and herbs?”
“No that’s Provençale. This is the one with scallops and mushrooms.”
“In a white wine sauce?”
“Yeah.”
“I like that one.”
“And I had my heart set on some artichoke hearts and truffles!” Spencer continued. “Oh God!”
“I’m really awful sorry, Spencer,” Father Willie said.
“When you started working with me you thought all menus were printed on the wall. I trained you!” reminded Spencer Van Moot.
“I know, Spencer, I know.”
“And this is the thanks I get. All because you’re so goddamn gung ho and have to pick up the mike and clear. Now I gotta smell a dead body instead of a soufflé au chocolat! Oh God!”
“I’ll make it up to you, Spencer,” promised Father Willie, wondering when he was going to learn to act like a veteran.
A wizened crone in a black dress and dirty sweat-socks was drinking beer on the porch of a two story frame house just south of the corner. She waved as Spencer flashed their spotlight around, hoping not to find the caller.
Spencer lagged behind disgustedly as they parked, and gathered up his flashlight and hat slowly He always put the hat on while looking in the rearview mirror so as not to disturb the hairstyle.
“Yes, ma’am?” Father Willie turned his light on the porch steps as the old woman drained the can without getting out of her rocking chair. She steamed like dank mulching weeds.
“Think my tenant’s dead in the basement,” the old woman grinned in triumph.
“What makes you think… uh, oh,” said Spencer as he got to the top step of the porch and smelled the tenant who made them forget the old woman’s putrescence.
“When did you discover him?” Father Willie asked, as Spencer sneered, thinking he would have to endure this instead of peach Melba.
“Ain’t seen him in about three days. Thought he moved out without paying the rent. Sort of discovered him, you might say, about an hour ago when the wind started stirring things around.”
Spencer sighed and nodded and led Father Willie through the musty hallway of the boardinghouse which was partitioned off to accommodate seven single men. They found the basement door slightly ajar.
“Wonder if that witch is drinking beer or bat milk?” Spencer remarked.
“He’s down there all right,” Father Willie said, almost retching as they tried the stairs.
Then Spencer found the light switch and led Father Willie down the ancient wooden stairway where next to a gravity-heat furnace they found the tenant hanging from the ceiling joists, his knees almost dragging the ground.
“Kee-rist!” Spencer said, forgetting the overpowering smell for a moment.
The neck of the hanging man was almost ten inches longand the dragging legs formed a bridge for a column of ants which trooped up his legs to his face and ears and nose where they nested and fed with a velvety spider. And there were wounds on the man’s neck which Father Willie realized were rat bites after he saw the mounds of droppings on the floor beneath the hanging man.
“Wonder how long he’s been hanging around here?” Spencer quipped to his little partner who had a handkerchief pressed to his nose.
“He probably reached the end of his rope,” Spencer said, but Father Willie didn’t hear Spencer’s gags.
Willie Wright had not seen that many dead men in his three year police career and he was struck by the youth of this man and by the swollen hands darkened by draining blood and by the gray face which looked as if it belonged in a wax cabinet. And though the elongated neck shocked him, because he did not dream it could happen like this, he was almost shocked because for the first time in twenty-four years Father Willie Wright realized something. He looked at that one dull eye open and truly believed that he would join the waxen hanging man. That they were brothers going somewhere. Or nowhere.
It was just a young man consciously coming to a basic truth for the first time. But Father Willie, not knowing
“No that’s Provençale. This is the one with scallops and mushrooms.”
“In a white wine sauce?”
“Yeah.”
“I like that one.”
“And I had my heart set on some artichoke hearts and truffles!” Spencer continued. “Oh God!”
“I’m really awful sorry, Spencer,” Father Willie said.
“When you started working with me you thought all menus were printed on the wall. I trained you!” reminded Spencer Van Moot.
“I know, Spencer, I know.”
“And this is the thanks I get. All because you’re so goddamn gung ho and have to pick up the mike and clear. Now I gotta smell a dead body instead of a soufflé au chocolat! Oh God!”
“I’ll make it up to you, Spencer,” promised Father Willie, wondering when he was going to learn to act like a veteran.
A wizened crone in a black dress and dirty sweat-socks was drinking beer on the porch of a two story frame house just south of the corner. She waved as Spencer flashed their spotlight around, hoping not to find the caller.
Spencer lagged behind disgustedly as they parked, and gathered up his flashlight and hat slowly He always put the hat on while looking in the rearview mirror so as not to disturb the hairstyle.
“Yes, ma’am?” Father Willie turned his light on the porch steps as the old woman drained the can without getting out of her rocking chair. She steamed like dank mulching weeds.
“Think my tenant’s dead in the basement,” the old woman grinned in triumph.
“What makes you think… uh, oh,” said Spencer as he got to the top step of the porch and smelled the tenant who made them forget the old woman’s putrescence.
“When did you discover him?” Father Willie asked, as Spencer sneered, thinking he would have to endure this instead of peach Melba.
“Ain’t seen him in about three days. Thought he moved out without paying the rent. Sort of discovered him, you might say, about an hour ago when the wind started stirring things around.”
Spencer sighed and nodded and led Father Willie through the musty hallway of the boardinghouse which was partitioned off to accommodate seven single men. They found the basement door slightly ajar.
“Wonder if that witch is drinking beer or bat milk?” Spencer remarked.
“He’s down there all right,” Father Willie said, almost retching as they tried the stairs.
Then Spencer found the light switch and led Father Willie down the ancient wooden stairway where next to a gravity-heat furnace they found the tenant hanging from the ceiling joists, his knees almost dragging the ground.
“Kee-rist!” Spencer said, forgetting the overpowering smell for a moment.
The neck of the hanging man was almost ten inches longand the dragging legs formed a bridge for a column of ants which trooped up his legs to his face and ears and nose where they nested and fed with a velvety spider. And there were wounds on the man’s neck which Father Willie realized were rat bites after he saw the mounds of droppings on the floor beneath the hanging man.
“Wonder how long he’s been hanging around here?” Spencer quipped to his little partner who had a handkerchief pressed to his nose.
“He probably reached the end of his rope,” Spencer said, but Father Willie didn’t hear Spencer’s gags.
Willie Wright had not seen that many dead men in his three year police career and he was struck by the youth of this man and by the swollen hands darkened by draining blood and by the gray face which looked as if it belonged in a wax cabinet. And though the elongated neck shocked him, because he did not dream it could happen like this, he was almost shocked because for the first time in twenty-four years Father Willie Wright realized something. He looked at that one dull eye open and truly believed that he would join the waxen hanging man. That they were brothers going somewhere. Or nowhere.
It was just a young man consciously coming to a basic truth for the first time. But Father Willie, not knowing
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