“Jer-I found something. I was hoping you could dive a little deeper for me on one of these sites.”
“Which one?”
“Xcracksterweb.”
“I thought that had some possibility,” he said. “What’s up?”
“One of the suspicious women showed up. There’s also a page that requires a credit card and a password. Can you get me in without that?”
“Yeah, it’ll take about two minutes.”
“Really?”
“So much for Internet insecurity.”
“Jer?”
“Yeah?”
“This page had every kind of porn you could imagine. The part where you needed a password had a silly title too that hinted at kids. I’m suspecting you might find stuff with minors.”
“I’m guessing you’re not referring to the guys who go underground with flashlights on their heads.”
“No. I just don’t want to get you in any trouble.”
“Thanks, Duff. I’ll be careful.”
Kelley was in his usual spot. I slapped Jerry on the back and went to my stool.
“What’s up, Kel?”
“Hey Duff.”
Kel was watching a Classic Sports rerun of a Bruins-Canadiens game from the late seventies.
“This is the one where Bobby Schmautz scores the winning goal in overtime, isn’t it?” I asked. When I cared about hockey, Schmautz was my favorite hockey player.
“You know, Duff, I didn’t follow the career of Bobby Schwanz all that closely.”
“It’s Schmautz,” I said, defending a hero.
“Schwanz, Schmautz,” Kelley said.
“Hey, Kel, what happens if someone comes across child pornography on the Internet?”
“Duff-I think it’s time you went to a psychiatrist yourself.”
“I’m serious. Who would you report to?”
“Why don’t you join Dick Tracy’s crime stoppers or something?”
“C’mon, really.”
“You could call the local police, you could call the FBI. It will wind up in the hands of the FBI and they’ll get a task force on it. It takes a long time because they tend to want to round up as many of the pervs as they can.”
“Gotcha.”
“I don’t want to know, right?” he said.
“Probably not,” I said.
AJ opened another long-necked Schlitz and I asked him to give me a bourbon, neat, with it.
“A sidecar tonight for the social worker?” AJ said. “Looks like he may need a detox.”
I nodded and decided against a comeback. The night had been an ugly one. The photos bothered me but not nearly as much as the concept that there was an element of people that would find them arousing and amusing. The bourbon was an attempt to disinfect my mind a bit. It went down warm and I saved a sip of Schlitz at the end to chase it. The Foursome had moved on from Mountain Dew but had kept somewhat close to the theme. As I walked past them and waved good night to everyone, TC was pontificating something about a gerbil, a toilet paper tube, and Richard Gere.
I didn’t stick around to see how it came out. Instead, I left AJ’s and took a walk around the block. For four or five square blocks, there were warehouses and factories and one or two houses. Except for the baked-goods factory, nothing was open after six and the whole area was lit with those amber streetlights that are now popular in urban areas. The amber hue gave the place an eerie feel. I looked in and out of parking lots and in the few residential driveways that there were. I did three laps around and got the same results. A silver Crown Victoria was nowhere to be found.
Three times was enough, and I decided to head home. In the Eldorado, I slipped in the eight-track From Elvis in Memphis, Elvis’s double album from ’69 that represented his return to serious music. A lot of it was dark and thoughtful music, and I particularly tuned in to “Long Black Limousine,” a song that told the story of a tragic death and a funeral.
Just before the Route 9R turn, the Crown Vic showed up. It lay back about two city blocks but made the turn onto 9R with me. Whoever it was was too far back to recognize and whenever I slowed down, the Crown Vic slowed down with me. It was making me crazy, but I did my best to ignore it.
At the Moody Blue, Al greeted me with enthusiasm at the door, jumped on me and then off, and then spun around in a complete circle while letting out a high-pitched cry. I had no idea what he was talking about. After taking a second circle, he sprinted to the bathroom and got himself a drink. I sat on the good side of the couch and flipped on the TV, forgetting that it would go to its now-default station, Lifetime. Robert Stack was talking about two sisters who had never met getting together for the first time. I wondered why everyone on this show always seemed to have a Southern accent.
My Unsolved Mysteries reverie was shattered when Al jumped on the couch and came over to give me a big toilet-water-laced slurp on my ear. His nose, face, and long ears were sauteed in el agua del bano. It was cold and a bit shocking and a fitting ending for what had been overall a pretty disgusting day.
22
“Hey Duff,” Sam said. “Did you hear why the new Polish navy got a glass-bottom boat?”
“Again with the nautical theme, Sam?”
He didn’t even pause.
“So they can see the old Polish navy.”
“Good one, asshole,” I muttered. I was a bit hungover, which surprised me because I hadn’t drank all that much. It might have been the mixing of bourbon and Schlitz, though that didn’t seem to bother me much in the past.
I was dredging through the paperwork and trying to get done with the tortuous Aberman file. In a session a couple of months ago Mrs. Aberman was complaining that Mr. Aberman seldom did anything romantic. Best I could remember it went something like this:
“He never gets romantic,” Michelle Aberman said. “Ever.”
“I rub your bunions,” Morris Aberman said.
“That’s not romantic. It’s nice, but it’s not romantic.”
“What would you consider romantic?” I asked therapeutically.
“Roses, champagne, you know, sweet talk, fancy dinners…”
It went on like that for over an hour. I was looking at Michelle and trying to figure out what she would have to do for me to get me to even consider rubbing her bunions. Just the thought of her bunions was disturbing enough that I had to force myself to sing “Don’t Be Cruel” for the rest of that day to not think about her bunions.
Writing about it was bringing about a similar revulsion, and I was to the part where the Jordanaires do the “oooooos” right before Elvis growls when Trina’s voice, thankfully, took me away from it all.
“Meet me in the parking lot in five minutes,” she said. “Don’t say anything to anyone.”
“Wha-”
“Don’t say anything!” Trina said.
At first, I thought Trina might be inviting me to something kinky in the early morning of a workday, but her urgency made me dismiss that quickly.
I nonchalantly made my way to the parking lot, not sure what I was about to get into. Trina was standing next to her Honda, nervously smoking a cigarette.
“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.
“Were you looking at porn in the office last night?”
“Are you with the bishop’s office or something?”
“I’m serious.”
“Well-”
She didn’t let me finish.
“Claudia knows. She checks that shit every morning with some program. She’s going to fire you. She’s already called Hymie and Espidera to meet with her. It’s in the policy manual.”
“I was looking at it because of Walanda.”
“It doesn’t matter. She thinks she’s got you now. She’s checking the browser history and she has the board guys coming in around four this afternoon to review it with them.”
“Shit.”
“Look, I gotta get back inside before she figures out I’m gone.”
I didn’t think a small office like ours checked computer activity, but it was just like the Michelin Woman to be hung up on something like that. Looking at porn at work is almost indefensible and I couldn’t let on that I was trying to solve a murder. I was screwed.