he said. Mitch, from New York, was helpful. He reported that Carmine had asked for a hitter to take out Service just a week or so before Service had done the number on Carmine. Then Carmine had put the hitter on hold. Now, if Humphrey liked, Mitch would gladly supply the hitter. Humphrey liked. He had liked Joe too, once, but that was once. A guy who would poison food . . . who would have thought?
Mitch's hitter he didn't like, not even for a minute. He was a prick. He called himself Mario Soper. Self-important—you couldn't tell him anything—and he didn't talk. He just sat and looked at you with dull eyes and a slack mouth, like he wanted to pull the trigger on you, too. Maybe he thought that was a good tactic; it kept everybodyon their toes. But Humphrey thought it was bullshit. Now, Joe, he was arrogant too, in his way, but he was funny, he was human. This turd . . . Humphrey couldn't stand him. He was perversely pleased when the jerk didn't find anything. Everybody in Detroit was glad when the prick left after a few days. He'd managed to piss everybody off.
And then, of course, just when everything was settling down and business was back to normal, Humphrey's least favorite cop, Mulheisen from the Ninth, started nosing around.
Mulheisen didn't look so tough at first glance. He wasn't a big man, but big enough. He might be known on the street as “Sergeant Fang,” but he really wasn't unattractive; many women liked him, some of them quite a bit. His friends didn't just like him, they were devoted to him. But he had enemies and they loathed him. It didn't seem to bother Mulheisen, one way or the other. He wasn't one of those men who cares what others think of him.
One afternoon, not long after Carmine's death, Mulheisen had dropped into Humphrey's office at Krispee Chips, accompanied by his young assistant, Jimmy Marshall. Tall, dark brown, sometimes wearing glasses, sometimes wearing contact lenses, Sgt. Marshall was in some ways more menacing than Mulheisen. As Marshall had gotten older (he was about thirty), he had filled out a little, he looked stronger, and he was. He cultivated a kind of Malcolm X clean-cut look, complete with enigmatic smiles. He could make one believe he was looking right through one and didn't like what he saw.
Mulheisen gazed about the office and said, “I see you've still got Carmine's rat. Mind if I smoke?”
“Go right ahead, Mul. The rat belongs to Carmine's wife, but she hasn't come for it. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you a drink? Anything?”
“No,” Mulheisen said, lighting up a No. 4 La Regenta. “Well, coffee. Do you do good coffee, Fat?”
Humphrey lurched forward, his great belly pressing against thedesk, to poke at a teak name board on which was mounted what looked like, but surely wasn't, a solid gold plate. It was engraved, MR. DIEBOLA. “Call me Humphrey, Mul,” he said.
Mulheisen's pale brows shot up. “Humphrey? You mean like Hubert H.? Or would it be the old Smollett character, Humphry Clinker?”
“Smollett?” Humphrey was surprised and pleased by this reference. As a teenager he had struggled through Smollett's strange eighteenth-century novel about an amiable and competent servant of a country squire, hoping in some sympathetically magic way that it would help to inform him about who he was. It hadn't, but he had found it amusing. He had never told anyone, of course, that he had read such arcane stuff, just as he had never let it out that he had read Jane Austen. But it was curiously gratifying to know that Mulheisen knew about Humphry Clinker.
Humphrey punched a button and told Miss Gardino to please bring in a tray of coffee. Then he heaved himself to his feet and made his way with swinging arms to a handsome cabinet, from which he extracted an old bottle of calvados. He wheezed his way back and set it on the edge of the desk just as Miss Gardino arrived with a chromed vacuum carafe of coffee, accompanied by a bone china creamer and sugar bowl to
Mitch's hitter he didn't like, not even for a minute. He was a prick. He called himself Mario Soper. Self-important—you couldn't tell him anything—and he didn't talk. He just sat and looked at you with dull eyes and a slack mouth, like he wanted to pull the trigger on you, too. Maybe he thought that was a good tactic; it kept everybodyon their toes. But Humphrey thought it was bullshit. Now, Joe, he was arrogant too, in his way, but he was funny, he was human. This turd . . . Humphrey couldn't stand him. He was perversely pleased when the jerk didn't find anything. Everybody in Detroit was glad when the prick left after a few days. He'd managed to piss everybody off.
And then, of course, just when everything was settling down and business was back to normal, Humphrey's least favorite cop, Mulheisen from the Ninth, started nosing around.
Mulheisen didn't look so tough at first glance. He wasn't a big man, but big enough. He might be known on the street as “Sergeant Fang,” but he really wasn't unattractive; many women liked him, some of them quite a bit. His friends didn't just like him, they were devoted to him. But he had enemies and they loathed him. It didn't seem to bother Mulheisen, one way or the other. He wasn't one of those men who cares what others think of him.
One afternoon, not long after Carmine's death, Mulheisen had dropped into Humphrey's office at Krispee Chips, accompanied by his young assistant, Jimmy Marshall. Tall, dark brown, sometimes wearing glasses, sometimes wearing contact lenses, Sgt. Marshall was in some ways more menacing than Mulheisen. As Marshall had gotten older (he was about thirty), he had filled out a little, he looked stronger, and he was. He cultivated a kind of Malcolm X clean-cut look, complete with enigmatic smiles. He could make one believe he was looking right through one and didn't like what he saw.
Mulheisen gazed about the office and said, “I see you've still got Carmine's rat. Mind if I smoke?”
“Go right ahead, Mul. The rat belongs to Carmine's wife, but she hasn't come for it. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you a drink? Anything?”
“No,” Mulheisen said, lighting up a No. 4 La Regenta. “Well, coffee. Do you do good coffee, Fat?”
Humphrey lurched forward, his great belly pressing against thedesk, to poke at a teak name board on which was mounted what looked like, but surely wasn't, a solid gold plate. It was engraved, MR. DIEBOLA. “Call me Humphrey, Mul,” he said.
Mulheisen's pale brows shot up. “Humphrey? You mean like Hubert H.? Or would it be the old Smollett character, Humphry Clinker?”
“Smollett?” Humphrey was surprised and pleased by this reference. As a teenager he had struggled through Smollett's strange eighteenth-century novel about an amiable and competent servant of a country squire, hoping in some sympathetically magic way that it would help to inform him about who he was. It hadn't, but he had found it amusing. He had never told anyone, of course, that he had read such arcane stuff, just as he had never let it out that he had read Jane Austen. But it was curiously gratifying to know that Mulheisen knew about Humphry Clinker.
Humphrey punched a button and told Miss Gardino to please bring in a tray of coffee. Then he heaved himself to his feet and made his way with swinging arms to a handsome cabinet, from which he extracted an old bottle of calvados. He wheezed his way back and set it on the edge of the desk just as Miss Gardino arrived with a chromed vacuum carafe of coffee, accompanied by a bone china creamer and sugar bowl to
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