skinny detective looking at a centerfold, and the cop called out his name.
“Hey, Scheige?"
“Hey. Check out the bongos on this,” Scheige said, holding up the magazine.
“This guy wants to see ya.” The cop tilts his head in the direction of the hype.
“Yeah?"
“Detective Shy?"
“Whatcha need?"
“I was told to come in here and report this to you. I seen that guy in the papers. You know the big, fat murderer? They said if I give you the information you could—uh, you know, pay me money for being, uh, er, uh, giving you d’ information?"
“This oughta be good,” one of the detectives muttered under his breath.
“What big, fat murderer you talkin’ about?"
“In da paper dere. The one d’ cop killed."
“Oh. You saw the one the cop killed. Uh huh."
A couple of giggles.
“He was naked and taking a bath in the alley off West Erie."
Every cop in the room screamed with laughter as the hype stood there reddening.
“That's wonderful,” the one called Scheige said. The moon was full. The day before a guy had come in to “swear out a warrant” against someone called Voltan X, “swearing he had information the extraterrestrial was the head of an interplanetary kidnapping ring that was taking lawn elves and pink flamingos in the mistaken belief they were our children.
“I seen him ALIVE. Takin’ a shower in d’ rain, buck-naked right dere in d’ alley."
“Wonderful,” Scheige said, dissolving in hysterics.
“Hey, man, this is for real. I ain't shittin'. I seen him—” His voice was drowned out.
“Bernie, jew ever hear about the time me and Mac busted Sweet William Trace?"
“Huh uh,” a cop replied.
“Sweet William was sniffin’ a whole shit pot o’ glue back then, and he was in the back of his limo all glued up, ya know, ‘n he was naked, beatin’ his meat and wearing a German army helmet. You know those old time Kaiser helmets with the big spikes? So anyway, Mac and me made the limo and we was just gonna stop it, I forget—some bullshit probably—and we have ‘em pull over, and fuckin’ Sweet William comes outta the back, stone-naked, glued to the max, wearin’ a German army helmet—he weighed about three-fifty, you know, ‘n Mac'd never seen him and he said he liked to pop a cap on him when he come outta that back seat!” The cops laughed.
“Did you ever hear about that sheep-fucker we nailed over in the twelfth?"
The hype turned around disgustedly and left the squad room and the flaky, laughing cops who didn't want to lay a taste on him for the good information. “Fuck it,” he said, sniffing and rubbing his arms.
NORTH BUCKHEAD
“ H ow ya like this jam, boy?” he said to John Monroe, meaning the car he'd borrowed.
“Fucker's tight. Cherry ride absolutely.” It was six-ten and there was already traffic inbound, but they were boogeying out Cypress Road.
“Boy, I can pick ‘em. Big ole Crown Vic. Shit. Be lookin’ for thirty-four hunnert.” He looked over at the dipshit next to him.
“This is, shit, 1900 ‘n somethin', Wend—uh, I mean Bo, they ain't got any numbers on the fuckin’ houses or nothin'."
“Whatjew call me?"
“Huh?"
“Jus’ now. Whatjew call me then?"
“Bo."
“Uh huh.” He gripped the wheel like he was strangling it. The voice starting out in almost a whisper, very softly, exaggerated sweet tone of voice, like to a baby, “Lissen up now, John, because iffn’ ya go an’ call me that when weuns inna house, or iffn’ ya go shoutin’ at me across the bank,” the voice changing to a column of steel sticking John in the ear like an ice pick, ‘HEY WENDALL I MEAN BO COMMERE ‘N KICK A COUPLE MORE HOLES IN MY DUMB SHITTER F'R ME.’ why, ya jes’ won't leave me no choice. Ya do understand that, doncha, John?"
“Sorry, man I won't—"
“I mean, there we'll be inna bank an’ shit I'll just draw down on ya and drop your goddamn fucking dumb ass right there in the fucker. DO YA GIT IT? Ya got to screw down your damn head,
“Hey, Scheige?"
“Hey. Check out the bongos on this,” Scheige said, holding up the magazine.
“This guy wants to see ya.” The cop tilts his head in the direction of the hype.
“Yeah?"
“Detective Shy?"
“Whatcha need?"
“I was told to come in here and report this to you. I seen that guy in the papers. You know the big, fat murderer? They said if I give you the information you could—uh, you know, pay me money for being, uh, er, uh, giving you d’ information?"
“This oughta be good,” one of the detectives muttered under his breath.
“What big, fat murderer you talkin’ about?"
“In da paper dere. The one d’ cop killed."
“Oh. You saw the one the cop killed. Uh huh."
A couple of giggles.
“He was naked and taking a bath in the alley off West Erie."
Every cop in the room screamed with laughter as the hype stood there reddening.
“That's wonderful,” the one called Scheige said. The moon was full. The day before a guy had come in to “swear out a warrant” against someone called Voltan X, “swearing he had information the extraterrestrial was the head of an interplanetary kidnapping ring that was taking lawn elves and pink flamingos in the mistaken belief they were our children.
“I seen him ALIVE. Takin’ a shower in d’ rain, buck-naked right dere in d’ alley."
“Wonderful,” Scheige said, dissolving in hysterics.
“Hey, man, this is for real. I ain't shittin'. I seen him—” His voice was drowned out.
“Bernie, jew ever hear about the time me and Mac busted Sweet William Trace?"
“Huh uh,” a cop replied.
“Sweet William was sniffin’ a whole shit pot o’ glue back then, and he was in the back of his limo all glued up, ya know, ‘n he was naked, beatin’ his meat and wearing a German army helmet. You know those old time Kaiser helmets with the big spikes? So anyway, Mac and me made the limo and we was just gonna stop it, I forget—some bullshit probably—and we have ‘em pull over, and fuckin’ Sweet William comes outta the back, stone-naked, glued to the max, wearin’ a German army helmet—he weighed about three-fifty, you know, ‘n Mac'd never seen him and he said he liked to pop a cap on him when he come outta that back seat!” The cops laughed.
“Did you ever hear about that sheep-fucker we nailed over in the twelfth?"
The hype turned around disgustedly and left the squad room and the flaky, laughing cops who didn't want to lay a taste on him for the good information. “Fuck it,” he said, sniffing and rubbing his arms.
NORTH BUCKHEAD
“ H ow ya like this jam, boy?” he said to John Monroe, meaning the car he'd borrowed.
“Fucker's tight. Cherry ride absolutely.” It was six-ten and there was already traffic inbound, but they were boogeying out Cypress Road.
“Boy, I can pick ‘em. Big ole Crown Vic. Shit. Be lookin’ for thirty-four hunnert.” He looked over at the dipshit next to him.
“This is, shit, 1900 ‘n somethin', Wend—uh, I mean Bo, they ain't got any numbers on the fuckin’ houses or nothin'."
“Whatjew call me?"
“Huh?"
“Jus’ now. Whatjew call me then?"
“Bo."
“Uh huh.” He gripped the wheel like he was strangling it. The voice starting out in almost a whisper, very softly, exaggerated sweet tone of voice, like to a baby, “Lissen up now, John, because iffn’ ya go an’ call me that when weuns inna house, or iffn’ ya go shoutin’ at me across the bank,” the voice changing to a column of steel sticking John in the ear like an ice pick, ‘HEY WENDALL I MEAN BO COMMERE ‘N KICK A COUPLE MORE HOLES IN MY DUMB SHITTER F'R ME.’ why, ya jes’ won't leave me no choice. Ya do understand that, doncha, John?"
“Sorry, man I won't—"
“I mean, there we'll be inna bank an’ shit I'll just draw down on ya and drop your goddamn fucking dumb ass right there in the fucker. DO YA GIT IT? Ya got to screw down your damn head,
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