dysfunctional equipment? That would make him a little more of a creep than he was willing to be.
So he watched her back out of the elevator. Fuck. It was the new guy. As soon as Sabrina parked the guy at the edge of the dayroom, the son of a bitch did what he always did – wheeled himself right in front of Lou. Backed up until he whacked Lou’s shins with the chair.
The new guy wasn’t that old, late sixties maybe, one of the nut jobs, Alzheimer’s or whatever. He wasn’t a complete head of lettuce yet, one of the guys over against the wall in the hallway, just staring, all their lights out. New guy was in and out, having his own private dialog half the time, more or less with it the other half. But DeGatano didn’t like him. The way Lou read it, these dementia guys, it was a little like drunks. The shit that came out when they lost control? That’s what they’d kept locked down in the basement their whole lives – that was the fire in their furnace. The smiley ones? Nodding at everybody? Probably been nice guys, the ones who would sneak around shoveling off other people’s walks after it snowed. The ass grabbers? Ones that couldn’t keep their mitts off the staff? They were the letches, not that DeGatano was judging anybody on that score. He figured if it was his brain shutting down on him instead of his heart, he probably be doing a little ass grabbing himself. But the flat-out mean bastards like the new guy? DeGatano knew all about them. Better than thirty years on the force busting assholes, he knew all about fucks like them.
Mess of noise coming down the hallway from the main entrance. Tuesday. Visiting day for Gladys. The gray-hairs’ grandkids were running down the hall, her forty-something bag-of-cellulite daughter trudging along after them. There was exactly one nice thing about the Sunnybrook Assisted Living Facility. It sure as hell wasn’t there was a brook – wasn’t so much as a blade of grass within a mile of the joint, and most of the time you had to guess if it was sunny, seeing as how the place was boxed in on three sides by a big-ass affordable housing project. But at least usually the place was quiet. Now, you got the Cubs up a run in the eighth, off to a strong start this year, and all of a sudden there’s a couple of nine, ten year olds bouncing around the day room, grandma egging them on, the girl going with that high-pitched squeal some of them got, goes through your head like a dentist drill, the boy ricocheting all over the room like a fucking pinball, like he racks up points for bouncing off old people, Lou trying to hear the game and all he can hear is Martha, who talks too goddamn loud ‘cause her hearing is shot, telling Gladys how cute her asshole grandkids are.
They must have come straight from school, the girl in one of those plaid Catholic school skirts and a white blouse, and the boy in his Cub Scout uniform. Little twist in DeGatano’s gut at that, some old business. Worst kind of old business. The Cub Scout bounced off the new guy, jolted his chair back into DeGatano’s leg, the new guy glaring at the kid, but something else in the old fuck’s eyes, something DeGatano didn’t like.
“Sheepshank,” the new guy said, licking his lips a little. The word bladed into DeGatano like an edged disease.
DeGatano grabbed the new guy’s chair and spun him around, a sharp pain in his chest all of a sudden like somebody’d wrapped his ribcage with barbed wire and given it a good hard tug. “What the fuck did you say?” DeGatano breathed out, trying to get his old cop voice back, getting almost nothing.
But the new guy’s eyes were all blank again, lights out.
“Sheep stank sheep stank sheep stank sheep stank.” Muttering Hank, from his chair across the room. All Hank did anymore, repeat what he heard, and he always heard wrong.
But DeGatano heard right. Sheepshank.
***
June, 1971
The kid had gone missing just before 3:00 p.m. Last week of school,
So he watched her back out of the elevator. Fuck. It was the new guy. As soon as Sabrina parked the guy at the edge of the dayroom, the son of a bitch did what he always did – wheeled himself right in front of Lou. Backed up until he whacked Lou’s shins with the chair.
The new guy wasn’t that old, late sixties maybe, one of the nut jobs, Alzheimer’s or whatever. He wasn’t a complete head of lettuce yet, one of the guys over against the wall in the hallway, just staring, all their lights out. New guy was in and out, having his own private dialog half the time, more or less with it the other half. But DeGatano didn’t like him. The way Lou read it, these dementia guys, it was a little like drunks. The shit that came out when they lost control? That’s what they’d kept locked down in the basement their whole lives – that was the fire in their furnace. The smiley ones? Nodding at everybody? Probably been nice guys, the ones who would sneak around shoveling off other people’s walks after it snowed. The ass grabbers? Ones that couldn’t keep their mitts off the staff? They were the letches, not that DeGatano was judging anybody on that score. He figured if it was his brain shutting down on him instead of his heart, he probably be doing a little ass grabbing himself. But the flat-out mean bastards like the new guy? DeGatano knew all about them. Better than thirty years on the force busting assholes, he knew all about fucks like them.
Mess of noise coming down the hallway from the main entrance. Tuesday. Visiting day for Gladys. The gray-hairs’ grandkids were running down the hall, her forty-something bag-of-cellulite daughter trudging along after them. There was exactly one nice thing about the Sunnybrook Assisted Living Facility. It sure as hell wasn’t there was a brook – wasn’t so much as a blade of grass within a mile of the joint, and most of the time you had to guess if it was sunny, seeing as how the place was boxed in on three sides by a big-ass affordable housing project. But at least usually the place was quiet. Now, you got the Cubs up a run in the eighth, off to a strong start this year, and all of a sudden there’s a couple of nine, ten year olds bouncing around the day room, grandma egging them on, the girl going with that high-pitched squeal some of them got, goes through your head like a dentist drill, the boy ricocheting all over the room like a fucking pinball, like he racks up points for bouncing off old people, Lou trying to hear the game and all he can hear is Martha, who talks too goddamn loud ‘cause her hearing is shot, telling Gladys how cute her asshole grandkids are.
They must have come straight from school, the girl in one of those plaid Catholic school skirts and a white blouse, and the boy in his Cub Scout uniform. Little twist in DeGatano’s gut at that, some old business. Worst kind of old business. The Cub Scout bounced off the new guy, jolted his chair back into DeGatano’s leg, the new guy glaring at the kid, but something else in the old fuck’s eyes, something DeGatano didn’t like.
“Sheepshank,” the new guy said, licking his lips a little. The word bladed into DeGatano like an edged disease.
DeGatano grabbed the new guy’s chair and spun him around, a sharp pain in his chest all of a sudden like somebody’d wrapped his ribcage with barbed wire and given it a good hard tug. “What the fuck did you say?” DeGatano breathed out, trying to get his old cop voice back, getting almost nothing.
But the new guy’s eyes were all blank again, lights out.
“Sheep stank sheep stank sheep stank sheep stank.” Muttering Hank, from his chair across the room. All Hank did anymore, repeat what he heard, and he always heard wrong.
But DeGatano heard right. Sheepshank.
***
June, 1971
The kid had gone missing just before 3:00 p.m. Last week of school,
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