When he straightened, he was adjusting a wide-brimmed Smokey the Bear hat on his head. With a long flashlight in his left hand, the policeman began walking toward Maranzano’s car. As he walked he unsnapped the safety strap of his holster, then continued with his hand resting on the butt of his service revolver.
Still in the shadow cast by the single tree, Maranzano used his right hand to slip an ice pick from its homemade leather sheath slung beneath his left arm. After a moment’s thought he slipped the ice pick point first into the left sleeve of the light wool jacket he wore, adjusting the pick so that the handle was cupped in his left hand. Then, leaving the plastic shopping bag where it lay, he stepped boldly away from the tree, began walking toward the gate, dragging his feet noisily on the gravel pathway. As he pushed open the gate he called out cheerfully, “Looking for me, Officer?”
“This your car?”
“Well,” Maranzano said, walking along the fence toward the policeman, “yes and no, I suppose is the answer. I rented it in Sacramento. Why? Has one like it been stolen?”
Suddenly the flashlight came on, focused blinding-bright on his face. “Hey.” He put indignation in the single word, the pissed-off taxpayer protesting. Repeating: “Hey, you mind?”
In response, the flashlight beam dropped, focused now on his torso. But the voice from behind the light came cold and hard: “What’re you doing here, this time of night?”
He moved his head in the direction from which he’d come, smiling as he said, “I was coming along that goddam levee road, and the next thing I knew, I could hardly see the goddam hood ornament, all that ground fog.”
“That’s the levee road. This is here. What’re you doing here?”
“I’m lost, is what I’m doing here. I’m looking for Fowler’s Landing. Can you help me out?”
“But why’re you parked here, is what I’m asking. And where were you when I drove up?”
Maranzano sighed loudly, another pissed-off-taxpayer protest. “Well, Officer, if you really have to know, I was taking a shit. My stomach, the last hour or two, it’s tied up in knots. So—” He shrugged, man-to-man admitting, “So I was out beating the bushes, you might say, looking for some paper on the ground.” Now, man-to-man smiling: “You ever have to shit, and you don’t have any paper?”
The flashlight beam had fallen waist-high now, an accommodation. Yes, it would all work out. And, confirming it: “I’ve got some newspaper in the car.”
“Well, thanks anyhow.” The smile was wide open now, as friendly as he could make it. “But I’m all set now. Some litter-bug, thank God. But if you don’t mind, if you can spare some of that newspaper, maybe I’ll take it along. Just in case.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Thanks, Officer. I appreciate it.”
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Matuska. Frank Matuska. That’s Polish.”
“Ah—Polish.” The policeman nodded. Then, politely: “Just let me see some identification, Mr. Matuska. Then I’ll get that newspaper and you can be on your way.”
“Oh. Sure.” Careful not to do it too suddenly, he began a movement with his left hand, to reach in his left hip pocket for the wallet that contained his fake ID. But the handle of the ice pick rested in the palm of his left hand. Could he reach the left hip pocket with his right hand? No, it was not possible. Could he support the ice pick with the little finger of his left hand, using the other three fingers and thumb to withdraw the wallet? No. Never.
“What’s the problem?” As he spoke, the policeman moved back one cautious step, then another. He’d opened six feet between them, guarding against a knife attack. Now his right hand was in motion, dropping toward the butt of his holstered revolver. The flashlight beam was focusing on Maranzano’s left arm, still half concealed behind his back.
“It’s this button. They’re new pants.” As he spoke,
Still in the shadow cast by the single tree, Maranzano used his right hand to slip an ice pick from its homemade leather sheath slung beneath his left arm. After a moment’s thought he slipped the ice pick point first into the left sleeve of the light wool jacket he wore, adjusting the pick so that the handle was cupped in his left hand. Then, leaving the plastic shopping bag where it lay, he stepped boldly away from the tree, began walking toward the gate, dragging his feet noisily on the gravel pathway. As he pushed open the gate he called out cheerfully, “Looking for me, Officer?”
“This your car?”
“Well,” Maranzano said, walking along the fence toward the policeman, “yes and no, I suppose is the answer. I rented it in Sacramento. Why? Has one like it been stolen?”
Suddenly the flashlight came on, focused blinding-bright on his face. “Hey.” He put indignation in the single word, the pissed-off taxpayer protesting. Repeating: “Hey, you mind?”
In response, the flashlight beam dropped, focused now on his torso. But the voice from behind the light came cold and hard: “What’re you doing here, this time of night?”
He moved his head in the direction from which he’d come, smiling as he said, “I was coming along that goddam levee road, and the next thing I knew, I could hardly see the goddam hood ornament, all that ground fog.”
“That’s the levee road. This is here. What’re you doing here?”
“I’m lost, is what I’m doing here. I’m looking for Fowler’s Landing. Can you help me out?”
“But why’re you parked here, is what I’m asking. And where were you when I drove up?”
Maranzano sighed loudly, another pissed-off-taxpayer protest. “Well, Officer, if you really have to know, I was taking a shit. My stomach, the last hour or two, it’s tied up in knots. So—” He shrugged, man-to-man admitting, “So I was out beating the bushes, you might say, looking for some paper on the ground.” Now, man-to-man smiling: “You ever have to shit, and you don’t have any paper?”
The flashlight beam had fallen waist-high now, an accommodation. Yes, it would all work out. And, confirming it: “I’ve got some newspaper in the car.”
“Well, thanks anyhow.” The smile was wide open now, as friendly as he could make it. “But I’m all set now. Some litter-bug, thank God. But if you don’t mind, if you can spare some of that newspaper, maybe I’ll take it along. Just in case.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Thanks, Officer. I appreciate it.”
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Matuska. Frank Matuska. That’s Polish.”
“Ah—Polish.” The policeman nodded. Then, politely: “Just let me see some identification, Mr. Matuska. Then I’ll get that newspaper and you can be on your way.”
“Oh. Sure.” Careful not to do it too suddenly, he began a movement with his left hand, to reach in his left hip pocket for the wallet that contained his fake ID. But the handle of the ice pick rested in the palm of his left hand. Could he reach the left hip pocket with his right hand? No, it was not possible. Could he support the ice pick with the little finger of his left hand, using the other three fingers and thumb to withdraw the wallet? No. Never.
“What’s the problem?” As he spoke, the policeman moved back one cautious step, then another. He’d opened six feet between them, guarding against a knife attack. Now his right hand was in motion, dropping toward the butt of his holstered revolver. The flashlight beam was focusing on Maranzano’s left arm, still half concealed behind his back.
“It’s this button. They’re new pants.” As he spoke,
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