Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? by Stephen Dobyns Page B

Manny’s burdens seem to double. He staggers, and an elderly woman across the street shakes her head over evidence of intemperance in an otherwise respectable-looking gentleman.
    When Manny thinks he’s almost done talking to people, he calls Vikström to see what he wants next.
    â€œHave you checked all the upper-floor offices?”
    â€œI’m working on it,” says Manny untruthfully.
    â€œI think it’s a good idea. Don’t you?”
    Over the next half hour, Manny talks to four people who occupied upper-floor offices. They’d all heard the crash and hurried to their windows, but by the time they looked, the accident was over, while its very drama made them incapable of examining the details of its display—that is, they were at a loss for words.
    That changes when Manny talks to a middle-aged woman who works above the music store. She’s a smoker in an office where smoking isn’t allowed and where her boss, a data supervisor, has told her more than once that if she must smoke, she has to do it out on the street. But perhaps it’s raining or she doesn’t care to hunker in a doorway as if selling illegal substances. At those times she rolls her chair to the window, sticks out her head, and unless the wind blows directly in her face, lights up for a few puffs. Across the street is a three-story, flat-roofed building of gray granite blocks. To the right of the building is an alley, and within the alley that Monday morning she’d seen a large green truck with its motor idling.
    The woman—her name doesn’t matter—describes this to Manny at some length, but then she reaches the important part.
    â€œAll at once the truck backed up, and it didn’t do it slowly. It rushed back, and I knew the driver wasn’t looking both ways. It made a roar, and suddenly there was the motorcycle. I pushed my chair back from the window, but I heard the crash. It was terrible. I still hear it.”
    Manny takes her through her story several times, but the important part stays the same. The truck had “rushed” back into the street, and the driver hadn’t looked to see if any traffic was approaching.
    â€œYou see any brake lights on the truck?”
    â€œNot that I remember.”
    â€œWhat happened to your cigarette?”
    â€œI dropped it, I was so frightened. I just hope it didn’t hit anyone.”
    Looking from the window, Manny envisions the scene. The worst part is that it suggests Vikström was correct: the truck driver, Leon Pappalardo, had backed up in order to put the truck in the path of the motorcycle. Manny’s sorry about this. It’s ugly when Vikström turns out to be correct. But how did Pappalardo know when to back up?
    Manny thanks the woman, leaves the building, crosses the street, and finds the stairs to the second floor. A minute later he’s talking to J. Arthur Madison, LL.M.
    â€œThe exhaust was pouring into my office—pure carbon monoxide, as you can imagine. I’m still queasy from it. It went on for about five minutes, and when it became unbearable I went to close the window—such a pity on a beautiful day. Then I saw a man across the street in front of the window of the music store.”
    â€œAnd what’d he do?” Manny believes he already knows what the man did.
    â€œThat’s just the thing, I didn’t wonder about it at the time, because the truck made this roar and a frightful cloud of exhaust poured in through my window. Later I put one and one together, and now you’re here as well. The man’s hands were behind his back. Then he took one out, the right one, and made a small flipping gesture.” J. Arthur Madison makes a flipping gesture with his right hand, like a shy child waving his daddy good-bye. “That’s when the truck began to roar, so I didn’t hear the motorcycle at first. The man stepped back into the alcove of the music store. Then I