Want To Play (Monkeewrench)

‘Just that we’ve got a lot of media downstairs. They’re all over this angel thing. Avoid them if you can, refer them to me, Magozzi, or Rolseth if you can’t. I don’t want to hear a lot of “no comments” on the news tonight. Sounds bad.’

17

You wouldn’t know it to look at me, thought Wilbur Daniels, but in my heart, this is the man I have always been. A wild man. A risk-taker. A sexual adventurer, willing to try anything once, desperate to taste the thrills of the bizarre, the exotic, the near-perverted, if someone would only ask.

And finally, someone had.

Within the past ten minutes, Wilbur had decided that there was indeed a god, and that occasionally he smiled on paunchy, middle-aged men with lives as colorless as the few remaining wisps on their otherwise bald pates.

There was pain involved, of course. These flabby legs that had spent the last twenty years in the cubbyhole of a desk were not used to the demands of this demeaning position. An under-used, flaccid quadricep was pinching, convulsing, threatening to knot, and yet he would not wish for the cramping to stop; would not move an inch to ease the pain that only seemed to heighten this sinful pleasure. If the gang could see me now, he sang in his mind, imagining the shock and revulsion on the faces of those who thought they knew him. The image pleased him, and an unmanly giggle bubbled from his lips. He apologized immediately, only to be told that one should never apologize for finding joy, no matter how dark the deed that created it. Oh, yes. Oh, God, that was so true.

In the next second he bit down on his own hand to stifle a cry of ecstasy, and for a fleeting moment, wondered how he would later explain the wound. But then he was asked to assume a new, deliciously naughty position, and he forgot his hand, and the cramp in his thigh, and the whole of his miserable life at a sensation so intense he doubted that his heart would survive the experience.

The gun didn’t frighten him when it appeared. Well, all right; it did, a little, but that was part of it, wasn’t it? Didn’t the omnipresent specter of death always intensify the pleasures one extracted from life? And it was certainly intensifying this one.

As the barrel pressed against his temple in the ultimate threat, he felt a corresponding surge of pleasure so exquisite he thought he might explode.

And then, to a degree, he did.

Patrol Sergeant Eaton Freedman fastened his belt holster and shrugged into a pin-striped suitcoat that had been too tight before he tried to stuff a gun under it. You’d have to be blind not to see the bulge, but most people who looked at Eaton Freedman never saw the details, just a really big black man.

Detective Johnny McLaren rapped on the door frame of Freedman’s office. ‘Stop preening, Freedman, we gotta go . . . ooh. Sharp.’

Freedman looked critically at McLaren’s maroon polyester blazer. ‘You get that at Goodwill?’

McLaren looked indignant. ‘Damn right. Five bucks.’

‘We’re supposed to dress like wedding guests.’

‘Hey, I wore this to my wedding.’

‘Which explains your divorce. Besides, it clashes with your hair.’

‘What a team. No one will notice us, no way. A big, black linebacker and a carrot-top Mick. What was Magozzi thinking, picking the two of us?’

Freedman’s laughter rumbled like thunder. ‘You don’t know?’

‘ ’Cause we’re the sharpest, best guys on the force?’

‘How about because we both live ten minutes away and could get to our good duds faster than anybody else?’

McLaren looked crestfallen.

‘And because we’re the sharpest, best guys on the force,’ Freedman added.

‘That’s what I thought. Let’s go. You get any prettier the groom’ll dump the bride and marry you.’

When Freedman and McLaren nosed the unmarked up to the Nicollet’s access gate a half hour later, two bruisers in black suits came out of nowhere and flanked the doors. Freedman rolled down his window and looked up at a guy with no neck and a shaved head. ‘Berg, you son of a bitch, what happened to your hair, man?’

The guy’s face remained expressionless. ‘Women kept pulling on it in the throes of passion, so I shaved it off. Get out of there, Freedman, so I can frisk your fat black ass.’

‘In your dreams, you fish-belly Swede.’ Freedman grinned, and then in a stage whisper to McLaren, ‘I had this guy walkin’ the Hennepin patrol a while back. He wanted me the first time he saw me. Was about to file sek-shu-al harassment when Red Chilton up and hired him away from us.’

Berg ducked down and filled the window opening with his head, looking skeptically at McLaren’s slight form. ‘I don’t know about you new cops. You all look little.’

‘Yeah, but we got bigger guns,’ McLaren said, touching a finger to his forehead. ‘Johnny McLaren.’

‘Hey, Fritz, come on around here and meet Patrol Sergeant Eaton Freedman and Johnny McLaren.’

The second bruiser bent to look inside the car, nodded once, then retreated.

‘Well, there’s a Chatty Kathy,’ Freedman rumbled.

‘He was ATF for a dozen years,’ Berg said. ‘And as you know those guys are a little short on conversational skills. I’ll do my best to keep him from shooting you by accident.’

‘That would be good.’ McLaren’s eyes followed the man as he hulked around the car suspiciously, probably looking for bombs or biological weapons or contraband cigarettes. ‘Man, he looks grim.’

‘That’s why we put him up front,’ Berg said. ‘Makes our clients feel real secure. The guy’s a puff ball, though. Raises cocker spaniel puppies.’

‘He probably eats them.’

Berg laughed and rolled his hand at someone in the guard booth by the gate, and two hundred square feet of cyclone fence unlatched and started to hum open. ‘Red’s on board, waiting for you. Some doin’s tonight, huh?’

‘Might be,’ Freedman agreed. ‘This the only access?’

‘For cars, yeah. We check everybody against the guest list here, and sweep them before they get through.’ He raised a handheld metal detector.

‘Mayor’s going to love that,’ McLaren said.

‘Him, I’m doing personally. Always thought he was a shifty bastard. Good to see you again, Freedman.’

‘You, too, Anton.’

McLaren waited until they’d pulled through the gate into the parking lot before whispering, ‘Anton?’

‘Don’t go there,’ Freedman told him.

The Nicollet rested at dockside, about ten times larger than anything McLaren had expected, three stacked decks gleaming white against dark gray clouds that were starting to shred in the middle. They’d be gone by dark, the weatherman had said, and clear skies would send the temperatures plummeting. Hell of a night to be on a riverboat.

‘Bitchin’ cold already,’ Freedman grumbled, picking up the pace. ‘There’s Red. You ever met him?’

‘Nope.’ McLaren looked at the man striding toward them across the parking lot. He’d expected a bulky, Minnesota homegrown kind of guy, but Chilton looked more like Clark Gable in his prime, right down to the little dark mustache and the million-dollar smile.

‘Lookin’ good, Red.’ Freedman gave him back a smile and pumped his hand. ‘Johnny McLaren, meet the fool who sold out the noble profession of public service for a measly few hundred grand a year.’

‘It’s always an honor to meet a man with real brains,’ Johnny said warmly as he shook his hand. ‘Especially when they saddle me with a guy like Freedman.’

Red gave a hearty laugh. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Johnny McLaren. You got a taste of gate security coming in, right?’

‘Looks tight,’ Freedman said.

Red nodded. ‘It is, but all that does is control vehicle traffic.’ He waved at the parking lot, which bled into