Garman would agree with you.”
“Garman’s a feeb.”
“You’re wrong there, Rich. Bert Garman is a good doc, and he’s done wonders for this place.”
“Yeah, right. That’s why he sold out to UniHealth.”
“Might be a smart move. Who knows?”
He became suddenly animated. “What is this, make nice-nice with the mental patient? These health-care goons are just another cog in the corporate Wheel of Fortune. A cosmic Fuck-You from Vanna White and the wonderful wizards of Wall Street. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain! It’s like Roswell, and Ruby Ridge, and sabotaging our microwaves. It’s all connected, man. Oliver Stoned to the max. The World Wide Web. The International House of Panic. Indra’s Net and nothin’ but net!”
His teeth were chattering now, and he’d started rocking back and forth again.
“See, the world ain’t goin’ out with a bang or a whimper. Those Newtonian dichotomies are strictly old-school, horse-and buggy fantasies. Like poets even know what the fuck’s up, right? Absinthe-sucking, transgendered freakazoids. No disrespect, but that’s not how us homo sapiens are checkin’ out. No way, Jose. Mankind’s gonna be techno-fuckin’-morphed into something even the True Christ wouldn’t recognize, and we’re all lining up with credit cards to pay for the privilege of goin’ first.”
Then, as if short-circuiting, he suddenly froze. Body rigid, hands on his lap.
He looked up at me with soft, moist eyes.
Blinking.
“Richie?” I said quietly. “You in there?”
He smiled crookedly. “Hey, did I tell you my old man finally died? Bastard took long enough. I thought he was gonna hang on till the next millennium. Man, I’m thirsty. Chick fights always make my mouth dry. That happen to you?”
Before I could say anything, a heavy fist rapping the doorframe behind made me turn in my chair. It was Harry Polk, cell phone in hand, eyes narrowed with purpose.
“C’mon, Doc, gotta go. I just heard from Lowrey.”
“What’s up?” I said. “And shouldn’t we go back to Garman’s office for those files?”
“Don’t need ’em. We got the killer in a holding cell downtown. They picked him up ’bout twenty minutes ago.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Polk was behind the wheel, steering with one hand, trying to light another Camel with the other. He’d practically floored it since we pulled out of the clinic parking lot, and was pushing it even harder as we headed downtown. Under a black sky weeping rain, with traffic coiled like a bag of snakes, he was making turns that had our bodies straining against the seat belts.
“Look,” I said, as we bounced over the cobblestones on Grant Avenue, “want me to light that for you?”
“Thanks. Got it.” He took a deep drag.
“So, what’s going on?”
“It’s over, that’s what. Second canvas of the area turned up an eyewitness who saw the perp leaving your office building right about the time of the murder.”
From the west, thunder rumbled. That new storm was coming in hard.
“Somebody saw the guy?”
“Yeah. Witness is named Doolie Stills. Real bottom-feeder. Numbers, that shit. But he picked the killer outta the photo array, and that’s good enough for the DA.”
Traffic slowed, and we found ourselves behind a line of trucks and SUV’s. Polk hit the lights and siren.
“Hold on.” He barreled past the line of cars.
“Suspect’s a real hard-ass named Arnie Flodine,” Polk went on. “Some Oakie from out west, got a sheet as long as my dick. Assault, armed robbery. Lately, he’s been bustin’ kneecaps for some local loan sharks.”
I considered this. “I don’t know. This doesn’t seem like the work of a career criminal.”
Polk laughed. “No kiddin’, Columbo? Like you know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”
“Harry, this murder was personal . Brutal. There were multiple stab wounds. That sound like a hired job to you?”
“Hey, I knew a collector for the mob, used to
“Garman’s a feeb.”
“You’re wrong there, Rich. Bert Garman is a good doc, and he’s done wonders for this place.”
“Yeah, right. That’s why he sold out to UniHealth.”
“Might be a smart move. Who knows?”
He became suddenly animated. “What is this, make nice-nice with the mental patient? These health-care goons are just another cog in the corporate Wheel of Fortune. A cosmic Fuck-You from Vanna White and the wonderful wizards of Wall Street. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain! It’s like Roswell, and Ruby Ridge, and sabotaging our microwaves. It’s all connected, man. Oliver Stoned to the max. The World Wide Web. The International House of Panic. Indra’s Net and nothin’ but net!”
His teeth were chattering now, and he’d started rocking back and forth again.
“See, the world ain’t goin’ out with a bang or a whimper. Those Newtonian dichotomies are strictly old-school, horse-and buggy fantasies. Like poets even know what the fuck’s up, right? Absinthe-sucking, transgendered freakazoids. No disrespect, but that’s not how us homo sapiens are checkin’ out. No way, Jose. Mankind’s gonna be techno-fuckin’-morphed into something even the True Christ wouldn’t recognize, and we’re all lining up with credit cards to pay for the privilege of goin’ first.”
Then, as if short-circuiting, he suddenly froze. Body rigid, hands on his lap.
He looked up at me with soft, moist eyes.
Blinking.
“Richie?” I said quietly. “You in there?”
He smiled crookedly. “Hey, did I tell you my old man finally died? Bastard took long enough. I thought he was gonna hang on till the next millennium. Man, I’m thirsty. Chick fights always make my mouth dry. That happen to you?”
Before I could say anything, a heavy fist rapping the doorframe behind made me turn in my chair. It was Harry Polk, cell phone in hand, eyes narrowed with purpose.
“C’mon, Doc, gotta go. I just heard from Lowrey.”
“What’s up?” I said. “And shouldn’t we go back to Garman’s office for those files?”
“Don’t need ’em. We got the killer in a holding cell downtown. They picked him up ’bout twenty minutes ago.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Polk was behind the wheel, steering with one hand, trying to light another Camel with the other. He’d practically floored it since we pulled out of the clinic parking lot, and was pushing it even harder as we headed downtown. Under a black sky weeping rain, with traffic coiled like a bag of snakes, he was making turns that had our bodies straining against the seat belts.
“Look,” I said, as we bounced over the cobblestones on Grant Avenue, “want me to light that for you?”
“Thanks. Got it.” He took a deep drag.
“So, what’s going on?”
“It’s over, that’s what. Second canvas of the area turned up an eyewitness who saw the perp leaving your office building right about the time of the murder.”
From the west, thunder rumbled. That new storm was coming in hard.
“Somebody saw the guy?”
“Yeah. Witness is named Doolie Stills. Real bottom-feeder. Numbers, that shit. But he picked the killer outta the photo array, and that’s good enough for the DA.”
Traffic slowed, and we found ourselves behind a line of trucks and SUV’s. Polk hit the lights and siren.
“Hold on.” He barreled past the line of cars.
“Suspect’s a real hard-ass named Arnie Flodine,” Polk went on. “Some Oakie from out west, got a sheet as long as my dick. Assault, armed robbery. Lately, he’s been bustin’ kneecaps for some local loan sharks.”
I considered this. “I don’t know. This doesn’t seem like the work of a career criminal.”
Polk laughed. “No kiddin’, Columbo? Like you know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”
“Harry, this murder was personal . Brutal. There were multiple stab wounds. That sound like a hired job to you?”
“Hey, I knew a collector for the mob, used to
Similar Books
