Bill’s eyes were glazing over. “I’m sorry I brought it up.” He rose, stretched. “We gettin’ low on onion dip?”
“In the fridge,” I said.
Before Bill could take another step, however, a tub of onion dip came sailing out of the kitchen. He caught it reflexively.
We all whirled, stunned.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” the newcomer said brightly. “Thought I’d save you a trip.”
It was my wife’s Uncle Isaac, his bearlike figure filling out his workman’s overalls. A retired contractor (a jack-of-all-trades, he’d called himself), he was staying with us for a few weeks. I’d almost forgotten about him.
“Uncle Isaac,” I said, “let me introduce you around.” He shook hands vigorously with each of the guys, his pale eyes gleaming. Then he stood back a bit, stroking his thick muttonchop sideburns with a crooked finger.
My wife explained to me once that calling him “Uncle” was a courtesy; there was such a convoluted tangle of branches on her family tree that nobody was really sure how (or even if) Isaac was actually related. It seemed as though he’d just always been... family.
“How long have you been in the kitchen?” I asked. “You shoulda come on in.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. Pretty deep-dish stuff you boys talk. Like college professors.”
Fred shrugged. “You should’ve been here last week. We mostly sat around debating which Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue had the best cover.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Bill offered, then glanced ruefully at the coffee table. “I think there’s half a sandwich left, and some Cheez Whiz.”
“A tempting offer, but I had a big lunch. I just came back from a constitutional around the neighborhood.” Isaac settled into the corner armchair. A lamp table beside it was stacked with books he’d brought along. Mostly sci-fi paperbacks. Asimov. Heinlein. Silverberg. The classics. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just listen in. Please don’t take offense if I doze off.”
“No problem. Kind of a weekly occurrence around here.” Bill carved a groove in the onion dip with a potato chip. “Now, where were we?”
“We were talking about reality,” Fred said. “Or Jung. Or locker rooms.”
It was then that I first noticed that Mark was sitting somewhat pensively. He hadn’t said a word in some time.
“Hey, you okay?” I asked.
“I was just thinking about something,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “All this stuff about unexplained phenomena... It reminds me of something that happened earlier this week. It’s kind of... strange, that’s all.”
Fred looked up. “C’mon, tell us. Something at the paper?”
“Well, I’ve been doing a series for the Times about street cops, the nightly grind, you know? I’ve been riding the graveyard shift with these cop buddies, Vince and Harry, and a real mess came down a couple nights back, down on Walnut Street.”
“I think I saw that on the news last night,” Bill said. “Some drug dealer got killed — knifed — by a cop.”
Mark nodded. “The cop’s name is Sergeant D’Amato. Your basic Neanderthal. Couple of reprimands for excessive force. Always carries a pearl-handled folding knife in his belt — strictly against department policy — but everybody knows...
“Well, I’ve been riding with Vince and Harry’s unit out of D’Amato’s precinct, and all I hear the past two weeks is about D’Amato’s obsession with Tommy Slick.”
“Who?” Fred asked.
“The victim,” Bill said helpfully. “Street dude right out of NYPD Blue. Your stereotypical snarling, murderous, gang-connected drug dealer. Pacino in Scarface, without the speeches.”
Mark ignored him. “As I was saying, D’Amato’s been trying to bust Tommy for years on a major rap, but Tommy’s been too...” He smiled. “Well, let’s say Tommy’s been too slick for him.”
“Tommy Slick,” Fred muttered. “His real name’s probably Kablonski or something.”
Mark sighed heavily. “Look, guys, if I want sidebars on this story, I’ll write ’em myself. Anyway, D’Amato’s sure got his reasons for hating Tommy. Couple years back, Tommy killed D’Amato’s partner during a police raid—”
“Wait a minute! He killed a cop — and walked?”
“Nobody could ID Tommy as the shooter. But D’Amato swore it was Tommy, that he saw him waste his partner before taking off.”
“D’Amato’s upset,” I mused, “... feels guilty over his partner’s death... He needs to fixate the blame somewhere else...”
“Spare us, willy a?” Mark rolled his eyes.
“Yeah,” said Bill impatiently. “Besides, this is all just back-story, right?”
“You could call it that,” Mark said. “Anyway, all this week, the precinct’s humming like a live wire... D’Amato’s got Tommy’s main squeeze Carla in the strike zone—”
“What?”
“He was grilling her, as they used to say,” Fred explained. “She must have a lousy public defender.”
Mark shrugged. “Carla’s no deb queen herself. Juvie hall at thirteen, soliciting and dealing charges — real nice career track, if ya know what I mean... Anyway, D’Amato’s been pushing her hard. A big deal is rumored to be going down, with Tommy behind it. D’Amato’s been wanting to take him down big-time, and figures this’ll do it.”
“But why would Carla help him?”
“Turns out she’s furious at Tommy ’cause she heard he was cheating on her.” Mark leaned in. “Anyway, two nights ago, I’m in the patrol car with Vince and Harry, and a call comes in requesting backup. Seems the girl’s taking D’Amato to where Tommy’s holed up—
“We hit the siren and red light, and go jammin’ over to this rundown place on Walnut. D’Amato’s in his car with Carla, who’s wailing and crying. We run up to them, Vince and Harry carrying the heavy artillery. Just then, a window smashes above us, glass showering down, and a couple of Tommy’s guys are shooting at us.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Bill.
“Yeah, that name came up,” Mark said. “I mean, all of a sudden it’s a goddam shootout. Vince is yellin’ at me to stay down— Hell, I’ve got more combat experience than he does!
“Finally, after about ten minutes of this, D’Amato tells Carla to stay put and goes chargin’ into the place. Vince and Harry got no choice, they go crashing in after him, with me bringing up the rear.”
“What are you, nuts?” Fred stared at Mark, wide-eyed.
“It gets worse,” Mark said. “Carla bolts outta the car, and the next thing I know, all of us, including her, are scurrying up this darkened stairwell inside the building — Carla screamin’ her head off, trying to warn Tommy—
“Bullets are flying everywhere, and then we’re upstairs, in Tommy’s place. One of his gang is heading out the window. Vince yells, ‘Freeze!’ and the perp drops his gun. The other perp is in a heap by the bed, covered with blood...”
“Where the hell was Tommy?”
“That’s what D’Amato wanted to know. We’re all crouched in the doorway, guns drawn, Carla and me pushed behind the cops. Vince is covering the perp, still frozen halfway out the window...
“ ‘Where’s Tommy, dirtball?’ D’Amato yells at this guy. He doesn’t say squat. Suddenly, D’Amato lifts his piece — ‘I’m sprayin’ the walls, Tommy!’ — Vince is grabbing for his arm. Just then, Carla breaks free, runs into the middle of the room. D’Amato roars like a banshee, goes right in after her.
“Suddenly, a door flies open — it was a special hiding place, no bigger than a closet... Anyway, this door flies open and Tommy’s body falls out — right into Carla’s arms! She reels back, screaming, as the body hits the floor. There’s a knife sticking out of his chest, blood seeping through his shirt.”