worth mentioning, though. It was the dead opposite of Susan Tamarack's waifishness. This lady had more curves than an Adirondack mountain road.
And she sure was distraught. Was she simply mourning her boss's death ... or had he been more to her than just a boss?
The bleached blonde bombshell caught me staring. "Can I help you?" she asked irritably.
My face reddened. "No. Didn't mean to interrupt," I said, and withdrew, leaving her alone with her grief.
From Albany to Troy is only a hop, skip, and downwardly mobile jump away. I decided to drive right over to the Troy Police Department. On the streets of Troy, my rusty old car fit right in.
I told the cop at the front desk that I had information about Jack Tamarack's murder. He passed me straight through to the chief of police himself, Lou Coates, an overweight, middle-aged black man with a permanent scowl on his face. In his defense, if I had to spend all day in that windowless office of his, filled with the stench of stale cigarettes, I'd be scowling, too.
Sitting down in a cheap plastic chair with "Fuck the pigs" graffiti written in red marker on the seat, I gazed around at the chief's graying, grime-covered walls. When was the last time anyone had cleaned this joint? Evidently that job had been cut from the police budget.
"Whatchou got?" Chief Coates asked me belligerently, without preamble.
"I'm a friend of Will Shmuckler," I began, "and I'm doing some investigating on his behalf. I'm hoping we can work together."
The chief lit a cigarett e. Pall Mall, filterless. "Whatchou got?" he repeated.
"Well, I'm following a couple of leads. Right now they're in the preliminary stages."
"In other words, you ain't got bupkus."
"I wouldn't put it that way, exactly —"
"If you ain't got bupkus, then why are you wasting my time?"
"Sir, I really think —"
"What's your name?"
"Jacob Burns. You've probably heard of me—"
"Bet your ass I have. John Walsh warned me you might come sniffing around."
John Walsh was this guy's counterpart at the Saratoga Springs Police Department. To put it mildly, Chief Walsh was not my biggest fan. But I beamed on Coates, trying to bluster my way through. "Good, I'm glad Walsh called. He must've told you how I solved two murders for him in Saratoga."
"No, he told me you were a royal pain in the kishkes who fucked up twice, big time, and got lucky. That's what he told me."
I kept right on beaming. "I love it when goyim use Yiddish. Where'd you learn the word kishkes?”
"Crown Heights. You w ant Yiddish, I'll give you Yiddish. If you don't watch your tukhus, you're gonna be facocked . You try to cover up for the Shmuck, I'll throw you in jail as an accessory to murder. You got that, shlemazel?”
I frowned. "I think the word you're looking for is shlemiel."
The chief nodded. "Could be. Haven't been back to the Heights in years. Now get the fuck out of here and don't let me ever see your ugly punimunim again."
I got up and walked out, feeling good about multiculturalism but not so good otherwise. Being a private dick is a lonely job. No wonder so many of those guys hit the bottle.
Fortunately, unlike all the great private dicks of yore, I had a family to keep me relatively sane and sober. I went home and delayed answering all the anxious phone messages from Will so that I could hang out with the wife and kids for a while. I ate Andrea's delicious eggplant parmigiana and listened patiently as the boys regaled me with their computer stories. Or at least, I pretended to listen patiently.
Then, over dessert, I described my failed attempt to get hold of Senator Ducky at his office. "Why don't you just go to his house?" Bernie asked.
"Because I don't know where he lives, and it's not in the phone book."
"Then why don't you just look on the Internet?" demanded Derek.
"I don't think the Internet can give you addresses —"
"Sure it can! I read all about it in the Dummy's Guide!”
I stared at him. I k new my seven-year-old was
And she sure was distraught. Was she simply mourning her boss's death ... or had he been more to her than just a boss?
The bleached blonde bombshell caught me staring. "Can I help you?" she asked irritably.
My face reddened. "No. Didn't mean to interrupt," I said, and withdrew, leaving her alone with her grief.
From Albany to Troy is only a hop, skip, and downwardly mobile jump away. I decided to drive right over to the Troy Police Department. On the streets of Troy, my rusty old car fit right in.
I told the cop at the front desk that I had information about Jack Tamarack's murder. He passed me straight through to the chief of police himself, Lou Coates, an overweight, middle-aged black man with a permanent scowl on his face. In his defense, if I had to spend all day in that windowless office of his, filled with the stench of stale cigarettes, I'd be scowling, too.
Sitting down in a cheap plastic chair with "Fuck the pigs" graffiti written in red marker on the seat, I gazed around at the chief's graying, grime-covered walls. When was the last time anyone had cleaned this joint? Evidently that job had been cut from the police budget.
"Whatchou got?" Chief Coates asked me belligerently, without preamble.
"I'm a friend of Will Shmuckler," I began, "and I'm doing some investigating on his behalf. I'm hoping we can work together."
The chief lit a cigarett e. Pall Mall, filterless. "Whatchou got?" he repeated.
"Well, I'm following a couple of leads. Right now they're in the preliminary stages."
"In other words, you ain't got bupkus."
"I wouldn't put it that way, exactly —"
"If you ain't got bupkus, then why are you wasting my time?"
"Sir, I really think —"
"What's your name?"
"Jacob Burns. You've probably heard of me—"
"Bet your ass I have. John Walsh warned me you might come sniffing around."
John Walsh was this guy's counterpart at the Saratoga Springs Police Department. To put it mildly, Chief Walsh was not my biggest fan. But I beamed on Coates, trying to bluster my way through. "Good, I'm glad Walsh called. He must've told you how I solved two murders for him in Saratoga."
"No, he told me you were a royal pain in the kishkes who fucked up twice, big time, and got lucky. That's what he told me."
I kept right on beaming. "I love it when goyim use Yiddish. Where'd you learn the word kishkes?”
"Crown Heights. You w ant Yiddish, I'll give you Yiddish. If you don't watch your tukhus, you're gonna be facocked . You try to cover up for the Shmuck, I'll throw you in jail as an accessory to murder. You got that, shlemazel?”
I frowned. "I think the word you're looking for is shlemiel."
The chief nodded. "Could be. Haven't been back to the Heights in years. Now get the fuck out of here and don't let me ever see your ugly punimunim again."
I got up and walked out, feeling good about multiculturalism but not so good otherwise. Being a private dick is a lonely job. No wonder so many of those guys hit the bottle.
Fortunately, unlike all the great private dicks of yore, I had a family to keep me relatively sane and sober. I went home and delayed answering all the anxious phone messages from Will so that I could hang out with the wife and kids for a while. I ate Andrea's delicious eggplant parmigiana and listened patiently as the boys regaled me with their computer stories. Or at least, I pretended to listen patiently.
Then, over dessert, I described my failed attempt to get hold of Senator Ducky at his office. "Why don't you just go to his house?" Bernie asked.
"Because I don't know where he lives, and it's not in the phone book."
"Then why don't you just look on the Internet?" demanded Derek.
"I don't think the Internet can give you addresses —"
"Sure it can! I read all about it in the Dummy's Guide!”
I stared at him. I k new my seven-year-old was
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