Gridiron

'Uh — Detective Sergeant Frank Curtis,' he said, without a great deal of conviction. 'LAPD Homicide.' Rubbing his jaw thoughtfully he added:

'Y'know, I'm not sure anyone is expecting us, er… ma'am. We're here to investigate a 187 — I mean a dead body.'

'Thank you,' smiled Kelly. 'Please take a seat beside the piano while your inquiry is expedited.'

Curtis ignored the enormous leather sofa and waved Coleman forward to the horseshoe-shaped desk and the beaming, well-groomed image of American womanhood. He wondered if Kelly Pendry had done the Yu Corporation hologram before or after the Playboy Celebrity Centrefold video.

'Detective Nathan Coleman. LAPD Homicide. Nice to meet you,

sweetheart. I've always been one of your biggest fans. And do I mean biggest.'

'Thank you. Please take a seat while your inquiry is expedited.'

'This is ludicrous,' grumbled Curtis. 'I'm talking to myself, aren't I?'

Coleman grinned and leaned across the desk at the image of the anchor-woman's shapely legs.

'I don't know, Frank, I kind of like it. You think this little lady's wearing panties?'

Curtis ignored his younger partner.

'Where the hell is everyone?' He walked around the horseshoe-shaped desk and shouted a loud hello.

'Please be patient,' insisted Kelly. 'I'm trying to expedite your inquiry.'

'And they call this English?' Curtis complained.

'Hey, Kelly, you're quite a babe, you know that? Ever since I was in high school I've had a thing about you. No really, I have. I'd love to tell you all about it. What time do you get off work?'

'This building closes at 5.30,' said Kelly through her perfect smile. Coleman bent closer and shook his head in wonder: you could even see the lip gloss.

'Great. What do you say I pick you up outside the front of the building here? And take you back to my place. Eat some dinner. Get to know each other. Maybe fool around a little, later.'

'If that's an example of how you talk to women, Nat,' said Curtis, 'it's no wonder you're still single.'

'Come on, Kelly, whaddya say? A real man instead of all those other see-through kinds of guys.'

'I'm sorry, sir, but I never mix business with pleasure.'

Curtis guffawed loudly.

'Jesus, her fucking lines are almost as bad as yours.'

Coleman grinned back.

'You're right. This little lady is pure saccharine. Just like the real thing, eh?'

'Thank you for your patience, gentlemen. Please proceed through the glass doors behind me to the elevator and take a car to the basement, where someone will collect you.'

'One more thing, honey. My friend and I were wondering if you're the kind to fuck on a first date. Actually, we've got a little bet on about it. He says you are. I say you're not. So which is it?'

'Nat!' Curtis was already through the glass doors.

'Have a nice day,' said Kelly, still smiling like an air stewardess through a life-vest demonstration.

'Hey, you too, sweetheart. You too. Keep it warm for me, OK?'

'Jesus Christ, Nat. Isn't it just a little early in the day?' said Curtis as they stepped inside the elevator. 'You're a degenerate.'

'Right.'

Curtis was searching the wall of the elevator for a floor-selection panel.

'Remember?' said Coleman. 'The building's smart. None of that pushbutton shit here. That's why our voices were digitally encoded. So we can use the elevator.' He leaned towards a perforated panel next to which was an illustration of a man with his hand cupped beside his mouth.

'That's what this little icon means. Basement, please.'

Curtis inspected the sign. 'I thought that was about burping or something.'

'Don't bullshit me.'

'Why do you call it an icon? That's a holy object.'

'Because that's what these computer people call these little signs. Icons.'

Curtis snorted with disgust. 'Of course. What would those bastards know about holy objects?'

The doors closed silently. Curtis glanced up at the electroluminescent screen that was showing the floor they were headed for, the direction of travel and the time. He seemed impatient to begin work, although this was partly due to the slight feeling of claustrophobia that affected him in elevators.

In contrast to the atrium, the basement was busy with police officers and forensic experts. The OIC, a three-hundred-pounder called Wallace lumbered towards Curtis with a notebook open in his saddle-sized hands. At New Parker Center he was known as Foghorn because with his deep southern accent and hesitant way of speaking he sounded exactly like the cartoon rooster of the same name.

Curtis flicked his notebook with apparent disapproval.

'Hey, put that away, will you, Foghorn? This is a paper-free office. You'll get us into trouble with the lady upstairs.'

'What about that thing? Me, I'm a Roman Catholic and I tell you, I didn't — I say I didn't know whether to pray to her for forgiveness or just go ahead and fuck her.'

'Nat got her telephone number. Didn't you, Nat?'

'Yeah,' said Coleman. 'She gives great head on AT&T.'

Foghorn combed his hair with his fingers, tried to read his own handwriting and shook his head. 'Fuck it. There's nothing much yet anyway.' He put the notebook away and hitched up his pants.

'Guy found — I say guy found dead with blunt head injuries. Reported in by — I say you're goin' to love this one Frank — reported in by the fuckin' computer. Can you believe it? I mean, there's neighbourhood watch and there's Bladerunner, right? The call was taken by the central dispatch computer at 1.57 a.m.'

'One computer talking to another,' said Coleman. 'That's the way it's going to be, y'know. The future.'

'Your future — I say your future, not mine, son.'

'Still, it was nice of them both to cut us in on it,' said Curtis. 'When did you get here, Fog?'

' 'Bout three o'clock,' he yawned. 'Excuse me.'

'Not yet I don't.' Curtis glanced at his watch. It was still only seventhirty.

'So who's the vic?'

Foghorn pointed between the two Homicide detectives.

Curtis and Coleman turned to see the body of a tall black man lying on the floor of one of the elevator cars, his blue uniform spattered with blood.

'Sam Gleig. Night-time security guard. But not so as you'd notice.'

Noticing the incomprehension in Curtis's eyes, he added: 'Got himself-

I say he got himself fuckin' killed, didn't he?'

The police photographer was already folding his camera tripod away. Curtis recognized him and vaguely remembered that the man's name was Phil something.

'Hey, Phil. You done?' asked Curtis looking around the interior of the car.

'I'm sure I covered everything,' said the photographer, and showed him a list of the shots he had taken.

Curtis smiled affably. 'I think you got the whole album there.'

'I'll have them processed and printed before lunch.'

Curtis felt in his coat pocket and produced a roll of 35-millimetre film.

'Do me a favour,' he said, 'see if there's anything on this, will you? It's been in my pocket so long I can't remember what it is. I keep meaning to take it in but — well, you know how it is.'

'Sure. No problem.'

'Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it. Only don't get them mixed up.'

Sam Gleig lay with his hands resting on his stomach, his knees bent and his big feet still on the floor of the car. But for the blood, he looked like a drunk in a doorway. Curtis stepped over the blood that surrounded his head and shoulders like a Buddha's halo and crowded down to take a closer look.

'Anyone from the coroner's office seen him yet?'

'Charlie Seidler,' said Foghorn. 'He's in the-I say he's in the can, I think. You want to take a look at the Johns in this fuckin' place, Frank. They've got — I say they've got Johns that tell the time and brush your fuckin' teeth. Took me ten minutes just to figure out how to take a leak in the damn thing.'