I closed out the Internet from my computer and headed to AJ’s. As much as I ever did, I needed a drink.
21
“It’s the yellow dye number five that does it,” TC explained the science behind the product’s testicle shrinking properties. “It isn’t anything special about Mountain Dew.”
“That was DiMaggio’s number,” Rocco said.
“Ah, yes,” said Jerry Number One. “The Ol’ Splendid Splinter.”
“That was Ted Williams, you ass,” Rocco said.
“Not if he was drinking Mountain Dew,” Jerry Number Two said.
I took my new favorite seat next to Jerry Number Two, or as I now like to think of him, Gerald Freeman, consultant, formerly of Quantum Computer Services.
“Jer-I found something. I was hoping you could dive a little deeper for me on one of these sites.”
“Which one?”
“Xcracksterweb.”
“I thought that had some possibility,” he said. “What’s up?”
“One of the suspicious women showed up. There’s also a page that requires a credit card and a password. Can you get me in without that?”
“Yeah, it’ll take about two minutes.”
“Really?”
“So much for Internet insecurity.”
“Jer?”
“Yeah?”
“This page had every kind of porn you could imagine. The part where you needed a password had a silly title too that hinted at kids. I’m suspecting you might find stuff with minors.”
“I’m guessing you’re not referring to the guys who go underground with flashlights on their heads.”
“No. I just don’t want to get you in any trouble.”
“Thanks, Duff. I’ll be careful.”
Kelley was in his usual spot. I slapped Jerry on the back and went to my stool.
“What’s up, Kel?”
“Hey Duff.”
Kel was watching a Classic Sports rerun of a Bruins-Canadiens game from the late seventies.
“This is the one where Bobby Schmautz scores the winning goal in overtime, isn’t it?” I asked. When I cared about hockey, Schmautz was my favorite hockey player.
“You know, Duff, I didn’t follow the career of Bobby Schwanz all that closely.”
“It’s Schmautz,” I said, defending a hero.
“Schwanz, Schmautz,” Kelley said.
“Hey, Kel, what happens if someone comes across child pornography on the Internet?”
“Duff-I think it’s time you went to a psychiatrist yourself.”
“I’m serious. Who would you report to?”
“Why don’t you join Dick Tracy’s crime stoppers or something?”
“C’mon, really.”
“You could call the local police, you could call the FBI. It will wind up in the hands of the FBI and they’ll get a task force on it. It takes a long time because they tend to want to round up as many of the pervs as they can.”
“Gotcha.”
“I don’t want to know, right?” he said.
“Probably not,” I said.
AJ opened another long-necked Schlitz and I asked him to give me a bourbon, neat, with it.
“A sidecar tonight for the social worker?” AJ said. “Looks like he may need a detox.”
I nodded and decided against a comeback. The night had been an ugly one. The photos bothered me but not nearly as much as the concept that there was an element of people that would find them arousing and amusing. The bourbon was an attempt to disinfect my mind a bit. It went down warm and I saved a sip of Schlitz at the end to chase it. The Foursome had moved on from Mountain Dew but had kept somewhat close to the theme. As I walked past them and waved good night to everyone, TC was pontificating something about a gerbil, a toilet paper tube, and Richard Gere.
I didn’t stick around to see how it came out. Instead, I left AJ’s and took a walk around the block. For four or five square blocks, there were warehouses and factories and one or two houses. Except for the baked-goods factory, nothing was open after six and the whole area was lit with those amber streetlights that are now popular in urban areas. The amber hue gave the place an eerie feel. I looked in and out of parking lots and in the few residential driveways that there were. I did three laps around and got the same results. A silver Crown Victoria was nowhere to be found.
Three times was enough, and I decided to head home. In the Eldorado, I slipped in the eight-track From Elvis in Memphis, Elvis’s double album from ’69 that represented his return to serious music. A lot of it was dark and thoughtful music, and I particularly tuned in to “Long Black Limousine,” a song that told the story of a tragic death and a funeral.
Just before the Route 9R turn, the Crown Vic showed up. It lay back about two city blocks but made the turn onto 9R with me. Whoever it was was too far back to recognize and whenever I slowed down, the Crown Vic slowed down with me. It was making me crazy, but I did my best to ignore it.
At the Moody Blue, Al greeted me with enthusiasm at the door, jumped on me and then off, and then spun around in a complete circle while letting out a high-pitched cry. I had no idea what he was talking about. After taking a second circle, he sprinted to the bathroom and got himself a drink. I sat on the good side of the couch and flipped on the TV, forgetting that it would go to its now-default station, Lifetime. Robert Stack was talking about two sisters who had never met getting together for the first time. I wondered why everyone on this show always seemed to have a Southern accent.
My Unsolved Mysteries reverie was shattered when Al jumped on the couch and came over to give me a big toilet-water-laced slurp on my ear. His nose, face, and long ears were sauteed in el agua del bano. It was cold and a bit shocking and a fitting ending for what had been overall a pretty disgusting day.
22
“Hey Duff,” Sam said. “Did you hear why the new Polish navy got a glass-bottom boat?”
“Again with the nautical theme, Sam?”
He didn’t even pause.
“So they can see the old Polish navy.”
“Good one, asshole,” I muttered. I was a bit hungover, which surprised me because I hadn’t drank all that much. It might have been the mixing of bourbon and Schlitz, though that didn’t seem to bother me much in the past.
I was dredging through the paperwork and trying to get done with the tortuous Aberman file. In a session a couple of months ago Mrs. Aberman was complaining that Mr. Aberman seldom did anything romantic. Best I could remember it went something like this:
“He never gets romantic,” Michelle Aberman said. “Ever.”
“I rub your bunions,” Morris Aberman said.
“That’s not romantic. It’s nice, but it’s not romantic.”
“What would you consider romantic?” I asked therapeutically.
“Roses, champagne, you know, sweet talk, fancy dinners…”
