“You know, on the shit. You don’t get that big from taking vitamin E, you know.” Jamal smiled. “Look at the jaw bone, the acne, and the foreheads bigger than a billboard. That ain’t powdered protein doing that.”
“Really? What the hell would these guys be doing that shit for-just to look good?”
“There you go, Duff. Ain’t no more complicated than that.”
“How hard is that shit to get?”
“You thinking it would help you in the ring?”
“Shit, no, I’m just curious.”
“You don’t have to go any farther than up those stairs to the karate room. The dragon brothers are taking care of everyone at the Y.”
“No shit…” Now Al’s parking lot behavior made sense.
“Oh yeah, no small market for it these days either,” Jamal said.
Well, there was another reason to hate Mitchell and Harter.
After a less than satisfying workout with the weights, I headed to AJ’s. Elvis made the ride easier with the 1960 post-army hit “Such a Night,” a tune originally recorded by Clyde McPhatter and The Drifters. It was one of the best swing numbers ever recorded, and an Elvis song you seldom hear on the radio. Besides that, anytime I could work the name “Clyde McPhatter” into a conversation, I did.
I pulled into the parking space just in front of AJ’s in the shadow of the cookie factory, which tonight was producing those sugar cookies with that little dollop of red goo in the middle. I could tell by the sickeningly sweet smell in the air. It made you feel like a molecule-sized being trapped in the middle of a sugar-cookie universe. Man, you start having thoughts like that and you know it’s time for a Schlitz.
I was flipping my keys around my index finger when a shadowy figure came around the corner in a bike. I really do mean shadowy because whoever it was was all decked out in black. As a reflex I could feel my posture brace up a bit and with it came a slight tingling in my neck. When the figure spoke I relaxed.
“Sir, good evening, sir,” Billy said.
“Kid, geez, you scared me. What’s with the outfit?”
“It’s my Evening Darkness Karateka Nu-Breath Ninja suit, sir. It helps me blend into the dark of night.” Tonight’s zit was where the cleft of Billy’s chin would be if he had a cleft. Billy was cleftless so the whitehead didn’t do anything to make him look like Kirk Douglas.
“It sure does, but be careful on your bike. You don’t want traffic to see you blending in with the night.”
“Yes, sir. One needs to be careful when stealth training, sir.”
“What?… Stealth-never mind.”
“Sir, will we train soon, sir?”
“Sure, tomorrow night in the aerobics room, if you want.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Billy said. Then he got off his bike to issue me a very official bow, but the bell-bottoms of the Stealth Bad-Breath suit caught on a handlebar and he took an ugly fall. He bounced right up and tried to hide the stinger in his hip.
“See you tomorrow, Bill,” I said. The Schlitz was going to taste extra special tonight. The first few steps brought me from the sublime to the ridiculous. Actually, I’ve never understood what that meant, and it was probably more accurate that it brought me from the ridiculous to the really fuckin’ ridiculous.
Rocco was down on all fours and Jerry Number One was on Rocco’s back. TC was on all fours facing the opposite direction. Jerry Number Two was out in front examining the weird formation like Monet must’ve when he stepped back from his water lilies.
“Still doesn’t seem right,” Jerry Number Two said.
“I told you this wasn’t it,” Rocco said.
“This doesn’t seem humiliating enough,” TC said.
“That’s ’cause you still have your clothes on,” Jerry Number Two said.
I wasn’t sure that I wasn’t hallucinating.
“Fellas, you’re scaring me a bit. Can you fill me in?” I said.
“We’re trying to recreate that pose in Newsweek of the Iraqis in that Camp McCrabe,” TC said with confidence.
“That’s the Abe Miban prison, the Israelis built it,” Rocco said.
“I don’t think that’s it,” Jerry Number One said.
“Why were we doing this?” Jerry Number Two asked.
“I forget, but my knees are killing me. I need a B amp;B,” TC said.
The human pyramid disassembled and I joined Kelley at the end of the bar. He was watching the Yanks and the Jays game.
“Didn’t feel like getting in the scrum?” I said.
“Nope,” Kelley said.
“What’s new on the street?”
“If you’re asking about Howard, not a thing, at least that I know.” Kelley sipped a new Coors Light. “Some kid from McDonough was taken to the hospital after OD’ing, and they have us interviewing kids, teachers, and administrators at the school. It’s a pain in the ass.”
“What did the kid get high on?” I said.
“Something new, that’s what has everyone extra worked up. They’re afraid that, whatever it is, it’s going to be the new crack.”
“Is the kid going to make it?”
“No, Duff, he’s already gone. Good kid too. Class president. What a waste,” Kelley said.
“What about these kids who are worshiping Howard?”
“Yeah, that’s some fucked-up shit.”
“You think there’s any chance they’re doing these murders?”
“Duff-you watch too much Court TV.”
“C’mon, Kell. There’s all sorts of copycat murders related to serial killers.”
“I’m sure it has dawned on the FBI. It’s a little outside my jurisdiction.”
I finished my beer and changed the subject. Thirty years ago one of Howard’s victims was the class president, and now another class president was dead. That, and there were a gang of kids who thought Howard’s killing spree was cooler than skateboarding. Too much had happened recently for me to figure out if all or any of that meant anything. It was easier just to go home.
28
All I wanted to do was avoid getting kicked in the nuts and go to bed. Before I hit the sack, I grabbed the mail, blocked Al’s assault, and hit the button on my machine.
“Duff, it’s me, Howard. I’ve been lying to you. I am the slayer and you need to stop looking into things or you may be next. It’s imperative that you stay away.”
So much for me getting some sleep.
That was all there was to his message and he hung up. I sat back on the couch and Al jumped up next to me. The silence we sat in made Al a bit uneasy and he started to hum. Howard’s message sounded different than the previous ones, more controlled, more calculated. I didn’t know what to make of the series of calls, but I also remembered my last encounter with Morris and the other cops and decided to call them.
The gang of them was there within fifteen minutes, and Al objected in what could probably be described as uncivil disobedience.
“AHOOOO… hmmmm… woof, woof… AHOOO… grrrr…,” Al said. He was staring at my friend Larry Bird.
Morris directed the crime-scene guys to examine the machine and the phone. I wasn’t sure what they were trying to accomplish, and I hoped they didn’t believe that Howard lived inside my answering machine.
“AHOOOO… hmmmm… woof, woof… AHOOO… grrrr…,” Al said.
Morris asked me about the time of the call, if he had called any other times, and if I had called him. I told him the truth, that is, that I hadn’t. Bird was walking around the Blue, picking things up, looking at my mail, and
