plywood lettered BILL’S BOARD-UP instead of glass. It made the office gloomy and claustrophobic.
Even more claustrophobic when the towering, lanky form of McGregor strolled in. The glow of the desk lamp was projected at an upward angle on his long face and made him look even more grotesque than in natural light. A sort of stretched-out Lon Chaney in Phantom of the Opera. His cheap brown suitcoat was flapping open, his red tie was loosely knotted, and there were dark perspiration stains around his unbuttoned collar. He didn’t look happy.
He said, “Jesus H. Christ, it’s hot in here.”
“Just seems that way,” Carver said. “Because of the window being boarded up.”
“The way your landlord jumped to fix the place, you must really have some clout.”
“I paid the rent,” Carver said. “That oughta be clout enough to have a window.”
“That’s just how jerk-offs like you think.” McGregor puckered his lips as if he might spit. But he didn’t. Surprising. “Ninety-fuckin’-five degrees outside and I figured if I had to talk to an asshole like you it’d at least be cool in your office; instead you give me this.” He waved a long, encompassing arm; looked as if he might touch the opposite wall. “Damned wreck of a sweatbox.”
“Humble but home,” Carver said, kind of enjoying McGregor’s discomfort.
“Would be home to a shrimp-brain like you.” McGregor stood with his fists on his hips in front of Carver’s desk. Glanced left and right and said, “Least you picked up around the place. Or do you have maid service?”
“Janitor service,” Carver said, “but I did my own neatening up this time.”
“Ain’t you exactly the type?” McGregor peeled off his suitcoat, revealing his shoulder-holstered Police Special, and dark crescents of perspiration on his shirt below his armpits. No deodorant was a match for him. The movement of air he stirred up brought the unwashed scent of him to Carver. Carver’s stomach lurched and the faint ringing in his ears began again. “Let’s get to why I came here,” McGregor hissed through the space between his front teeth. “You said on the phone you had something to tell me. So get fuckin’ talking. And you better explain to me how it is the autopsy report says the guy got blown up in the Caddie actually was Frank Wesley and not Bert Renway, like you said. Play goddamn games with me, shithead, you’re gonna lose hard.”
Carver felt a rush of disgust, not just directed at McGregor, but also at himself for being involved with the unethical police lieutenant. Carver had taken police work seriously, and, maybe naïvely, had seen it as a service to a beleaguered society. McGregor took only McGregor seriously and saw his job as a service only to himself, at any cost to anyone else. Justice was something to be avoided; she was blindfolded and might trample anyone.
Swiveling in his desk chair, Carver switched on the plastic electric fan on the nearby file cabinet. It gave a low hum and rattle and began to oscillate. The fan was a cheap one without a place to oil the motor. He wondered how long it would last.
McGregor flashed his gap-toothed smile. “Whazza matter, fuckface? I thought you said it was cool enough in this shoebox you call an office.”
Carver said, “It is. But this puts me upwind of you.”
Not at all insulted, McGregor widened his smile. Got his tongue into the act by thrusting it to peek between his front teeth like a curious pink viper. “You saying I forgot my Right Guard?”
“You smell as corrupt as you are,” Carver told him.
Unfazed, McGregor said, “Corrupt, huh? Maybe your price ain’t been offered yet. So what? Everybody’s corrupt, dumbshit. Even preachers’ll tell you that. How they make their living. Original fuckin’ sin and all.” He crossed his long arms. “You and me are part of the same ooze, Carver. Difference is, you pretend otherwise. If you want your delusions, okay. Just don’t bore me with ’em.
Even more claustrophobic when the towering, lanky form of McGregor strolled in. The glow of the desk lamp was projected at an upward angle on his long face and made him look even more grotesque than in natural light. A sort of stretched-out Lon Chaney in Phantom of the Opera. His cheap brown suitcoat was flapping open, his red tie was loosely knotted, and there were dark perspiration stains around his unbuttoned collar. He didn’t look happy.
He said, “Jesus H. Christ, it’s hot in here.”
“Just seems that way,” Carver said. “Because of the window being boarded up.”
“The way your landlord jumped to fix the place, you must really have some clout.”
“I paid the rent,” Carver said. “That oughta be clout enough to have a window.”
“That’s just how jerk-offs like you think.” McGregor puckered his lips as if he might spit. But he didn’t. Surprising. “Ninety-fuckin’-five degrees outside and I figured if I had to talk to an asshole like you it’d at least be cool in your office; instead you give me this.” He waved a long, encompassing arm; looked as if he might touch the opposite wall. “Damned wreck of a sweatbox.”
“Humble but home,” Carver said, kind of enjoying McGregor’s discomfort.
“Would be home to a shrimp-brain like you.” McGregor stood with his fists on his hips in front of Carver’s desk. Glanced left and right and said, “Least you picked up around the place. Or do you have maid service?”
“Janitor service,” Carver said, “but I did my own neatening up this time.”
“Ain’t you exactly the type?” McGregor peeled off his suitcoat, revealing his shoulder-holstered Police Special, and dark crescents of perspiration on his shirt below his armpits. No deodorant was a match for him. The movement of air he stirred up brought the unwashed scent of him to Carver. Carver’s stomach lurched and the faint ringing in his ears began again. “Let’s get to why I came here,” McGregor hissed through the space between his front teeth. “You said on the phone you had something to tell me. So get fuckin’ talking. And you better explain to me how it is the autopsy report says the guy got blown up in the Caddie actually was Frank Wesley and not Bert Renway, like you said. Play goddamn games with me, shithead, you’re gonna lose hard.”
Carver felt a rush of disgust, not just directed at McGregor, but also at himself for being involved with the unethical police lieutenant. Carver had taken police work seriously, and, maybe naïvely, had seen it as a service to a beleaguered society. McGregor took only McGregor seriously and saw his job as a service only to himself, at any cost to anyone else. Justice was something to be avoided; she was blindfolded and might trample anyone.
Swiveling in his desk chair, Carver switched on the plastic electric fan on the nearby file cabinet. It gave a low hum and rattle and began to oscillate. The fan was a cheap one without a place to oil the motor. He wondered how long it would last.
McGregor flashed his gap-toothed smile. “Whazza matter, fuckface? I thought you said it was cool enough in this shoebox you call an office.”
Carver said, “It is. But this puts me upwind of you.”
Not at all insulted, McGregor widened his smile. Got his tongue into the act by thrusting it to peek between his front teeth like a curious pink viper. “You saying I forgot my Right Guard?”
“You smell as corrupt as you are,” Carver told him.
Unfazed, McGregor said, “Corrupt, huh? Maybe your price ain’t been offered yet. So what? Everybody’s corrupt, dumbshit. Even preachers’ll tell you that. How they make their living. Original fuckin’ sin and all.” He crossed his long arms. “You and me are part of the same ooze, Carver. Difference is, you pretend otherwise. If you want your delusions, okay. Just don’t bore me with ’em.
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