Thorazine Beach (4 page)

I had to disparage him for something. “What’s with the wreck, Mac?”

“I’m undercover,” he said.

“As what?”

“As you, Jack. I asked the motor pool for the crummiest piece of shit they had.”

“Not the most stylish of disguises. Or the most effective,” I said as MacDonald waved a finger at Nikki, who seemed to know exactly what he wanted and tossed off a cheery
Yes, sir!
, actually blushing a little as he thanked her. “Or the most subtle.”

“I’m sorry? What was that?” he said.

I pointed. “Lookie there. A white Crown Vic. Bad putty job on the doors. Numbers painted over—brush job, I note. Searchlight. Baby moons on all four wheels. And about twelve aerial holes. Nobody’d spot
you
for a cop trying not to be spotted for a cop.”

“I thought the run-on engine would be a nice touch when I pull up at the doughnut shop, Jack. Leave them guessing—is he? …or isn’t he?”

“Only his tailor knows for sure,” I said.

“And yours?” MacDonald said, never skipping a beat. “The ‘K-Mart refugee look’ the in thing these days, among you upper middle-class white boys?”

“You’ve given up the pointy shoes and the Mister T starter set, I see, Mac. Out of fashion in the deep hood this year?”

He smiled at Nikki as he took the cup and saucer she had walked over for him. “Thank you, dear,” he said, and began fiddling with the teabag string.

“‘Dear’
?
“
I said. “That’s new. And what’s with the teacup? Not Starbucks issue.”

“Aynsley,” he said. “Brought it in. They keep it for me, behind the counter. I’m going British, you know. Saville Row. Bespoke. I’ll never buy anything off the peg again.”

“Okay, Mac,” I said. “We’ve traded enough abuse and one-up stuff. What up?”

“Something gotta be ‘up’ for me to want to see my old buddy?”

“Generally,” I said.

“I’m hurt, Jack. Really, I am.”

“Impossible,” I said. “You’re an insect. You have only the most rudimentary nervous system.”

“True, dat.” He sipped his tea, his pinky ever so slightly out. That, too, was new. And downright creepy, from a former vice cop.

“By the way, Mac,” I said. “Congratulations. On your promotion, I mean.”

“Thank you, Jack,” he said. “It
has
been a long time coming. And it’s all been a bit of a surprise.”

Major is an unusual rank for a city police department to have on its roster. It all started when the MPD’s union, ages ago, managed to put through a provision that handed a captaincy to any old patrolman who slugged it out thirty years without getting caught in any of the shenanigans too many Memphis cops get caught in. Legit captains didn’t want to be mistaken for one of
those
, so the new rank of major was born, just for them. Now, they had lieutenants-colonel. Colonels, too. I expected to see a brigadier-general any day now, staff car, braided aide-de-camp, and all.

“Thought I might be getting a precinct,” Mac said. “I was kind of hoping for Union Avenue—still inner-city enough for some action, but then you’ve got the cotton mansions on Belvedere, Bellevue, so forth, some good restaurants. Midtown. The arts. And a better class of person,” he added.

“Time was, Mac, your idea of fine dining was pulled pork, beans, and a mess o’ collard greens at Neely’s barbecue.”

“Tell you a secret, Jack?” He leaned in and whispered. “Still is. But I’m buckin’ for the big time, and it behooves me to be seen in some fancier places.”

“Oh, then the Union Avenue precinct would have been perfect,” I said. “There’s a Popeye’s Chicken across the street.”

“Racial profiling, Jack?”

“No. But it’s a perfect profile of you.”

“You wound me so.” He leaned back, smiled, spilled a spot of tea on his tie—a screaming yellow silk, which he wiped fruitlessly with his napkin. “Damn! Now I know why you always wear those ugly brown paisley ties.”

“Till they get too stiff with dried old gravy,” I said.

“Shit,” he said. “Don’t s’pose these dry-clean very well, do they?” I shook my head. “Seventy-five bucks, this. So where do you get your ties, Jack?”

“eBay. Sixty-five, seventy-five cents. A buck, sometimes.”

“Wow. Plus shipping, of course.”

“Including shipping.”

“Polyester?” he asked. “Recycled restaurant placemats?” He reached. Felt. “Damn! Silk!”

“And if I spill something, it’s no big—”

“Which you
always
do, Jack.”

“Only when I’m eating or drinking or doing something else. Anyway…silk. People’s Republic of China. Most I ever paid was about three bucks. Lowest winning bid…the princely sum of six cents.”

“So you’re deliberately bypassing my people, the hard-working American black folk, ensconced against their wills in Dickensian factories, the dark, satanic mills, hunched over their work stations, hand-stitching neckties the good old American way? All in favour of buggering our trade balance with all those vile commie countries?”

“‘Buggering’?” I said. “Another new one for you.”

“Learned it from you, Jack. You Canucks and Brits have got better cussing than we Amurrikins do. I’m making a study of it.”

“Good move,” I said. “First met you, back in your patrol car days, about the best you could do at the time was ‘muh-fuh.’”

“And high-quality invective it remains, Jack. For the right audience.”

“Ever tasteful,” I said. “Positively Shakespearean. Anyway… silk…China…cheap…”

“Speaking of which, Jack…”

“So you do want something.”

“Naturally I
want
something, Jack. I admitted that right up front.”

“You did not.” I turned back to typing the next line of my report, looked at my watch. About two and a half hours to get to Office Max, print, stop at whozit’s for that frame I wanted, and get to Eileen’s office.

“Of course I didn’t,” said Mac. “Never admit to anything. Make them prove it.”

“Well…?” I kept working.

“Speaking of export-import…”

“You going to get me in on another one of your multi-level marketing schemes, Mac?”

“I admit the water-purifier thing didn’t pan—”

“Never admit anything,” I said, still typing. “Get on with it.”

“I need you to do some work. Work for me.” He bent his head for eye contact. “Is all.”

“Paid work, Mac? Or is this the local LEO cashing stamps for favours from his friend, the highly ingenious but down-on-his-luck private detective, like on TV?”

“Why, Jim Rockford, you nasty little man,” Mac said. “I never indulge cliché.”

“You grab a new cliché a week,” I said. “You’re hooked on cliché.”

“I can quit anytime I want to.”

“So quit now.”

“Um…not
this
time, Jack, I’m afraid.”

“Well, then I’ll be ready to help
next
time.”

“C’mon, Jack…”

His voice had changed. It was something like real pleading, now.

I looked up. “This to do with the new…whatever-it-is commission?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes and no.”

“Always is, with you.”

“It’s…private. Sort of.”

“Who’d you boink this time, MacDonald? Did I perchance accidentally capture the action on film?”

“Not the places
you
go, Jack. The Rebel Inn? Jesus.”

I looked him in the eye. “How’d you know I was there?”

“I drove by. Just…happened.”

“I thought
I
was the grand champeen of ‘It just happened.’”

“The profession…
you
know…takes one anywhere.”

“‘One,’ Mac? Another novel slice of lexical pretension,” I said.

“One does one’s best.”

“Well, perhaps one could get on with whatever freebie fricking favour it is that one wants from one’s—incidentally, rather neglected—friend.”

“Here’s the deal, Jack—”

“And, speaking of deals, one will be receiving some sort of compensation, I presume?”

“One will. I’m sure, I’m…confident one will.”

“To state the query with maximum directness and economy …what?”

“I couldn’t squeeze a dime out of the commission, Jack. Not for this.”

“Didn’t Chief Larry and Mayor Wharton dump in zillions?”

“Um…yeah. Sure. But the task force mandate…”

“I thought it was a ‘commission.”

“It’s…complicated.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, the task force is part of the commission. Sort of.”

“So who’s on this task force?” I asked.

“Well, there’s me.”

“And…?”

“Um…
you
, Jack.”

“So the official staffing of this task force is…one?”

“Um…slightly less, actually.”

“Stands to reason,” I said. “And I’ll be paid in…Chinese food?”

“Probably some of that, yes. I think the task force could see its way clear to—”

“Gasoline?”

“Count on it. Don’t know where I’ll—but, yeah, count on it.”

“Tailor-made British shirts, perhaps?”

He brightened at that. “Actually, given we get someone to take the measure of your…ample girth, perhaps we
could
arrange—”

“Impromptu dates with fabulous babes?”

“I’m not a miracle worker, Jack. And I wouldn’t even know where to look for the types
you
go for.”

“Educated? Erudite? Able to use ‘postmodern’ in a sentence? Given to witty, improvisational uses of excerpts from the later Wittgenstein?”

“
Those
I could find,” he said. “It’s the fifty-something bimbos in hoop earrings and lip gloss and spandex jeans I don’t know.”

“I’m looking for the whole package—all in one.”

“Vassar by way of Vegas, as it were.”

“Right.”

“Good luck with that. Besides, man, you’re
sixty
. Just about to turn, what, next couple of months, as I recall…?”

“MacDonald,” I said. “There may be snow on the roof—”

“And not much of that.”

“I’ve been striving for the Bruce Willis look.”

“And when Bruce Willis gets to be a pasty-faced, old, fat, bald guy, you’ll have it nailed.”

“Have a little respect, MacDonald.
Today
“I said. “I turned sixty today.”

“Many happy returns,” he said.

“Not that
you’d
notice.”

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

I looked at my watch. “Yeah. You are.”

“I even got you something for the occasion.”

“What?”

“In my car. Gimme the keys to Mitzi and I’ll move it from my car to yours.”

“Why don’t you just bring it in—”

MacDonald stood, shook his head. “Keys.” Held out his hand.

I produced them. “Back to work,” he said, his hand waving contemptuously. A minute later, I glanced up. MacDonald, darn near staggering under the weight of an enormous cardboard box. It wouldn’t go in the trunk, I could see him judge. He did manage to get it into the back seat, with more than a little bashing and shoving.

Back inside, sweating, he loosened and pulled off his tie, which was now, beyond the tea stain, nastily soiled from his struggles outside. He loosened the top button of his shirt.

“Take it off, baby. Take it all off!” Nikki called from behind the counter.

“You wish!” MacDonald said, and tossed her the tie to throw out.

I thought I heard
I do
from Nikki’s direction.

MacDonald turned to me, sat again.

“I appreciate the gift, Mac. What the hell is it?”

“For when you get home,” he said.

“No, seriously, man. What—”

“It
is
a serious gift,” he said.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t bristle. MacDonald reached inside the suit jacket he’d hung over one of the chairs, pulled out a notebook, bound with a rubber band. Looked around. Just one customer, way on the other side—the crazy Russian lady, always conducting an invisible string quartet.

“Something to do with those fabulous babes?” I asked. “Babe-in-a-box?”

He spoke quietly. “Funny you should put it that way.”

You could always get a seat—that was one virtue of the place. Shabby, but it was clean, in its way, the smells of bleach, ancient carpet, onions and curry mingling in an unholy olfactory union. And no one knew me here, among the customers at least.

Midway through the big bowl of chocolate pudding I was downing to celebrate my having been so good at confining myself to veggies, I felt a tickle in my pocket. Flipped my second-gen cell open—I’m not yet smart enough for a smart phone. Gave it my cheeriest “Good afternoon. Jack Minyard speaking.” Lots of Toastmasterly vocal variety and bright cheer. For a while I’d been going with just a snapped
Minyard
, like TV detectives do. Then
Go for Jack
. Both, I’d suddenly realized, I’d picked up from MacDonald, which made me wince at their glibness. So back to the way Mom taught me.

“Jack…” the voice said slowly. A voice I recognized, but didn’t. Female, fifty-something, I guessed. Question, hesitation hung there. Then: “Jack, I’m so…I just wanted to hear your…and wish you a happy birthday.”

I smiled. Sat up straight. “Well, thank you so much, it’s…umm, forgive my asking, but I’m not quite sure to whom I’m—”

Hesitation. Click. I looked, redialed. Nothing.

My bill came. I looked up. The restaurant’s front door squeaked open.

A nervous, balding little white guy in an expensive sport coat followed another man in. A man with no nervousness at all. Flamboyant. Gold watch, gold cuff links. And, I saw, a gold tooth. The man I knew as His Eminence.

I looked down at my bowl of chocolate pudding.

I’d cheer myself up, right here in Eileen’s parking lot, I thought, by finding out what MacDonald’s gift was. It wouldn’t be like peeking into presents before the party. What party? Besides, it wasn’t wrapped—just whatever it was, crammed inside a huge cardboard crate that had seen a whole lot of handling. What little printing there was looked vaguely foreign—something about the fonts. Just numbers, that I could see, and two or three iterations of
THIS SIDE UP
. Gutsy cardboard—no tearing that by hand—stapled and riveted to a rough wooden crate-frame inside. A
clank
inside, a time or two. Heavy as hell, I noted, and heard myself grunt as I tried to shift it to see whether there was more writing on the side facing the rear of the back seats. A bitch.