desperation that watered the eyes as it keelhauled the stomach. Manny couldn’t describe the smell exactly, but there was one thing he was certain of: His brother Stanley would never have to inhale it.
Manny never thought of his brother except in revolting circum stances. Breathing in the hell of a Hefty garbage bag housing an aborted fetus, the stink of a month-dead junkie bloating on a rooftop in July, or the thousand other olfactory treats his job bequeathed him, the same thought always wriggled into Manny’s skull: Fucking Stanley the fucking stockbroker never has to breathe this shit. Once this bit of psy chic self-laceration was over, Detective Rubert could get on with the job, which in this case meant going toe-to-toe with a drying-out hard case named Dolly Zank.
“You the cop?” the old lady whooped the second he stepped toward her bed. “You wanna talk to me, you gotta get me wet—and I don’t mean south of the border. I mean in here. ”
Mrs. Zank made a feeble attempt to point down her throat, but so much of her was in traction the effort was doomed. “Don’t expect me to rat out Tony,” she informed him hoarsely. “You don’t pour me a slug of something potent, I’m gonna clam up tighter than the pope’s vagina.”
She was, clearly, borderline mental. But the part that hadn’t crossed the border, Manny figured, would be wondering how big a patsy he was. Manny slid a short dog of Four Roses out of his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top, made a show of checking right and left, then gave her a wink and tipped the bottle into his mouth. He made sure she could see every wriggle in his gullet as he took a long, slow pull. “Hoo-doggy, that hits the spot,” he said, smacking his lips. He screwed the lid back on the bottle, held it up to the light, and shook it. “Empty,” he sighed. “I guess this little soldier’s ready to retire.”
The old lady stared at the bottle, jowls wobbling. “At least let me lick it,” she pleaded. “You can’t deny an old girl a little lick.”
“No can do.” Manny said, “Your doctor said one sip could kill you.” He peeked around again and slipped the top of a second bottle out of his other pocket. “Of course, I always travel with reinforce ments.”
He thought the old alky’s eyes were going to crawl out of her face and grab his pant leg. “Mmm,” he smiled, going thoughtful on her. “Sometimes I just like to screw the top off real slow and sniff it. You ever do that? I do. I like to take a whiff, then screw the top back on and slip it back in my pocket. Just knowing it’s in there makes me happy. Knowing I can take myself a big, fat, kick-in-the-head swallow when ever I want, just knowing that makes life pretty damn sweet. Is that crazy?”
Mrs. Zank’s tongue lolled out of her mouth, and Manny wondered if he’d laid it on too thick. But her bloodshot eyes packed a mean, hard look that told him otherwise. He hadn’t gotten to her. Not completely. Bad as she needed a drink, if she had to choose between killing him or killing her thirst he sensed she’d still have to flip a coin. Clearly, Tony didn’t get his sterling personality licking the wallpaper. Mom was tough. Manny tried one more maneuver, pulling the bottle out and kissing it.
“I think I’m in love,” he said, and Mrs. Zank finally cracked. “Okay, okay!” she wailed. “Just tell me what you want to know. I
got no reason to protect my boy. He dropped me out the damn win dow, didn’t he?”
“What I want to know,” said Manny, “is why would he do some thing like that?”
“I guess he wanted a bike for Christmas,” she said bitterly. “He bar reled in ranting about how he hid something under my mattress, but when he came back for it, it wasn’t there. I don’t know why he was mad at me. Only thing I ever tried to hide was a quart of Thunderbird I bought from Snooks the janitor. And that got pinched when I was out doing recreational therapy. They got us makin’
Manny never thought of his brother except in revolting circum stances. Breathing in the hell of a Hefty garbage bag housing an aborted fetus, the stink of a month-dead junkie bloating on a rooftop in July, or the thousand other olfactory treats his job bequeathed him, the same thought always wriggled into Manny’s skull: Fucking Stanley the fucking stockbroker never has to breathe this shit. Once this bit of psy chic self-laceration was over, Detective Rubert could get on with the job, which in this case meant going toe-to-toe with a drying-out hard case named Dolly Zank.
“You the cop?” the old lady whooped the second he stepped toward her bed. “You wanna talk to me, you gotta get me wet—and I don’t mean south of the border. I mean in here. ”
Mrs. Zank made a feeble attempt to point down her throat, but so much of her was in traction the effort was doomed. “Don’t expect me to rat out Tony,” she informed him hoarsely. “You don’t pour me a slug of something potent, I’m gonna clam up tighter than the pope’s vagina.”
She was, clearly, borderline mental. But the part that hadn’t crossed the border, Manny figured, would be wondering how big a patsy he was. Manny slid a short dog of Four Roses out of his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top, made a show of checking right and left, then gave her a wink and tipped the bottle into his mouth. He made sure she could see every wriggle in his gullet as he took a long, slow pull. “Hoo-doggy, that hits the spot,” he said, smacking his lips. He screwed the lid back on the bottle, held it up to the light, and shook it. “Empty,” he sighed. “I guess this little soldier’s ready to retire.”
The old lady stared at the bottle, jowls wobbling. “At least let me lick it,” she pleaded. “You can’t deny an old girl a little lick.”
“No can do.” Manny said, “Your doctor said one sip could kill you.” He peeked around again and slipped the top of a second bottle out of his other pocket. “Of course, I always travel with reinforce ments.”
He thought the old alky’s eyes were going to crawl out of her face and grab his pant leg. “Mmm,” he smiled, going thoughtful on her. “Sometimes I just like to screw the top off real slow and sniff it. You ever do that? I do. I like to take a whiff, then screw the top back on and slip it back in my pocket. Just knowing it’s in there makes me happy. Knowing I can take myself a big, fat, kick-in-the-head swallow when ever I want, just knowing that makes life pretty damn sweet. Is that crazy?”
Mrs. Zank’s tongue lolled out of her mouth, and Manny wondered if he’d laid it on too thick. But her bloodshot eyes packed a mean, hard look that told him otherwise. He hadn’t gotten to her. Not completely. Bad as she needed a drink, if she had to choose between killing him or killing her thirst he sensed she’d still have to flip a coin. Clearly, Tony didn’t get his sterling personality licking the wallpaper. Mom was tough. Manny tried one more maneuver, pulling the bottle out and kissing it.
“I think I’m in love,” he said, and Mrs. Zank finally cracked. “Okay, okay!” she wailed. “Just tell me what you want to know. I
got no reason to protect my boy. He dropped me out the damn win dow, didn’t he?”
“What I want to know,” said Manny, “is why would he do some thing like that?”
“I guess he wanted a bike for Christmas,” she said bitterly. “He bar reled in ranting about how he hid something under my mattress, but when he came back for it, it wasn’t there. I don’t know why he was mad at me. Only thing I ever tried to hide was a quart of Thunderbird I bought from Snooks the janitor. And that got pinched when I was out doing recreational therapy. They got us makin’
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