this is some awful put-on you and the dirigible devised for my torture, aren't you? Say yes even if it's no."

“Yes."

“Wonderful. Just as I thought."

“No."

“Yes."

“'Fraid not, Papa-san."

“Well?"

“What do I do now?"

“You know the answer as well as I do."

“Unnn?"

“No choice."

“What?"

“Don't gimme that WHAT shit."

“What?"

“You know what you got to do."

“No. That's it, man. I don't."

“You don't have a choice. Chink. You've got to tell ‘em."

“Bullshit,” he whispered.

“Tell ‘em you fucked up and give ‘em the money back."

“You know I ain't gonna do that."

“You gotta."

“I can't.” A long silence in the car.

“Sometimes I think I've been in more deep shit than a plumber's friend."

“Yeah? I've seen more shit than the inside of a dinosaur's asshole."

“Well,” Eichord said as he started the engine, “you don't need me for THIS shit. You already GOT both halves of a comedy team.” He pulled out of the shadowy parking stall and started up the ramp toward the street.

Jack said, without looking over at him, saying it one more time just to hear himself say the words, “Think about it, babe. You gotta give it back."

But his friend was snapping his fingers, in Tahoe by now, on stage silently doing Tony Bennett's act: tux, Guccis, Ralph at the piano, rug in place, Basie's guys behind him, a big roll of hundreds in his pocket, singin’ and swingin'. The best thing Eichord could hope for now was that he wouldn't start singing out loud.