tray of coffee and cinnamon buns. Fayton eyed the baked goods with longing as Manny plunged ahead.
“Confidentially, Chief, I wouldn’t advise going after the girl. On top of everything else,” he lied, gripped by sudden inspiration, “she’s pregnant. The papers would crucify us. Police hassling a widowed mom-to-be? Not good. Especially when hubby punched his own ticket.”
Fayton harrumphed. “I really don’t think bad press should be a consideration.” Meaning there wasn’t any other consideration, but bet ter a lowly dick like Manny Rubert should say it than him. “Detec tive,” he added, “I don’t have to tell you, I want those men. Especially McCardle. A hundred thousand dollars would go a long way toward improving the station.”
“Amen,” said Manny, leaning in to speak man-to-man. “But between us, I’d stay mum about the AMW deal. Word gets out Big Mac’s on the street, every bo-bo with a phone’s gonna be gunnin’ for the reward. I say we call the show when we make the collar. It’d look bush-league for a cop to give ’em a tip and have somebody else arrest the guy. You want the cash and the glory, right? This could put us on the map.”
Chief Fayton puffed himself up in his uniform and fingered his Windsor. “Agreed,” he said. “But make sure you bring him to me before you lock him up. I want to get some pictures.”
EIGHT
Tina could still smell her dead husband’s garlic breath on their telephone. For months, convinced that con stant garlic-chewing could boost his sperm count, he had been walking around in a reeking gust. The result, ironically, was that his sperm count became irrelevant. He’d become so saturated his skin began to give off fumes, and Tina had told him, more than once, that the only way she was going make love to him was wearing a gas mask or through a hole in the wall. What she had not told him was that she’d had her tubes tied at nine teen. There was no need to be mean. Next to making a killing in money mantras, squiring a brood of mini-Marvs had been the man in her life’s number one dream.
Tina wondered if the people on the other end would ever pick up. When someone finally answered, and said “Good afternoon,” her own words came tumbling out. “Is this Martino and Sons Funeral Home? Hello? Do I have the right number?”
Tina spoke through a wadded up hanky soaked in Scope, which muffled her voice. The funeral human said a few words, and Tina replied rapidly. “Yes, yes ...I do have a recently departed. That’s why I’m calling.”
Oddly, it sounded as if the man at the mortuary was also speaking through a rag. Maybe all those dead people gave off fumes of their own. Maybe talking on mortuary phones was as unpleasant as talking on a receiver marinated in Marv-breath.
“It was all very sudden, ” said Tina vaguely, after Mister Edward, the “grief representative” handling her call, asked how her husband had “passed.” He then asked how she happened to select Martino and Sons. When she told him she remembered their ad from the bus bench by the minimall where she took Jazzercise, he sounded slightly hurt. Still, things didn’t get really awkward until the mortician inquired about “transporting the deceased.” Tina had to explain that she wasn’t sure when that could happen, on account of the police were holding the body.
“The police,” Mister Edward repeated, his voice clearing suddenly. Tina pictured an acned, prematurely bald fellow in pinstripes. She often had these clairvoyant moments, and often as not her creepier pre
monitions proved accurate.
“To be honest, my husband took his own life.”
She let her voice trail off, and Mister Edward seemed relieved, almost upbeat, when he replied.
“We understand! Completely. And we want you to know we can certainly assist you with any... special arrangements. ”
Tina was trying to absorb this—and at the same time suppress the image of Marvin writhing on the floor with
“Confidentially, Chief, I wouldn’t advise going after the girl. On top of everything else,” he lied, gripped by sudden inspiration, “she’s pregnant. The papers would crucify us. Police hassling a widowed mom-to-be? Not good. Especially when hubby punched his own ticket.”
Fayton harrumphed. “I really don’t think bad press should be a consideration.” Meaning there wasn’t any other consideration, but bet ter a lowly dick like Manny Rubert should say it than him. “Detec tive,” he added, “I don’t have to tell you, I want those men. Especially McCardle. A hundred thousand dollars would go a long way toward improving the station.”
“Amen,” said Manny, leaning in to speak man-to-man. “But between us, I’d stay mum about the AMW deal. Word gets out Big Mac’s on the street, every bo-bo with a phone’s gonna be gunnin’ for the reward. I say we call the show when we make the collar. It’d look bush-league for a cop to give ’em a tip and have somebody else arrest the guy. You want the cash and the glory, right? This could put us on the map.”
Chief Fayton puffed himself up in his uniform and fingered his Windsor. “Agreed,” he said. “But make sure you bring him to me before you lock him up. I want to get some pictures.”
EIGHT
Tina could still smell her dead husband’s garlic breath on their telephone. For months, convinced that con stant garlic-chewing could boost his sperm count, he had been walking around in a reeking gust. The result, ironically, was that his sperm count became irrelevant. He’d become so saturated his skin began to give off fumes, and Tina had told him, more than once, that the only way she was going make love to him was wearing a gas mask or through a hole in the wall. What she had not told him was that she’d had her tubes tied at nine teen. There was no need to be mean. Next to making a killing in money mantras, squiring a brood of mini-Marvs had been the man in her life’s number one dream.
Tina wondered if the people on the other end would ever pick up. When someone finally answered, and said “Good afternoon,” her own words came tumbling out. “Is this Martino and Sons Funeral Home? Hello? Do I have the right number?”
Tina spoke through a wadded up hanky soaked in Scope, which muffled her voice. The funeral human said a few words, and Tina replied rapidly. “Yes, yes ...I do have a recently departed. That’s why I’m calling.”
Oddly, it sounded as if the man at the mortuary was also speaking through a rag. Maybe all those dead people gave off fumes of their own. Maybe talking on mortuary phones was as unpleasant as talking on a receiver marinated in Marv-breath.
“It was all very sudden, ” said Tina vaguely, after Mister Edward, the “grief representative” handling her call, asked how her husband had “passed.” He then asked how she happened to select Martino and Sons. When she told him she remembered their ad from the bus bench by the minimall where she took Jazzercise, he sounded slightly hurt. Still, things didn’t get really awkward until the mortician inquired about “transporting the deceased.” Tina had to explain that she wasn’t sure when that could happen, on account of the police were holding the body.
“The police,” Mister Edward repeated, his voice clearing suddenly. Tina pictured an acned, prematurely bald fellow in pinstripes. She often had these clairvoyant moments, and often as not her creepier pre
monitions proved accurate.
“To be honest, my husband took his own life.”
She let her voice trail off, and Mister Edward seemed relieved, almost upbeat, when he replied.
“We understand! Completely. And we want you to know we can certainly assist you with any... special arrangements. ”
Tina was trying to absorb this—and at the same time suppress the image of Marvin writhing on the floor with
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