Slice

BUCKHEAD STATION

It was unusually quiet in the squad room, but Eichord only noticed the stillness when it was shattered by a phone on Brown's desk, and the ensuing one-way conversation that Jack tuned out. Eichord, Lee, Tuny, and Brown were all doing paperwork. The clack of Tuny's typewriter and the deep sonority of Brown's resonant tones had a lulling effect on Jack, who was sleepy and bored and clock-watching at three in the afternoon.

He was doodling. Drawing a picture of the little kitten, a terrible likeness. Filling in the clearly delineated M in the middle of the cat's forehead that seemed to mark so many gray cats, a species of animal about which he knew next to nothing.

But he thought about Boy, their dog, the day it was killed. He still remembered Boy, whom he'd adopted, or who had adopted Jack, while he was working on a murder case in Dallas. He remembered that last day he was holding the dog in his lap and he told the animal, “It's hard to imagine you used to be a starved, puny mutt. Now look what we've got.” He patted the dog. “I guess I've made you what you are today,” he said as he affectionately patted the obese canine's low-slung belly. “Fat,” to which Donna had said cheerfully from the next room, “I certainly hope you're not talking to me,” and they'd laughed. That same day Boy had run out in the street in front of the wrong truck. Adiós, Boy. He was glad he'd brought the kitten home. He was sitting there thinking about Tuffy when Lee said, “Jack!"

“Yo."

“Quit that daydreamin'."

“Right."

“You had a weird expression on your face. What were you thinking about?"

“Pussy,” he answered truthfully, “gray pussy."

“I ain't never had any that old yet. Peg's starting to look a little gray but it may be only a urinary infection. That's what we suspect anyway."

“I'm beginning to suspect YOU'RE a urinary infection. I know you sure can piss a person off."

“Hey, that's not bad. Well, that's all right. Shit. I was starting to wonder if you'd lost it. Long as you can still zing one now and then I don't have to worry. In case tub” — he gestured at the rotund cop typing at the desk next to his—"ever gets hold of a bad burrito and pulls the pin on me I at least know where I can get a partner with a sense of humor."

“Listen to this shit,” fat Dana said. “There's a Peter Drier in Records down at Metro. Dig it, girls, we ain't even got a washcloth in the men's room and those assholes have their own Peter Drier!” He screamed, stamping his feet the way he'd seen Sammy Davis Jr. do once on TV. “Oh, damn, I'm funny."

“Uh huh,” Eichord said, yawning loudly.

“Yeah,” his partner said as he turned, “Chunk, you really are a fucking ton of fun."

Jack got up and stretched. Then he shoved his chair up to the desk and left for home. Shank of the afternoon. He'd had it. Fuck it. He was tired of listening to the phone ring and wondering when it would be IAD wanting to talk to Jimmie Lee.

And every week that went by without another problem Lee would say to him when they were alone—nudge, nudge, “See. I tole ya. Nobody's gonna know nothin',” and Eichord would let his shoulders droop and he'd close his eyes and just stand there, his entire body screaming. No ... WRONG ... But Lee would get all the more adamant about it. How it had been “just one of those things.” And it was all over. But they both knew it wasn't like that. Eichord had done a lot of stupid things in his time but he'd always been wise about money. And he knew and he knew that Chink knew: stolen money never spent well.