rocking chair. I lay down for a little power nap, and an idea gradually began forming in the back of my mind amidst all the debris that Leila’s legs had recently kicked there. The idea rose like a phoenix, no doubt from the ashes of several rather charred brain cells. It started off a little shaky, but it looked like it was going to fly.
I did not especially like Wild Kingdom. I always felt that the feeling was Mutual of Omaha. The cat, however, always seemed vaguely to enjoy the show, so I turned it on every now and then for her enjoyment.
It wasn’t a great sacrifice for me. Just part of the give-and-take of daily life. A little adjustment we make in order to ensure that the world becomes a better place for our children and our kittens. On the other hand, it could’ve been that, subconsciously, these little kindnesses I performed were a trick I was playing on God to make Him think I was a more sensitive American than I am. But could any man play a trick on God? Whose Wild Kingdom was it anyway? Was it God’s or Mutual of Omaha’s? Tune in next week.
Ratso walked in just about the time I got the phone call from Sergeant Cooperman.
37
After I’d established that Ratso was not going to interrupt his journey to the refrigerator to answer the phones, I walked over to the desk and collared the blower on the left.
“Start talkin’,” I said.
“Goodbye, Tex,” said Sergeant Cooperman.
“Going somewhere, Sergeant?”
“Yeah. Funeral of a guy. Used to be a country singer. Tried his hand at a little amateur crime-solving now and then. Got lucky a few times. Then he got in over his head. Colorful character, he was. Gutsy guy, too. Never liked him too much, personally … Never got off on funerals much, either. I’ll take a fucking wake any day.”
“I know what you mean. I’d rather go to an Irish wake than a Jewish wedding. They’re more fun.”
Ratso looked over at me inquiringly from the refrigerator. I shrugged and took a fresh cigar out of Sherlock Holmes’s head.
“Got a mick in the woodpile somewhere, do you, Tex?” While I listened to Cooperman chuckle I began preignition procedures on the cigar. For a while I thought he had the chuckle on an endless loop, but it subsided neatly right about the time I had the cigar ready for lift-off.
“Gonna wear a Colombian necktie to the funeral, Tex?”
“I must assume, then,” I said, “that this call’s in reference to ‘Country Singer Thought to Be Finger.’” I took a not-so-relaxed puff on the cigar.
“Let me tell you something you obviously don’t know,” said Cooperman. “These guys don’t operate like the Mafia. They don’t make a precise, targeted hit. It ain’t like the Tongs either, where they let the honky customers continue eating their sweet-and-sour pork while they blow away the enemy slopes at the next table. These are the kind of guys that like to waste the grandmother in the wheelchair, the dog, the cat. They see a two-month-old baby in a crib, they ice it. And believe me, they don’t pick the rattle up off the floor. If they come for you, every bag lady and hot-dog vendor on Vandam Street will go with you. You’re not dealing with Ricardo Montalban here.”
The chuckle was gone from Cooperman’s voice. Even the malice was gone. Things were worse than I’d thought. I needed a drink.
“You know,” Cooperman continued almost wistfully, “when I think of two Jewish meatballs like you and your pal Ratso trying to stay ten steps ahead of a private army of bloodthirsty spies with an intelligence network that’s probably superior to the FBI …”
Cooperman sighed. I tried to swallow. Sometimes it’s harder than it looks.
“You might have been set up, pal,” he said. “Or maybe somebody’s using you for a tethered goat. I can’t prove it. In fact, if anybody asks, I didn’t even say it.”
“Maybe you’re wrong,” I said. “Maybe they won’t figure it out. Maybe they won’t bother to come after
I did not especially like Wild Kingdom. I always felt that the feeling was Mutual of Omaha. The cat, however, always seemed vaguely to enjoy the show, so I turned it on every now and then for her enjoyment.
It wasn’t a great sacrifice for me. Just part of the give-and-take of daily life. A little adjustment we make in order to ensure that the world becomes a better place for our children and our kittens. On the other hand, it could’ve been that, subconsciously, these little kindnesses I performed were a trick I was playing on God to make Him think I was a more sensitive American than I am. But could any man play a trick on God? Whose Wild Kingdom was it anyway? Was it God’s or Mutual of Omaha’s? Tune in next week.
Ratso walked in just about the time I got the phone call from Sergeant Cooperman.
37
After I’d established that Ratso was not going to interrupt his journey to the refrigerator to answer the phones, I walked over to the desk and collared the blower on the left.
“Start talkin’,” I said.
“Goodbye, Tex,” said Sergeant Cooperman.
“Going somewhere, Sergeant?”
“Yeah. Funeral of a guy. Used to be a country singer. Tried his hand at a little amateur crime-solving now and then. Got lucky a few times. Then he got in over his head. Colorful character, he was. Gutsy guy, too. Never liked him too much, personally … Never got off on funerals much, either. I’ll take a fucking wake any day.”
“I know what you mean. I’d rather go to an Irish wake than a Jewish wedding. They’re more fun.”
Ratso looked over at me inquiringly from the refrigerator. I shrugged and took a fresh cigar out of Sherlock Holmes’s head.
“Got a mick in the woodpile somewhere, do you, Tex?” While I listened to Cooperman chuckle I began preignition procedures on the cigar. For a while I thought he had the chuckle on an endless loop, but it subsided neatly right about the time I had the cigar ready for lift-off.
“Gonna wear a Colombian necktie to the funeral, Tex?”
“I must assume, then,” I said, “that this call’s in reference to ‘Country Singer Thought to Be Finger.’” I took a not-so-relaxed puff on the cigar.
“Let me tell you something you obviously don’t know,” said Cooperman. “These guys don’t operate like the Mafia. They don’t make a precise, targeted hit. It ain’t like the Tongs either, where they let the honky customers continue eating their sweet-and-sour pork while they blow away the enemy slopes at the next table. These are the kind of guys that like to waste the grandmother in the wheelchair, the dog, the cat. They see a two-month-old baby in a crib, they ice it. And believe me, they don’t pick the rattle up off the floor. If they come for you, every bag lady and hot-dog vendor on Vandam Street will go with you. You’re not dealing with Ricardo Montalban here.”
The chuckle was gone from Cooperman’s voice. Even the malice was gone. Things were worse than I’d thought. I needed a drink.
“You know,” Cooperman continued almost wistfully, “when I think of two Jewish meatballs like you and your pal Ratso trying to stay ten steps ahead of a private army of bloodthirsty spies with an intelligence network that’s probably superior to the FBI …”
Cooperman sighed. I tried to swallow. Sometimes it’s harder than it looks.
“You might have been set up, pal,” he said. “Or maybe somebody’s using you for a tethered goat. I can’t prove it. In fact, if anybody asks, I didn’t even say it.”
“Maybe you’re wrong,” I said. “Maybe they won’t figure it out. Maybe they won’t bother to come after
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