Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? (34 page)

“But the car's in my name.” Actually, Connor isn't surprised.

“That's just a formality. It means nothing.”

Connor, however, isn't sure he's going back to San Diego, so he remains silent.

Linda steps around Connor. “So why'd Angelina give you the motorcycle?”

Didi's never seen her before. He looks indignant. “Do I know you?”

“Tell us about the bike,” says Connor.

“Angelina gave it to me to piss off her ex-husband. It's a charitable gift, so she can take seventeen grand off her taxes. It's almost like real money.”

There's an awkward pause, and then Linda says, “There must be more.”

Didi gives her another indignant look. But these are bogus indignant looks. Who can guess what he really thinks? “Well, if you must know, I'm working for her.”

Connor asks what kind of work, and Didi hesitates, says it doesn't matter, says they're in a hurry, says he'll tell him in San Diego. Then he shrugs. “I'm setting up meetings of Prom Queens Anonymous, setting up the whole organization. It'll be a job like any other.” Seeing Connor's doubt, he adds, “Angelina says she'll have me arrested if I don't help her. It'll only take a week or so, and then we're heading for Florida. I told her I could help her set up a nonprofit organization, file papers with the state. All the legal stuff. Make everything on the up-and-up.”

“That'll be a first,” says Connor. “What about paying me?”

Didi rests a hand on Connor's shoulder. “I'll send you a check in San Diego.”

He says this with such assurance that Connor knows he's lying. Connor's used to this: The more truthful Didi seems, the more the truth's in doubt.

“I want the money now.”

They go back and forth, with Didi saying that he can't and Connor saying that he can. At last Didi takes a roll of bills from his coat. “Well, it'll have to be less than the check.” He peels off ten one-hundred-dollar bills and slaps Connor on the back.

“You can send me a check for the remainder,” says Connor.

They all laugh at such an absurd idea. Didi climbs onto the bike.

“What about paying Vaughn as well?” says Linda.

Didi's bogus indignation returns. “What's he need money for? He only buys yellow pads and clear nail polish.”

“He needs it to eat.” Linda takes out her cell phone. “I'm calling the police.”

Didi's eyes widen, a sincere response to a disagreeable situation. He peels off another ten hundred-dollar bills. “You deserve a girlfriend like this, Connor. She'll cut your balls off.”

Taking the money, Linda smiles sweetly. “I'd never do that to my friends.”

Didi starts up the Harley. The noise wipes out future sentences and voices Didi's displeasure. That'll be the end of the talk. Eartha gives a little wave and mouths something; it could be “I'll miss you” or “I love you” or “Take care of yourselves.” They can't tell. The Harley Fat Bob rumbles up the street.

—

M
anny is late. He'd wanted to get to the hospital earlier. He'd wanted to give Vikström a piece of his mind, but he had to drop by police headquarters and oversee the booking of Chucky. Jimbo and Joesy are in Lawrence + Memorial Hospital. Jimbo's foot is infected, starting at the spot where his toe was blown off. Joesy has a broken hip. They'll be spared jail food for a while. Chucky keeps demanding to see his lawyer, but it won't do much good. Chucky shot a cop, and no way will anyone get bail. It'll be a long time before Chucky sees the outside of prison, if at all.

Manny gets to Lawrence + Memorial Hospital in the early afternoon. It's also on Montauk, about six blocks from Fat Bob's house. Manny's been seething ever since Vikström was shot. He, too, has been wounded, but it's psychological. Even so, Manny is sure his wound is the worse of the two.

Vikström, being a cop, gets a room of his own. It's one of the job's little perks. Manny lopes through the hospital, holding his ID in front of him so no one slows him down. “Get outta my way!” he shouts. Maybe he's still seeing red when he bursts into Vikström's room; maybe he's not seeing at all.

“You son of a bitch!” he shouts. “You did it on purpose, you got shot on purpose! You're trying to obligate me in some way, fuckin' make me beholden. Fat chance, scumbag. I know your tricks! It's not going to work!”

But Vikström's not alone in the room; he has visitors. First there's Detective Sergeant Masters, supervisor of the Detective Bureau; then we have Detectives Herta Spiegel and Moss Jackson; then there's Vikström's wife, Maud. Together they form a quartet of matching facial expressions: surprise and disappointment fading to anger and indignation.

Vikström regards his partner with no expression at all, unless it's a small smile he can't conceal. He sits up in bed. He's been shot in the upper arm, and his arm and shoulder are wrapped in bandages. He'll be out by evening.

Vikström clears his throat and assumes a look of forbearing resignation. Somewhere deep inside he's laughing his butt off.

“I risked my life to save yours,” he tells his partner. “I almost died so you could live.” This is surely overdramatic, but his four guests all nod in agreement.

Discovery comes to Manny much as the New World came to Columbus. He knows he's been defeated. He knows that in the future, whenever he criticizes, mocks, or makes fun of his partner, Vikström can look at him sadly and say, “I risked my life,” et cetera. Vikström has won. What an awful turn of events.

—

A
snapshot of the awfulness is given to Manny the next day when Vikström picks him up to go over to Fat Bob's house on Montauk. Vikström heard from Joesy that morning that he'd seen Fidget lying in the bathtub draped with gold. The awfulness first appears in the phrase “I'll drive, Manny,” then in “Stop humming, Manny,” then in “Run into Dunkin' Donuts and get me a coffee and a raspberry jelly doughnut, Manny,” then, at the house, “Don't walk in front of me, Manny.”

The back door has been opened, and the detectives enter the kitchen. Both worry that Fidget might be dead. Vikström calls his name and hears no answer.

But no, Fidget is alive. They find him upstairs asleep in the tub, glittering with Sal's gold, his ears stuffed with cotton.

“Take some pictures, Manny, or nobody will believe it.”

So Manny takes pictures with his smartphone.
How pretty he looks,
thinks Vikström.
How ugly he is,
thinks Manny. Then Vikström gently shakes Fidget's shoulder. “Silly noodle,” he says.

Fidget opens his eyes and removes the cotton. Vikström thinks his smile is beatific. To Manny it's cunning.

There follows a pensive moment as the detectives stare down at Fidget and he looks back. Manny and Vikström consider the money that Fidget has taken from Marco Santuzza's flung wallet and from the pockets of dead Sal, but each thinks the other has forgotten it. To mention the money would mean arresting Fidget for whatever might be missing, though neither detective knows how much the two dead fellows had in the first place. And then there would be all the paperwork. Besides, what would be gained by putting Fidget in jail?

Let Fidget have it,
thinks Vikström.
Let's forget about it,
thinks Manny. And Fidget thinks,
They don't remember the money!
Then he grasps his mistake.
They're letting me keep it!

We guess it's about two hundred dollars. Perhaps Fidget will spend it wisely, but we don't expect that will be the case.

Fidget pushes himself into a sitting position. “I'm glad you guys showed up. I was nearly out of vodka.” Then he sighs. “It's been a great holiday.”

Vikström reaches down and helps Fidget from the tub. Then Fidget removes his bracelet and the Rolex and the gold chains and the rings and the rollerball pen. He gives them to Manny. Who knows what will happen to them afterward?

—

T
hat afternoon Connor, Linda, and Vaughn sit in the Mini-Cooper in front of the train station waiting for Fat Bob to ride by. A spring breeze stirs up the sand pushed to the curb, the same sand dumped on the snow by city workers on Tuesday. Earlier they'd visited the Winnebago to see what they could salvage. It was high tide, and large waves beat against the Hannaquit Breachway. Linda said it would be nice to stay there for a while; Vaughn said that was an unreasonable preposition. They ignored the yellow police tape.

Little is left to salvage. The refrigerator has been tipped over; everything formerly on shelves now litters the floor. Food is spread all over, broken glass ditto. Half of Connor's clothes are riddled with bullet holes; the rest are scattered. Vaughn's clothes and the last yellow pads are also full of holes. They take what they can, but it's a dreary task. They fill two suitcases and put the suitcases in the back of the Mini-Cooper.

When they're parked at the train station, Linda says cheerfully, “So if you stay in New London, what kind of work can you do?”

This is the first Connor hears of staying in New London. He considers it and decides he likes it. “I can do substitute teaching until something better shows up. I don't want to do any casino work. And Vaughn and I need to find a place to stay.”

Linda gives him a little smile. “You can both stay with me till you get settled.”

Connor is sure she's put a special emphasis on “settled,” almost a sexual emphasis. He wants to ask if he's right, but he doesn't know how to frame the question. Perhaps someday he'll learn to ask such questions, perhaps not.

“You sure it's okay if we stay with you?”

Linda's smile increases. “Only if I can call you Zeco.”

An approaching motorcycle distracts him. It's Fat Bob. Connor gets out of the car, and the others follow. Fat Bob's Fat Bob grows louder, then quiets as he pulls up beside the Mini-Cooper.

“I saw you over at my house,” he says. “Chucky's in jail?”

Connor says that he is.

Fat Bob shakes his head. “And you been plaguing Angelina about her dog and being a prom queen. It's got her all worked up, not in a good way. Who are you?”

Connor tries to come up with a suitable answer. Linda gives him a poke in the back and says, “We're orphans from outer space.”

Fat Bob nods seriously. “I guess that's as good a thing as anything else.” He tilts his head at a distant noise. “Uh-oh, I'd better get going.”

Jack Sprat on his red Harley roars down Bank Street. Fat Bob pulls away and accelerates toward I-95. Jack Sprat shoots by. Connor and the others watch the two bikes get smaller in the distance. Connor starts to say,
At least he's not dead yet,
but it seems too obvious a remark. Instead he says, “He must be scared.”

Vaughn says, “Hatcheting a chicken doesn't count.”

Linda leans toward Connor and whispers, “What does he mean by that?”

Connor considers several answers, but another train roars through, its horn obliterating all speech.

STEPHEN DOBYNS
is the author of more than thirty-five novels and poetry collections, including
The Burn Palace
,
The Church of Dead Girls
,
Cold Dog Soup
, and
Cemetery Nights
. Among his many honors are a Melville Cane Award, Pushcart Prizes, a 1983 National Poetry Series selection for
Black Dog, Red Dog: Poems
, and three National Endowment for the Arts fellowships. His novels have been translated into twenty languages, and his poetry has appeared in the
Best American Poetry
anthology. Dobyns, who has taught at the University of Iowa, Boston University, Syracuse University, and Sarah Lawrence College, teaches creative writing in the master of fine arts program at Warren Wilson College.

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