“I’m a noble person.”
“Go on.”
So I did. I explained about Beyers’s wife leaving him, and about how he tried to steal the car, and how he made the mistake of saying “fuck God,” and then the car blew up.
“You think God got pissed off and fried Beyers?”
“That would be one theory.”
“When you come to the station to complete the report on Ramirez, we might want to talk further on this.”
I watched for a few more minutes and then went back to my apartment. I didn’t especially want to be around when they scooped up the ashes that had been Morty Beyers.
I sat in front of the television until noon, keeping my windows closed and my curtains drawn to the crime scene below. Every once in a while I’d wander into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror to see if my eyebrows had grown back yet.
At twelve o’clock I parted my curtains and braved a peek at the lot. The Cherokee had been removed, and only two patrolmen remained. From my window it appeared they were filling out property damage forms for the handful of cars that had been pelted with debris from the explosion.
A morning of television had anesthetized me sufficiently that I felt ready to cope, so I took a shower and got dressed, being careful not to dwell on thoughts of death and bombings.
I needed to go down to the police station, but I didn’t have a car. I had a few dollars in my pocket. Nothing in my checking account. My credit cards were in collection. I had to make another apprehension.
I called Connie and told her about Morty Beyers.
“This is going to make a serious hole in Vinnie’s dike,” Connie said. “Ranger’s recovering from gunshot and now Morty Beyers is out of the picture. They were our two best agents.”
“Yeah. It sure is a shame. I guess Vinnie’s left with me.”
There was a pause at the other end of the phone. “You didn’t do Morty, did you?”
“Morty sort of did himself. You have anything easy come in? I could use some fast money.”
“I have an exhibitionist gone FTA on a $2,000 bond. He’s been kicked out of three retirement homes. He’s currently living in an apartment somewhere.” I could hear her shuffling through papers. “Here it is,” she said. “Ommigod, he’s living in your building.”
“What’s his name?”
“William Earling. He’s in apartment 3E.”
I grabbed my pocketbook and locked up. I took the stairs to the third floor, counted off apartments, and knocked on Earling’s door. A man answered, and right off I suspected I had the right person because he was old and he was naked. “Mr. Earling?”
“Yup. That’s me. I’m in pretty good shape, huh chickie? You think I’ve got some fearful equipment?”
I gave myself a mental command not to look, but my eyes strayed south of their own volition. Not only wasn’t he fearful, but his doodles were wrinkled. “Yeah. You’re pretty fearful,” I said. I handed him my card. “I work for Vincent Plum, your bond agent. You failed to appear for a court hearing, Mr. Earling. I need to take you downtown so you can reschedule.”
“Damn court hearings are a waste of time,” Earling said. “I’m seventy-six years old. You think they’re gonna send some seventy-six-year-old guy to prison because he flashed his stuff around?”
I sincerely hoped so. Seeing Earling naked was enough to make me turn celibate. “I need to take you downtown. How about you go put some clothes on.”
“I don’t wear clothes. God brought me into the world naked, and that’s the way I’m going out.”
“Okay by me, but in the meantime I wish you’d get dressed.”
“The only way I’m going with you is naked.”
I took out my cuffs and snaped then on his wrists.
“Police brutality. Police brutality,” he yelled.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “I’m not a cop.”
“Well what are you?”
“I’m a bounty hunter.”
“Bounty hunter brutality. Bounty hunter brutality.”
I went to the hall closet, found a full-length raincoat, and buttoned him into it.
“I’m not going with you,” he said, standing rigid, his hands cuffed under the coat. “You can’t make me go.”
“Listen, Grandpa,” I said, “either you go peaceably or I’ll gas you and drag you out by your heels.”
I couldn’t believe I was saying this to some poor senior citizen with a snail dick. I was appalled at myself, but what the hell, it was worth $200.
“Don’t forget to lock up,” he said. “This neighborhood’s going to heck in a handbasket. The keys are in the kitchen.”
I got the keys, and one of them had a little Buick insignia on it. What a break. “One more thing,” I said. “Would you mind if I borrowed your car to take you downtown?”
