65 Proof (73 page)

“A disguise?” I ask.

“Of course. Perhaps a long overcoat and some dark glasses. Haven’t you ever seen a lion walk on his hind legs at the circus?”

Several of the detectives standing around sound their approval. One writes it down in his note pad.

“But what about the knife?” I ask.

“The knife?” Inspector Oxnard shoots back, eyes sharp and accusing.

“In the deceased’s back.” I say.

There’s a moment of chin-scratching silence.

“Don’t lions have an opposable thumb?” Detective Jenkins asks.

“No, you’re thinking of monkeys,” Detective Coursey says.

“But isn’t a lion kind of like a big orange monkey with sharp teeth?” Detective Rumstead asks.

There are several nods of agreement. Inspector Oxnard runs a hand through his gray hair, which is slicked back with mint-smelling gel, and wipes his palm on Detective Coursey’s blazer.

“It had to be a lion with a knife,” the Inspector says, “wearing an overcoat and dark glasses. Put out an All Points Bulletin, and check to see if a circus is in town.”

“But Inspector,” I say, “there’s no sign of forced entry. How did the lion get into the room?”

“Simple. He had a key.”

“Why would he have a key?” I ask.

The silence that follows is steeped in apprehension. After a full minute, Inspector Oxnard makes a self-satisfied yelping sound and thrusts his finger skyward in apparent revelation, poking Detective Graves in the eye.

“The deceased was having an affair with the lion! Thus, the lion had a duplicate key!”

Excited applause sweeps through the group. Inspector Oxnard draws on his pipe, but it does little good because the bowl is upside down, the tobacco speckling his shoes.

“Did the lion prefer the company of men?” Detective Struber says.

“Perhaps,” Inspector Oxnard says. “Or perhaps it was…a lioness!”

Several ‘ahs’ are heard. Someone pipes in, “Of course! The lioness is the one that does the hunting!”

“But what about motive?” I ask, my Police Academy training coming out. “What was the motive?”

“Hunger,” the Inspector says. He nods smartly to himself.

“But the body is intact.”

“Excuse me?”

“None of it has been eaten!” I say.

“That makes no difference. Maybe the lioness was scared away before she could finish, or perhaps she simply lost her appetite.”

“I sometimes have terrible gas, and can’t eat at all,” Detective Gilbert says.

Nods of acquiescence all around, and several discussions of gas pains ensue.

“But where are the paw prints?” someone shrieks. “Where is the fur? Where is the spoor? Where is the damn reason that this was done by a lion and not a human being?”

Everyone stares at me, and I realize I’ve been the one shrieking.

Inspector Oxnard frowns and gives me a patronizing pat on the head.

“I know you’re only a novice, so I can understand why you cannot grasp all of the subtle intricacies of a murder investigation. But in time, Detective Cornhead, you’ll begin to catch on.”

“My name is Richards, Inspector. Detective Richards.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Inspector Oxnard slaps my shoulder. “We were all young once.”

Detective Oldendorff runs through the door and trips over the body. He picks himself up, urgency overriding embarrassment.

“There’s been another robbery!” he says. “The First New Bastwick Bank!”

Inspector Oxnard thrusts out his lower lip and nods.

“It sounds like that blind panda has struck again. Come, gentlemen!”

Inspector Oxnard gracefully exits the room, his entourage filing behind him like ducklings. I stare at the body for a moment, and then follow.

This police work is a lot harder than I thought.

My friend John Weagley asked me if I had any radioactive monkey stories for his collection Requiem For A Radioactive Monkey. Naturally, I did.

A
t first, they were all kind of excited when JoJo got into the Uranium.

“He’s gonna mutate, I bet,” said Gramps. “Maybe grow another monkey head. Or teats.”

“Could easily quadruple in size,” said Pops. “Go on a rampage, killin’ folks and rapin’ women.”

Uncle Clem disagreed. “I’m bettin’ invisibility. A seeable monkey causes enough trouble, running around, bitin’ and chitterin’, throwin’ feces. An invisible money would be a hunnerd times worse.”

“Would the feces be invisible?” Aunt Lula asked.

“Likely so. Wouldn’t know it was there ‘till you sat in it.”

Gramps packed his lower lip with a wad of Skoal and spat brown juice into Aunt Lula’s coffee mug.

“Shoulda kept that uranium locked up. Leavin’ it on the counter like that, monkey was gonna mess with it sooner or later.”

Uncle Clem disagreed. “JoJo ain’t never fooled with it before.”

“Them glowin’ isotopes, they’re like a magnet to the lower primates. Shoulda kept it locked up.”

Pops scratched his head. “Where’d we get the uranium anyway?”

They all sat around and had a think about that. No one said nothin’ for a while, the only sound being the slurp-slurp of Aunt Lula and her coffee.

“Well,” Gramps finally said, “whatever strange mutation happens to JoJo, I’m guessin’ we all agree it’ll be speck-tack-ler.”

Somethin’ did happen to JoJo, and it happened fast. An hour after messin’ with the Uranium, JoJo’s hair all fell out, and then he died.

“Didn’t see that comin’,” Uncle Clem said.

Pops scratched his head. “Where’d we get a monkey anyway?”

No one could answer that. Only one who could have was JoJo, and he didn’t say much on account of his deceasedness. Plus, JoJo was a monkey, and monkeys don’t talk.

The next day, Gramps lost all of his hair, even the hair growin’ from his ears, and got sick something fierce.

“Gramps?” Pops asked him, side-steppin’ the chunk-streams gushing from Gramps’s dip-hole. “You been messin’ with that Uranium?”

Gramps answered between expulsions. “Wanted…another…head.”

Later that night, after Gramps hemorrhaged, they buried him in the garden, next to JoJo. The family grieved and grieved, and Aunt Lula made some Uranium cookies to cheer everyone up, but Uncle Clem hoarded them all for himself.

“Thad a dab thine thookie,” Uncle Clem said, not speakin’ clearly because most of his teeth had worked themselves free of his bleedin’ gums.

When Uncle Clem coughed up his pancreas, they buried him in the garden, next to Gramps and JoJo.

Not long after, Aunt Lula’s hands turned black and plum fell off, on account she didn’t wear no lead gloves when she made the uranium cookies. “Because lead is poisonous,” she had said, smartly.

When Aunt Lula died, Pops buried her in another part of the garden, not too close to Uncle Clem and Gramps and JoJo, because that part was all took up.

When he was done, Pops scratched his head. “Where’d we get a garden anyway?”

Convinced the Curse of the Radioactive Uranium would claim him next, which would have been a very bad thing because there was nobody left to bury him in the garden, Pops played it smart.

He buried himself in the garden with the uranium.

When the milkman came by later that week, with the milk and eight ounces of farmer’s cheese, he noticed the five new mounds in the garden. Being a curious milkman, he dug them all up.

“Well, will you lookit that,” said the mailman. “Where’d they get that uranium?”

He found some tin foil in the kitchen, and wrapped up the Uranium and took it home, for his pet monkey to play with.

A farce, very much in James Thurber territory. I’ve always want to write a straight humor novel, but there isn’t any market for it.

F
rank stood beneath the mismatched letters on the marquee and frowned.

ONE NIgHT ONLy
, it proclaimed.

That was still one night too many.

Ahead of him in line, another poor dope with an equally unhappy face was being tugged towards the ticket booth by his significant other.

“He’s supposed to be brilliant. Like Marcel Marceau, only he talks,” the wife/girlfriend was saying.

The man was having none of it, and neither was Frank. He stared at his own pack leader, his wife Wendy, mushing him forward on the Forced Culture Iditarod. She noted his frown and hugged his arm.

“Stop moping. It’ll be fun.”

“It’s the playoffs.”

“It’s our anniversary.”

“We have another one next year.”

Wendy gave him The Look, and he backed down. He glanced at his Seiko, wishing he had a watch like Elroy on The Jetsons, with a mini TV screen. It was ten after nine. Halftime would be almost over, and it was the pivotal fifth game in the Eastern Conference Finals, the score tied 48-48.

Frank had managed to catch the other four pivotal games, but this one was really pivotal. If the Bulls won, it meant there would only be seven more pivotal games left in the playoffs.

They reached the ticket counter, and Frank noted several divots in the thick glass. Probably made by some other poor bastard forced here by his wife. Tried to shoot his way out, Frank guessed.

He could relate.

His mind wrapped around the fantasy of pulling out an M-16 and taking hostages to avoid seeing the show, but he lost the image when he noted how many twenty dollar bills his wife was setting in the money tray.

“This costs how much?!?”

“It’s an exclusive engagement,” the cashier said. “Alexandro Mulchahey is only in town for one night.”

“And what does he do for this kind of money? Take the whole audience out for dinner in his Rolls Royce?”

Wendy gave him The Elbow. But Frank wasn’t finished yet.

“Maybe you folks will finally be able to afford some more capital letters for the marquee.”

Now Frank received The Love Handle Pinch; Wendy’s fingernails dug into his flab and twisted. He yelped and his wife tugged him aside.

“You’re embarrassing me,” she said through a forced smile.

“I’m having chest pains. Do you know how many Bulls tickets we could have bought with all that money?”

“If you don’t start pretending to have a good time, I’m going to invite GrandMama over for the weekend.”

He clammed up. Wendy’s grandmother was 160 years old and mean as spit. Her mind had made its grand exit sometime during the Reagan years, and she labored under the delusion that Frank was Rudolph Hess. The last time she visited, GrandMama called the police seven times and demanded they arrest Frank for crimes against humanity.

Plus, she smelled like pee.

Wendy led him into the lobby, and began to point out architecture.

“Ooo, look at the columns.”

“Ooo, look at the vaulted ceiling.”

“Ooo, look at the mosaic tile. Have you ever seen anything so intricate?”

“Yeah, yeah. Beautiful.”

The theater was nice, but it was no Circus Circus. While his wife gaped at the carved railing on the grand staircase, Frank’s attention was captivated by a little boy sitting alone near the coat check.

The boy had a Sony Watchman.

“Did you want a drink, dear?”

Wendy smiled at him. “A glass of wine would be wonderful.”

Frank got in line—a line that would take him right past the little boy and his portable TV. He made sure Wendy was preoccupied staring at a poster before he made his move.

“Hey, kid! Nice TV. Can you turn on the Bulls Game real fast? Channel 9.”

The kid looked up at him, squinting through thick glasses.

“I don’t like the Bulls.”

“Come on, I just want to check the score.” Frank winked, then fished five bucks out of his pocket. “I’ll give you five bucks.”

“Mom!” The child’s voice cut through the lobby like a siren. “An old fat man wants to steal my TV!”

Frank turned away, shielding his face. The bartender gave him the evil eye.

“Merlot,” Frank said, throwing down the five.

The bartender raised an eyebrow and told him the price of the wine.

“It’s how much?!?”

“Frank, dear…” Wendy was tugging at him as he pulled out more money.

“Hold on, hon. I think I just bought you the last Merlot on earth.” Frank watched the bartender pour. “And it’s in a plastic cup.”