Mad Mouse

Olivia, of course, got it right. Like I said, she's the smart one.

I climb into my rack. Tomorrow's the big day. Labor Day.

I have a feeling, one way or another, I'll be laboring my butt off.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Happy Labor Day!”

It's eight A.M.

This is one of those days when I wish I didn't have a clock radio. Mike and Larry, the local morning team on WAVY, are just too damn chipper. They've both apparently guzzled a couple of those forty-eight-ounce tumblers of coffee from the Qwick Pick.

“Big day on the beach.”

“Bo yeah!”

“3 Doors Down.”

“Ribs. Chicken. Pulled pork sandwiches.”

“Greased pole climbing contest.”

“More ribs.”

“I think that's how they grease the pole.”

“With barbecue sauce?”

“No. Pork lard.”

“You can really pig out on the beach today, that's for sure.”

My fumbling fingers finally find the off switch. If I were more than half awake, I would have found it sooner.

Time to shower and head to Qwick Pick.

Time for my own forty-eight-ounce tumbler of coffee.

• • •

10:02 A.M.

George Weese is talking.

“I want them both out of here,” is the first thing he says. “Their very presence offends me.”

His parents look stunned.

“Your mother and father?” Ceepak says for the video camera. He doesn't want to spare anybody's feelings, he just wants to make certain the official record reflects whom the accused is tossing out of the interrogation room.

“I have a lawyer,” Weese says. “I see no need for my parents to remain.”

“Son, you don't know-”

Weese glares at his dad.

“Be quiet. I am twenty-seven years old. You no longer need tell me what to do.”

Mrs. Weese reaches across the table to touch her son's hand.

He snaps it back, hissing at her.

She gasps.

“Perhaps it would be best …”

It's all the tanned lawyer needs to say. Mr. and Mrs. Weese push back their chairs. The chair legs screech as they do.

“Fine,” Mr. Weese shakes his head, looking at his son. “You are such a goddam disappointment.”

George smiles. “As are you, father.”

Families. Freak shows without the circus tent.

Mr. Weese motions to his wife: “Helen?”

Mrs. Weese remains seated.

“Helen?” He repeats.

She finally picks up her purse, fumbles around inside to make certain she has her cigarettes, and trails her husband out the door.

When it closes, George leans back in his chair, studies Ceepak and me. He shakes his head and smirks.

“You two. What a pair of incompetents. The Two Stooges.”

“Why do you say that?” Ceepak asks, showing no emotion.

“I had to hand you seven Derek Jeters before you could piece together my ingenious little puzzle? Maybe I should have spelled it out in braille, you're both so blind.”

Now I sort of wish we were back to the bit where George Weese wasn't saying anything.

“The Jeters?” I say. “You dropped those the day you shot Katie, am I right?”

“Danny?” Ceepak shoots me one of his looks.

“You.” Weese waggles a finger at me. “You ruined my life. You and your five little friends!”

“George?” The lawyer guy puts a gentle hand on Weese's shoulder.

Weese smiles. Leans back.

“Tell us about it,” Ceepak says.

“About what?” Weese wants to call all the shots. For the moment, Ceepak's playing along.

“Tell us how Danny and his friends ruined your life.”

“With pleasure. August twenty-eighth, nineteen ninety-six,” he says, deliberately drawing out each syllable of the date, like he's relived that particular day a billion times. “Unbeknownst to me, my father had come home early from work that day. He was in the kitchen cleaning out his golf cleats with a house key. When I came in the back door, he stopped what he was doing to stare at me. As you might recall, Daniel, the front of my white swimsuit was stained purple with grape soda. The wet cloth was clinging to my skin. I know my father could see my penis. I could feel his cold stare.”

He lets that hang there for dramatic effect.

“‘Jesus,’ my father said. Not ‘What happened to you, son?’ Not ‘Did somebody hurt you, my boy?’ No. He invoked the holy name of his lord and savior-in disgust. Because he was examining my penis through the dampened cloth and was disappointed by what he saw. ‘Go change your damn pants,’ he said. Then, he shook his head. He was disgusted. He started digging out more dirt, concentrating on the cleats. He didn't wish to see how minuscule a man his son had grown to be.”

Okay. This is weird.

“I wanted to say something. That my member was momentarily shrunken because it was wet and cold. That it grew substantially when I achieved an erection. But I couldn't say a word. My insufficient size only confirmed what my father already suspected: I could never become the kind of man he wanted me to be. No, sir. Not with my mouse. Yes, I believe someone once called my penis a mouse. I believe it was the little girl with the red hair. Katie. Katie the Cunt.”

“Is that why you shot Ms. Landry?” Ceepak asks. “Because of what she said that day on the beach?”

“You don't have to answer that, George,” the lawyer advises.

“I read all about you, Daniel,” Weese says. “My father sent me your newspaper clippings. Several magazines, as well. Local boy makes good. Part-time cop cracks big murder case.”

For the record, that is not what any of the headlines said. In fact, my name was always kind of buried about twenty paragraphs down in all the Tilt-A-Whirl case stories.

“Imagine my father, sitting in his favorite chair, reading of your heroic exploits, taking the full measure of your manhood, picturing the overwhelming enormity of your penis.”

Okay. It's getting even weirder.

“Let's talk about Saturday morning at Schooner's Landing,” Ceepak says.

“Oh, that was a good day,” Weese says. “Saturday was such a blessing.”

“How so?”

“George, again I advise you-”