“Hey,” TC said. “Meat deliveries in the back.”
“Duffy-get the hell out of here with him. It’s against health laws,” AJ said.
“He’s a seeing-eye dog,” I said.
“For who?” Rocco said. “Midgets?”
“Look, AJ, he’s hurtin’ and I can’t leave him alone. Give me a break this time, will ya?”
AJ shook his head and muttered something and walked to the other end of the bar. He acted disgusted, but that was predictable and he didn’t put us out.
“Hey Duff, he’s one of those basket hounds, isn’t he?” Jerry Number One asked.
“That’s bassoon hound, jerkoff,” said Rocco. “They were originally bred to accompany the soldiers in the French and Indian War. The bassoonist called the men to battle.”
“I think it’s bastard hound, because they drool so much,” TC said.
“What the hell would drooling have to do with bastards?” Rocco said.
“It pisses everyone off and so that’s what they called them,” TC said. “God damn bastard hounds.”
“Fellas, he’s a basset hound,” I said. “They’re originally from France, and they’re bred to trail small game for hunting.” My Dogs For Dummies reading was paying off.
“That too,” Rocco grumbled.
Eventually they got around to asking me about the bumps and bruises Al and I had. I mentioned something about a fender bender and a bad day at the gym. That was enough for the Foursome because they were already on to their next discussion/argument-something about a choking dog spitting up a burglar’s fingers.
I decided to talk with Kelley.
“Hey-Kel.”
“What’s going on, Duff. Tough sparring session?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“That’s not from the ring.” Kelley didn’t ask-he was making a statement.
“Well…”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
Before I could answer, Rocco interrupted us.
“God damn bastard hound!”
I spun around on my stool to see Al chomping through Rocco’s cheeseburger. He had ketchup on his nose.
“Shoo, shoo!” Rocco yelled.
“Rocco-he’s not a pigeon,” TC said. “What the hell are you telling him to shoo for?”
Al finished the cheeseburger and was sampling Rocco’s fries.
“Shoo, you bastard!” Rocco said.
I grabbed Al and gingerly carried him away from the bar and to one of the tables. Everyone thought it was hysterical, that is, everyone but Rocco.
“Sorry, Rock,” I said. “AJ-can you make Rocco another burger and get him a beer on me?”
“Bastard hound,” Rocco muttered.
“Certainly seems more fitting than bassoon hound now, doesn’t it, Rock?” Jerry Number Two said.
Rudy came in sweating up a storm, sat on the other side of the Foursome, and ordered a Foster’s and a sidecar of Hennessy. Poor Rudy looked like he was getting fatter as he sat there. The back of his neck looked like a pack of hotdogs and the fabric on his clothes looked as stressed as he did.
“Hey, Rude. What’s happening?” I asked.
“Bullshit, Duff. Nothin’ but bullshit,” he said, taking a pull off the Hennessy and leaving just about a sip left in his rocks glass.
“Gabbibb found cancer in two more of the park-beating victims.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Something weird is happening and I don’t know what. Either these guys are all eating something bad or the park is radioactive or something,” he said.
“How could all of these guys have such bad luck?” I asked.
“Well, it’s possible, just not very likely.”
“Hey Rude-why would Gabbibb have money in an offshore account?” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was on the computer before me and I saw that he was on the Bank of Canary website.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Duff.” He swallowed the rest of the Hennessy. “He might be doing something shady with that electronic business he does with his cousin.”
“He was also on some Pakistani extremist site.”
“Duffy, what the fuck are you doing?” He wiped sweat from his brow. “You think he’s some sort of money- laundering political extremist trying to take over Crawford, New York?”
“I think he’s a shady asshole,” I said.
“I think there’s a lot of shady assholes around, but that doesn’t mean they’re all doing it on a giant scale.”
“Hey, how’s that shit going at work?”
“They’ve called a meeting with the hospital board of directors to decide whether they rescind my privileges.”
“I’m sorry, Rudy,” I said.
“Yeah, me too, Duff,” he said.
I finished off my third Schlitz and realized I’d better head out if I wanted to catch the 12:01 jail releases. I bid my farewells to the boys, scooped up Al, who winced a bit when I put pressure on his ribs, and walked to the Eldorado.
I slid in a compilation eight-track I made years ago of some of Elvis’s stuff. Colonel Parker, Elvis’s manager and guru, was one of the stupidest music people ever. He had a tendency of burying some of Elvis’s greatest songs on albums that really sucked. “Burning Love,” for instance, was on an album with movie hits. I decided I would create my own compilations of my favorites and tell the Colonel to stick his marketing plan.
As Elvis went through his paces on “In the Ghetto,” I cruised into Crawford. I went right past Walanda’s house, which still had a washer on the little five-by-five front lawn, and the porch door was still banging off the wall in the wind. The rest of the neighborhood looked like it needed a shower and a good night’s sleep. This part of town was where my Polish grandparents lived, and in their day it was a poor but proud neighborhood. Folks from my generation who wouldn’t think of walking a block through one of these neighborhoods now like to point out that their ancestors had little money but kept the neighborhood looking beautiful.
That sort of mentality had elements of truth to it, but it also seemed oversimplified to me. Growing up black and poor was a whole lot different than growing up Polish or Irish or Italian and poor. I’m not exactly sure why, but I believe it has something to do with one’s ancestors being sold as property for centuries. I know that doesn’t happen now, but I think the residual effects on our culture linger. I’m sure people a whole lot smarter than me could explain it better.
I parked my car near the top of the hill three blocks from the jail. My ’76 burnt orange Eldorado was a lot of things, but inconspicuous wasn’t one of them. Al and I walked down the street to get a look at the front doors of the county jail. The two-block walk took us past three guys selling crack and two women who offered to gratify a very specific desire of mine for ten dollars. Interestingly enough, the crack dealers were selling two rocks of crack for the same price.
The second woman dropped her price down to five dollars, and when I looked closer at her I realized she was a former client of mine whose case I recently closed.
“Teresa?” I asked.
“Yeah? Oh, Duff, it’s you… er… this isn’t what it looks like, man… I… uh,” she stopped in mid-sentence. Though her mind was fixated on nothing but crack, she still realized the absurdity of denying what she was doing, especially after just offering to perform an unmentionable act on me for five dollars.
“Teresa, be careful, please. Come in to the clinic tomorrow. Promise me.”
She started to cry and turned and walked up the street. I couldn’t think of anything sadder. By the time she reached the corner, she was already offering herself to the crackheads and johns walking by.
I would’ve pursued her, but I wanted to be in position by midnight and we had just five minutes. Al stood in
