The Canal (7 page)

"What do you mean, a vacation?"

*

It was the stench of Alan's cologne that
betrayed him -- a subtle hint of pretension, lingering in the air,
eau de misguided asshole. It led Joe across the hall, where it
disappeared behind a door. Joe placed his hands upon this door,
like a faith healer, feeling the vibrations within. The
interrogation rooms were in there. No voices that Joe could hear,
but he sensed movement. He and Alan, sure, they had had their
problems. But this was the first time Alan had tried brazenly
hiding something from him.

Joe hastily shoved his way inside, where he
spun around, ready for anything, waiting for the big A-HA!

"Josie?" Womack, stirring a coffee. Mildly
surprised. "Not the person I was most expecting to see."

Joe ignored him. Womack was generally benign,
but like everyone else in this building -- with the exception of
Kozar -- he was ultimately just one more person for Joe to wearily
avoid.

One of the interrogation rooms was nothing
but storage for old files and furniture. There was also a cot for
naps. Joe had slept there often. Night or day. On duty or not.
Whenever the mood struck.

In the other room though, a woman was slumped
over the table, face hidden in her arms. Joe peered through the
large, one-way mirror.

"Alan told me," said Joe, pointing inside.
"Said you'd fill me in."

Womack stopped mid-sip. "Oh really."

"Really."

Womack smiled knowingly. "Look, Joe. Let me,
if I may, speak freely -- why not let the kid have this one, huh?
Just this once. It'll be like...like a button in his cap."

"You saying to let Alan work this case?"

"Yeah. Suggesting it. Just making
mention."

"Let me ask you something. Why in the hell
would anyone want to spend a single minute more near that goddamn
canal? Because nobody deserves that place. Not even guys like Alan
who think they know better."

"I-I'm just saying."

Joe leaned in. "Why don't you make this easy
and just tell me what's going on? Because I'm gonna find out in the
end, one way or the other."

"Heyyy." Womack lifted his hands in
surrender. "I didn't mean anything by it. We're all amigos here,
Joe. Amigos."

"Then talk."

Womack shrugged. "No problem, sure. Not much
to it. We were hoping she saw something, that's all."

"Saw what? The murder? The body? What?"

"Ah, dunno at the moment. Look at her; she's
ten sheets to the wind. But a coupla guys caught her mumbling about
the canal and something about the bridge."

"How'd you find her? She call in a
report?"

"Nah, found her on the side of the
river."

Joe tensed. "...Is she sick?"

"I ain't about to take her temperature, if
you know what I mean."

Joe looked in at the woman again. Closer this
time.

True story. If you fell in the canal -- you
died. This was documented. Well, most people died. It depended on
how healthy you were. The problem was the ensuing infections. The
bacteria in that water was potent enough to kill. Although survival
wasn't really that much of a prize either. What went in the canal
was never the same coming out. Like Joe. He'd gone in. He'd gone in
deep. He also hadn't done it alone -- he knew a woman once, his
wife. She went in too. Although by now, she was probably his
ex-wife. A woman he hadn't seen or talked to in 20 years. The same
woman who was inside that room now.

"You need to leave," said Joe.

"This is...this is a joke?"

Joe felt his face go hot. He took a pot of
coffee from the machine. He pulled back his arm, everything in him
wound tight, and he prepared to throw.

"Leave," he said, quietly.

Womack did as he was told.

>> CHAPTER FIVE <<

Who the hell went on vacation? Where the hell
was even worth going? Except maybe those domes Alan had read about.
Those biosphere experiments where everything was under glass,
everything filtered and climate-controlled. But at a time like
this? When so much was at stake?

Kozar didn't understand. There could be no
change in leadership and there could be no change in Alan's plan.
"Unacceptable," is what Alan had said. Kozar had laughed
uncomfortably. "Unacceptable," Alan repeated. Didn't this man see?
The importance?

Alan respected Kozar. But when it came to
Joe, he was as hypnotized by the detective's inept mystique as
everyone else. But it was even worse with Kozar -- he didn't just
condone Joe's behavior, he authorized it. Incomprehensible. Up was
down. Left was right. Rationality was out the fucking window.
Goddamn Joe -- clouder of men's minds, sower of sorrows. Alan had
to make everyone see, he had to prove to them all what a
humiliation the guy truly was.

And then Kozar had the nerve to say to ask:
"There is one favor you can do for me, Alan. Would you keep an eye
on Joe?"

Oh, don't worry. No need to even bring it up.
Alan would have an eye on Joe, alright. A constant eye, an
all-seeing eye, unsleeping, unblinking, there is nothing Joe could
do that Alan wouldn't see. He'd see through the man, into the man,
beyond him, in all dimensions simultaneously, cubist. Alan would be
hiding in Joe's shadow, peeking over his shoulder, rifling through
his pockets, analyzing his every tic and stutter until he knew more
about Joe than Joe knew about himself, until he could read Joe's
future, until he was inside Joe's own brain, intercepting his
thoughts, stealing his secrets.

So yeah, Alan would keep an eye out. And
while he was at it, he'd zero in on this new guy, this supposed
specialist, he'd let him know what was what. The guy had better be
the type to play ball, he better fit the plan, because if he
didn't, well, Alan couldn't even conceive of that right now. There
was no wasn't. Is no isn't. Couldn't be a didn't. There was no
alternate option.

Which was why Alan was at the precinct's back
entrance. He was gonna meet this guy. He was gonna meet the shit
out of him.

Kozar had gotten a call informing him that
this man, this Lieutenant Bleecker, would be downstairs in five
minutes. And now, exactly five minutes later, an unmarked cruiser
drove into the lot and stopped in front of Alan. Alan had been
keeping time with his watch, and he had to admit, he was at least
impressed by the punctuality. But if this guy thought he was going
to change the program, well...

The driver got out, a cop in full dress,
wearing white gloves even, and circled the car with stiff
precision, opening the back door.

That was when Alan saw the hand.

It reached out, over the top of the door. And
those nails, well, they were manicured. Manicured. Glazed to
perfection, like they were under plastic, and they sparkled. The
cuticles were in strict alignment. Alan swore he could see his own
reflection in each nail.

As for the rest of the man who emerged from
the car -- he was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Not a wrinkle,
not an audacious wart or mole, not a unibrow, not a rumple, not an
unintended bulge to be found. His suit was flat and unmovable,
vindictively starched. It was as if he'd stepped brand-new from the
factory, or pristine from a hyperbaric chamber.

"Detective D'Angelo?" the man asked.

"Yes, sir." Was Alan's voice trembling? It
was weak-knee'd with sudden admiration, turning fey, had the
vapors. They shook hands. Bleecker's mitts were so pampered that
Alan felt honored to be touching them, to be handling such art.

Bleecker held up a folder. "I was just going
over last night's reports. Your reports. You're very thorough,
Detective. Meticulous too. And precise."

"Thank you, sir," said Alan, stunned to be
hearing these words, witnessing this miracle.

There was silence. Bleecker looked up at the
station, then looked back down at Alan. "...And you are now
officially wasting my fucking time. Let's get going,
Detective."

Alan hurried him inside, while Bleecker
talked.

"HQ has very high expectations. And I'm one
to deliver on those expectations. The jails in this state are
filled to brimming with a bunch of criminal dickheads that I put
there. And I'll tell you what, I put in a few calls and I've
already got a chilly cement box waiting for our latest and greatest
sick-in-the-head murderer. And maybe the papers ain't given him a
name yet, but they will, Alan, they always do. The Sultan of Skin,
or The Earl of Epidermis, those will be my own personal
recommendations."

"Those are excellent choices, sir."

"I know they are, Alan, I know they are. Now,
please -- I gotta stand on the steps of this building and speak to
the press at a quarter of. So please tell me we've done more than
stand around with our thumbs so far up our assholes that we're
tickling our throats."

"Well sir, the investigation at the scene is
continuing, and I will personally be attending the autopsy later
this morning. Furthermore, we do have a potential witness who I'd
like to begin questioning immediately."

"Good. Except why weren't you telling me this
three-point-two minutes ago, D'Angelo--"

"Alan! Hey, Alan!" Womack was stumbling down
the stairs, like some big, somersaulting tractor tire.

"Who the hell is this?" asked Bleecker.

"My name's Detective Wom--"

"Do I need to know you?" Bleecker demanded,
examining him.

"Well, if--"

"I don't," Bleecker decided. He switched
beads back to Alan. "Lombardi, I want to meet Lombardi. Get me
fucking Lombardi!"

"Ah, that's what I was trying to tell Alan,
here," said Womack. "Joe is with our, uh, witness, broad,
lady--"

Bleecker just started walking. He didn't even
know where he was going. Or maybe he did? Or maybe it didn't
matter? Maybe wherever he went, that's where he was meant to be?
The man was an inspiration.

Womack quickly whispered to Alan, "You need
to get upstairs, buddy, and fast. Joe just came unglued."

*

It was the woman who bought her Christmas
presents far in advance of December. Joe was sitting beside her, so
close their knees touched. He fumbled a cigarette out of his pocket
and smoked, sucking on it for dear life.

He had sat for a while, just looking at her.
Years of harsh living had extracted a price -- her hair was
pillowed with dreads, the lines of her face went deep, like canyon
crevices. She looked half-erased, sun-faded.

He felt cold, even in the greenhouse of his
jacket. Hadn't he suffered enough? Hadn't she? And last night, his
dream... It was as if time were turning back on itself. All the old
long ago's that he'd manage to bury, crawling once more to the
surface.

Joe brought his hand down hard on the table.
Wap!

There was barely a reaction. He hit the table
again. Wap!

"Are you hearing me?" said Joe.

Without thinking, he took her face in his
hands. Holding her was strange, and he felt ashamed to be doing it,
as if he were intruding. She had changed too much. He had changed
too much. The years had drained them of any familiar substance,
reducing them each to parody, to half-drawn, unrecognizable
caricature.

"You need to listen to me," he rasped. Her
skin was overly warm to the touch.

Rose's eyes stuttered open but their focus
was vague, inward. She mumbled something. It sounded like language
but he couldn't be sure.

"Tell me what you saw, Rose, help me."

He was getting no response. Total disconnect.
Her eyes were already closing. He let her head slip out of his
hands.

Joe sat and quietly looked at her. His hand
began to twitch, in preparation for another Wap! But then he
thought better of it and nervously squelched his cigarette in the
ashtray. He reached toward her one more time, to touch her
cheek...but he stopped himself. There was no use.

Joe felt brittle, fragile, like a stack of
uneven stones. Rose appearing like this, it was not a good thing.
Fortunately, there were others he could speak to, who would know
what was going on. But he had to find them, and he had to do it
quickly.

Joe let himself out of the room. He felt a
change immediately -- something unfamiliar in the way the air
settled, something stirring in the nostrils. A waft, a quaff, a
breeze. Not just Alan's cologne. But a fellow perfumer as well. And
an audacious one at that.

He encountered a strange vision, a kind of
before and after. Alan, the young one, standing beside his older
self. Two men who shopped identical department store catalogs and
who practiced thrice-half-hourly flossings. It was The Incredible
Perfect Man and his smiling sidekick, Mr. Alan Unnatural -- two
antiseptic freaks.

"You must be Lombardi," said the older
version. His lips sliced at the air, like sword blades. "I've heard
many things. Even amazing things." He extended his hand, but
stopped short. After getting a good look at the gastric camouflage
sprayed all over Joe's coat, sever distaste quickly crept across
the man's well-lotioned face.

Alan stepped in. Joe couldn't help but notice
that Alan seemed distinctly pleased.

"Joe, this is Lieutenant Bleecker."

"Oh," said Joe. He looked at Bleecker. "Can't
say I give a shit."

Bleecker's eyes, two lifeless marbles,
quickly narrowed to slits. Beside him, a smile -- authentic,
robust, pure pleasure -- swallowed Alan's face.

"That woman needs to be in a hospital," said
Joe. "Get her a doctor. Get..." He stopped short with a frustrated
wave of the arms, discharging a ripe wind from the sleeve. "She
can't help you. Even if you get her to talk, it won't make any
goddamn sense." Then he jammed his hands into his pockets and
stepped quickly toward the hallway, saying, "I've got to see some
people," to no one in particular.

"I didn't say you could leave," boomed
Bleecker. Joe could sense those formidable eyes on him still, like
twin flame-throwers laying waste. Bleecker jabbed a gloss-helmeted
finger at Joe's back.