“Yeah,” said Detective Joe Salazar, “the questions we got, you can’t really answer. Thanks just the same.”
Murdock slid the chair back to the corner. “See, we need to talk to Rip Van Rambo here. So I think you’d better go.” He smiled for the first time. “And I apologize for that wisecrack about the Kotex. Not very professional, I admit.”
“It was tampons,” Joe Salazar said.
“Whatever.”
Christina Marks said, “I’m not leaving this room. This man is recovering from a serious gunshot wound and you shouldn’t disturb him.”
“We spoke to his doctor—”
“You’re lying.”
“Okay, we put in a call. The guy never called back.”
Salazar walked up to the hospital bed and said, “He don’t look so bad. Anyway, three weeks is plenty of time. Wake him up, Johnny.”
“Have it your way,” Christina said. She got a legal pad from her shoulder bag, uncapped a felt-tip pen, and sat down, poised to write.
“Now what the hell are you doing?” Salazar said.
“Forget about her,” Murdock said. He leaned close to Stranahan’s face and sang, “Mi-ick? Mick, buddy? Rise and shine.”
Stranahan growled sleepily, blowing a mouthful of stale, hot breath directly into Murdock’s face.
“Holy Christ,” the detective said, turning away.
Salazar said, “Johnny, I swear he’s awake.” He cupped his hand at Stranahan’s ear and shouted: “Hey, fuckwad, you awake?”
“Knock it off,” Christina said.
“I know how you can tell,” Salazar went on. “Grab his dick. If he’s asleep he won’t do nothing. If he’s awake he’ll jump ten feet out of this frigging bed.”
Murdock said, “Aw, you’re crazy.”
“You think he’d let one of us grab his schlong if he was wide awake? I’m telling you, Johnny, it’s a sure way to find out.”
“Okay, you do it.”
“Nuh-uh, we flip a coin.”
“Screw you, Joe. I ain’t touching the man’s privates. The county doesn’t pay me enough.”
Stranahan was lying there, thinking: Thattaboy, Johnny, stick to the book.
From the corner Christina said, “Lay a finger on him, I’ll see that Mr. Stranahan sues the living hell out of both of you. When he wakes up.”
“Not that old line,” Salazar said with a laugh.
She said, “Beat the shit out of some jerk on the street, that’s one thing. Grab a man’s sexual organs while he’s lying unconscious in a hospital bed—try to get the union worked up about that. You guys just kiss your pensions good-bye.”
Murdock shot Christina Marks a bitter look. “When he wakes up, you be sure to tell him something, Tell him we know he drowned his ex-wife, so don’t be surprised if we show up in Stiltsville with a waterproof warrant. Tell him he’d be smart to sell that old house, too, case a storm blows it down while he’s off at Raiford.”
With secretarial indifference, Christina jotted every word on the legal pad. Murdock snorted and stalked out the door. Joe Salazar followed two steps behind, pocketing his own notebook, fumbling for a fresh Camel.
“Lady,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “you got to learn some respect for authority.”
That weekend, a notorious punk band called the Fudge Packers was playing the Gay Bidet. Freddie didn’t like them at all. There were fights every night; the skinheads, the Latin Kings, the 34th Street Players. This is what Freddie couldn’t understand: Why the spooks and spies even showed up for a band like this. Usually they had better taste. The Fudge Packers were simply dreadful—four frigging bass guitars, now what the hell land of music was that? No wonder everybody was fighting: take their minds off the noise.
Since Chemo had disappeared, Freddie had hired a new head bouncer named Eugene, guy used to play in the World Football League. Eugene was all right, big as a garbage dumpster, but he couldn’t seem to get people’s attention me way Chemo did. Also, he was slow. Sometimes it took him five minutes to get down off the stage and pound heads in the crowd. By comparison Chemo had moved like a cat.
Freddie also was worried about Eugene’s pro-labor leanings. One week at the Gay Bidet and already he was complaining about how loud the music was, could they please turn it down? You’re kidding, Freddie had said, turn it down? But Eugene said damn right, his eardrums were fucking killing him. He said if his ears kept hurting he might go deaf and have to file a workman’s comp, and Freddie said what’s that? Then Eugene started going on about all his football injuries and, later, some shit that had happened to him working construction down in Homestead. He told Freddie about how the unions always took care of him, about how one time he was laid up for six weeks with a serious groin pull and never missed a paycheck. Not one.