The Canal (3 page)

So yes, he was going to get in your fucking
face a little.

Eventually everyone in homicide had submitted
to Alan's interrogations. Everyone except Joe. Alan didn't
understand this. Joe was his senior partner, he was supposed to be
a wise mentor, a font of insight and knowledge. When Alan had first
heard about his assignment, he couldn't believe his luck. Joe
Lombardi? The Joe Lombardi? But the man ignored him. Intensely.
Until Alan couldn't take it, until Alan finally trapped Joe in a
corner, wild for the merest bit of counsel. How do you do it? That
was the question, over and over. How do you do it? How do you
fucking do it? And then Joe, miraculously, he drew Alan close as if
to whisper a word of advice, a glowing nugget of hard earned
wisdom. He brought his face near Alan's -- and Alan was overjoyed,
ecstatic, thinking to himself: at last -- and what Joe did, what
Joe did instead was lay a hot, still moist, basement dweller of a
belch right in Alan's ear.

A lot had changed since those days. Alan
wasn't a rookie anymore. In fact, Alan had managed to develop a
noteworthy reputation all his own. Alan -- he was TMP. Thorough,
Meticulous, Precise...the holy trinity of getting things done,
efficiency's triple threat. For example, Joe, on a typical day at
work (if he even bothers to show up), will stare out a window, will
stroke his belly, and will smell like a bus station toilet till
closing time. But while he did that, while he fizzled away hours,
weeks, months -- while he did that Alan worked viciously,
ferociously, handling both his cases and all the cases Joe ignored
because the canal didn't play any part. Alan did the work of two
men -- he didn't just believe in TMP, he lived TMP. And what was
Joe compared to that? The man passed wind publicly. He carried a
decades worth of impacted food in the spaces between his teeth. And
always with the same clothes. The same stink. The same dirt. And
that said it all really -- dirt. Despite all that he had supposedly
accomplished, Joe was no better than dirt.

Which was unforgivable. Alan, see, he
respected clean. He appreciated the virtue of a washed hand, a
spritz of air freshener, a thorough gargling of mouth wash, pre-
and post-meal. Because if you thought about it, clean was...it was
a principle. It was strength. The sanitizing gels, the baby wipes
-- they were the markers of civility. And it even went beyond that.
To a higher realm. Because dirt, that was just code for chaos.
While clean, that was the mantle of order. Two timeless forces
locked in epic struggle. And Alan was there at the forefront,
order's tireless foot soldier.

That's why Alan would be victorious. As he
climbed back onto the bridge, he couldn't stay angry with Joe for
long, because in the face of the cleansing power of TMP -- he knew
that dirt didn't stand a chance.

On the bridge, Alan headed past the waiting
cops, all of them standing, scratching, sweating -- man-hours to no
purpose, dollars wasted, and all because of Joe, so he can have a
look around and pry asteroids from his nose.

Alan headed towards detectives Vincent and
Womack. He felt an urge to let the momentum carry him, to keep
going, nice and easy, all the way to his car, getting in, speeding
away from the heat and stink, siren on, windows down, face in the
clean, whipping air. He could go home and clean the maddening itch
from his hand, where Joe had touched it, he didn't live far,
everything in the neighborhood was close -- work, home, even the
canal, just blocks away. But those blocks made a huge difference.
From skids to high society in the space of a hundred yards.

But no. Alan would focus, he would do the
job. He always did the job.

"Look alive," snapped Alan, as he
approached.

Vincent and Womack were decent guys. On a
scale of clean, Womack was a clumsy 6.5, while Vincent was a
well-meaning 7/7.5, depending. Not perfect, but at least they
washed their clothes, combed their hair, and did their work. And
they did what Alan said, which he felt was an exemplary quality for
anyone to have.

Womack was the less serious of the two. He
wore a lot of brown, which Alan guessed was indicative of some
deeper, unaddressed problem. He was a big guy, but it was a
vertical bulk, like a grain elevator shape, or a tube of dough.
Vincent was more together. He had an eye for a good JCPenny suit.
Used plenty of deodorant -- which was good, because Alan disliked
the human scent. Like Womack, Vincent was also something of a
bruiser, but whereas Womack resembled more of a pudding, Vincent
was more formidable, more of a blondish ham steak. He could get
nervous though, a little overemotional, which was a problem. You'd
go to a bar and after two beers he'll be sobbing pretzel sleaze in
your face, going on about the things he's seen, the memories he
can't forget, and the murderin' animals and what they did to that
guy that one time.

"I got the pictures you wanted," said Womack,
fidgeting with a camera. He'd occasionally lean over the bridge's
side, his flash illuminating the river below. The mechanical seemed
ridiculous in Womack's hands. It was like watching a Neanderthal
program a VCR.

"How's it look down there?" asked
Vincent.

"It's as bad as you'd expect."

"Poor bastard," said Womack. "Hope they at
least greased the guy before they, you know, filleted his
mignon."

"It," said Alan.

"Huh?"

"It. You hope they greased it before they
filleted its mignon. You start assuming too much -- him, her, them,
they -- and pretty soon you're making the whole thing up. Your
assumptions begin to influence the way you approach the facts."

"C'mon, I'm just saying."

Vincent poked a finger at Womack, "See,
that's why Alan's gonna make Captain some day while you'll still be
fetching coffee. You're dumb, in other words."

"Jesus, the two of you -- it was a figure of
speech! Alan's way, it doesn't even sound right. Nobody talks like
that."

"Well," said Vincent, "I don't mean to put
words in Alan's mouth but..." Vincent looked at Alan for the
go-ahead. Alan nodded. "But I think what Alan would say to that is
-- if you speak wrong then it means you're thinking wrong. You
can't have it both ways."

"Well put, Vince," agreed Alan. "You've got
it exactly right. Remember you two...detail is everything." He let
that sink in. Vincent seemed to find it profound. Womack looked
away.

"Now if I might," Alan continued, "I'd like
to draw everyone's attention to something more important." He
lowered his voice. "And I'm talking about Joe. I want us all to be
on the same page here. We all know the plan, right?"

The plan really wasn't a plan at all. It was
just work. TMP. Do the job before Joe did. Alan had been waiting
almost an entire year for a canal crime to arrive. And here it was,
in all its gruesome glory. And if he closed a canal case instead of
Joe, what would they need Joe for anymore? The pleasant
companionship? The witty repartee? No.

Alan didn't think it would even be all that
hard. Sure, if you wanted dirt, the canal was the epitome. It
wasn't quite the Anti-Christ, but definitely the Anti-Clean. A
pockmark on the face of all that was right and just, a wilderness
of crud, one of the badlands. But so what? There wasn't a single
mess on this great God given earth that Alan couldn't whisk away
with rational precision and efficient planning.

"Don't you worry about us," said Womack.
"We'll help you chase this one down, and quick."

Vincent seemed about to say something, but
hesitated.

"Something on your mind?" asked Alan.

"I'm just, yeah, I get it and all. I'm just
saying. You know the stories about Joe. I'm just saying the guy is
good at what he does. I mean, and he's never done me wrong,
personally. That's all I'm saying."

"Get over it," groaned Womack. "Joe's a
dinosaur. Alan, Vincent here worries me. He worries me in my sleep,
I can't sleep. I want what you want, Alan, no question there."

Alan looked Vincent in the eye. "Look, all
that stuff you're bothered about -- keep it in your pants. I
absolutely need this Vincent, and I'm not just saying that. Because
this guy, he gives us all a bad name. You, me, the department. And
this name, it's not the kind you would dare speak aloud. I'd have
punched my own mother in the mouth, may she rest in peace, rather
than subject her to this name. In fact, I'd even punch your mother
in the mouth, just to be safe.

"First, in the history of the world, nobody
has solved a murder by staring at a fucking river. Second, it's a
fact that half of what you've heard about Joe is unverifiable
bullshit. And third, I see through all his hocus pocus, and what I
see scares the hell out of me. Something is going on with that man,
and my deepest fear is that nothing is going on with that man. That
he's incompetent. That he managed to stumble across the truth a few
times, and now everybody just assumes he knows what the hell he's
doing. Personally, I don't want to entrust the safety of my family,
or the safety of this city, to a fucking mystery man.

"He's clutter, Vincent. He has obscured the
process of justice. And we owe it to ourselves to remove him."

"I'm-I'm sorry, you're right," said Vincent.
"I shoulda, I was just thinking--"

"And that's your problem," said Alan.
"Thinking."

It was all true, what Alan said. Well, he
believed it, at any rate. And as Alan leaned over and looked down
at the water, to look upon the man himself, Joe Lombardi, he saw
something that gave him pause. It took Alan a few moments to make
out Joe's shape, hunched over in the darkness at the water's edge,
but Alan could almost swear that Joe had his hand in the water.

Alan smiled. He nearly mentioned it to the
others. Something like that, it would have been too perfect, too
appropriate -- but it just wasn't possible. It was his own wishful
thinking, maybe. And as Alan turned his back on the canal, still
smiling at the thought, he knew that for all the man's faults, not
even Joe could manage to be that disgusting.

*

Joe climbed the bridge ladder and dragged
himself over the railing, slow and bleary, like a matinee creature
exhaled from the sea. He flopped onto the sidewalk and lay there.
He could feel the stares.

Joe furtively examined his hand. Pink and
covered in slime, it looked newborn. He quickly hid it in his
pocket and with a groan, got to his feet. Already he felt the first
tinge of fever, a prickling heat on his face and neck.

He started walking, ignoring anyone who
approached him, although most men knew to give him a wide berth by
now. He maneuvered past the patrol cars, through the pulsing siren
light and dueling radio chatter. He blithely went straight through
and snapped the yellow police tape that was strung across the
eastern end of the bridge. From there, he entered darker, quieter
avenues. Strays watched him pass. He tripped on buckled
concrete.

At the bridge, word went around: Lombardi was
on the move. The investigation took its cue, jolting back to life.
Orders were given. A forensics team picked up their gear and got
ready to climb under the bridge.

Joe pushed onward, alone. Across yards of
rubble and glass, a landscape of weeds and razor wire. Seen yet
unseen, these streets were entirely lost to the city's collective
memory -- but that didn't mean they disappeared, that didn't mean
they stopped existing.

In his pocket, his hand clenched and
unclenched, beating with its own inner life. The spit in his mouth
dried to sand.

He had to hurry; he was going to be sick.

*

"They say Lombardi doesn't sleep..."

They were suddenly everywhere on the bridge,
these awed whispers, trailing in the wake of Joe's departure among
the other cops.

"They say the mob won't come near this place
because of him..."

"They say he once solved a homicide before it
happened..."

"They say it's like he's got some kind of, a
sort of fifth sense..."

That one made Alan grimace. More of a filth
sense, perhaps. These fucking whispers. Alan wondered, can an ear
swallow itself? Because he needed to find a way to make that
happen. Anything to not have to hear this inane conversation.

All Alan saw was Joe's back, in retreat. Joe
was already down the road, sticking close to the walls, like how
cockroaches do, then he dodged around a corner. This was how things
usually went. Joe was there...then Joe wasn't. No explanation. No
courtesy. Nothing. You'd think such a wanton act of
unprofessionalism could ruin a reputation. But apparently Joe gets
a pass. Apparently, Joe could hiccup and it would spawn an entire
mythos, the beat cops murmuring about it for years.

"Hey, Alan," called Vincent. He was down next
to the water, where they were finally getting some lights trained
on the body. Vincent was vigorously pointing downriver.

Rumbling towards them was the police harbor
boat. Alan quickly jogged across the crowded bridge, handkerchief
at the ready, and began climbing down. Normally, this was the point
at which Alan would step back from these cases and let Joe go do
whatever it was Joe did. But not this time. This time it was
war.

When he and Vincent finally got on board, the
spectacle wasn't pretty. The propeller was churning up long dormant
pockets of canal filth -- big, ballroom odors, specters of gut
crunch. Vincent tried breathing through his tie. The boat moved
carefully into position, until the rum of dead flesh was almost as
strong as the smell of the canal. Alan leaned over the side to get
his first close look.

"Oh man, how long you think it's been out
here?" asked Vincent.

"I'd guess no more than 24 hours," said Alan.
"Any more than that and the bugs would have turned it to mud by
now."

The skull, a bulb of bloody white, stood out
in stark contrast against a gorilla costume of gore. The eye
sockets were empty. The abdominal organs were missing.