Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? by Stephen Dobyns

come back again to seek out the clerks, store managers, office workers, even janitors employed in the buildings near the scene, which was still blocked off by yellow tape. Earlier he had talked to people out on the street; now he’d talk to the people in the buildings. This wasn’t something that Streeter had decided to do on his own—Benny Vikström had decided it for him.
    Manny still felt it had been an accident. No way had Pappalardo meant to run down the biker, identified as Fat Bob Rossi. To prove Vikström wrong, Manny intended to interview everyone he could find, and once he had his proof, he’d put it into his computer, print it out, and toss it on Vikström’s desk. But Manny wouldn’t shout, he’d only look disappointed. As for why he thought it was an accident, the main reason was that Vikström didn’t. He liked it when Vikström was wrong.
    Disappointment tending toward cynicism was a major emotion in Manny’s life, at least out of the house, and one of his larger disappointments was Vikström. But it hadn’t been always that way. When Manny had begun to work with Vikström ten months earlier, he’d been prepared to be friendly, or friendly for Manny—that is, less disappointed. He’d admired Vikström when watching him in the Detective Bureau and earlier as a patrolman. Vikström was stubborn and hardworking, and although he put too much value on hunches, at times the hunches paid off.
    Then came the big disappointment. It wasn’t that Manny stopped admiring Vikström, though the admiration had changed to grudging admiration, even bitter admiration. It wasn’t that Vikström outranked him due to the length of time he’d spent as a detective. It wasn’t that he went to a different church or ate sushi or voted Republican or was thin. No, it was more personal than that.
    You see, Manny loves karaoke—not as much as his wife, Yvonne, does, but close; and the previous summer he’d gone so far as to build a karaoke box in the spare bedroom. After all, the kids had grown up and the bedroom was just wasted space. Some karaoke-loving friends helped him—they weren’t cops—and in total it took a month to finish.
    The karaoke box had a small stage with a karaoke system that included a lyric screen, a record option, and five thousand songs. It also had a stand-up mike, two handheld mikes, four Bose speakers, and Disco DJ stage lighting with strobes that made the rhinestones on the gold-stucco ceiling jump. Then, to create the right atmosphere, he’d added a fog maker and a bubble machine. There were four round tables and eight chairs as well as a bar and refrigerator. He even had a popcorn maker with flashing neon lights. The walls were padded, the windows covered. Yvonne was happy, as were Manny’s friends, and mostly they liked the older singers: Perry Como, Rosemary Clooney, Patti Page, and occasionally a young guy like Tony Bennett.
    Manny and Yvonne have a beagle named Schultzie, who’s like a child to them, a replacement for the adult children who live out west. Whenever Manny gets up on the stage and sings Eddie Fisher’s “Oh! My Pa-Pa,” Schultzie howls his little heart out. This brings tears to Yvonne’s eyes, which indicates the emotional intensity available in a karaoke box.
    By the time the karaoke box was finished, Streeter and Vikström had been partners a few months. They worked okay together. If their wives had packed sandwiches, they’d often share them, each taking half a tuna fish and half a ham and cheese. They weren’t friends, but Manny thought the karaoke box might bring them closer. So he invited Vikström to the opening.
    He sprang it on Vikström one Monday night in fall in their unmarked car, a dark blue Impala 9C3, over by the high-rises. Vikström was driving.
    â€œYou busy next weekend? I got a treat.”
    â€œWhat’s on your