“Taaaah-daaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!'
“That Sherlock Holmes of winos, the old skid-row supersleuth himself, let's hear it for the boss of the Bourbon Street beat.'
“Taa-daaaaaaaahhhhhhh!'
“Lovable, intoxicating, Blackjack Eichord, human distillery!'
They broke up as Eichord, who had moved behind Dana Tuny, reached over with both hands and gently squeezed the man's prominent chest, which bulged his shirt out to a noticeable degree,
“Up to about a fifty-two-C now, are we? These are getting ripe.'
“A fifty-four-D-cup actually. Officer,” Dana told him, “and I wish you wouldn't stop. I'm getting kinda hot from that.'
“A teacup?” Lee said incredulously. “Did you say a
“I'll squeeze you into a casserole dish, you little dink handjob. I'll fuck you over so many times you'll think you're the center on a Greek football team. I'll—'
“Hey, Big D.'
“Eh?'
“Donna sent you something.'
“No shit?'
“Yeah. Really, it's starting to bug me a little. I just don't like the way my wife's always thinking about you.'
“Uh. Well, what can I say? She knows a real man when she sees one.” Lee screamed with laughter at that one. “Shaddup ya fuckin’ pickleprong. Whatta YOU know about it?'
“Yeah,” Eichord continued, “she just can't get you out of her mind. Wanted me to give you a little something. What do you think we got for you? Huh?” He held up the sack the way you might do with a kid.
“I'm a genius now I know what's inna sack, for shit's sake. What do I look like, Bobbie Fisher?'
“You look like CARRIE Fisher through the tits there, but what's in the sack? Give up? Maybe something you can put on your desk so we'll all know what you are—eh?” He slipped the sign out and put it on Dana's desk. Lee started screaming hysterically as soon as he read the sign. He fell from his chair to the floor and began pounding it with his fists.
“Jesus, cheer up,” Dana told him. “It ain't THAT fuckin’ funny.'
“Oh...” He could barely catch his breath he was laughing so hard. “Chunk, my man,” he roared, “oh, yeah, that's perfect—you are a fucking
“Fuckin’ flakes.'
“
“...So anyway, the bitch's layin’ there on the slab ‘n, you know, he's been boffin’ the good-lookin’ ones all along, right? So, shit, he pulls back the sheet and goes, Hey, check THIS out. ‘Cause you know, she's a stone bitchin’ fox, right? And he feels her up a little and, shit, she ain't even that cold yet. All fuckin’ RIGHT, so he's horny enough to fuck mud anyway, and he's got his skivvies down—'
“Uh, ‘scuze me, is Detective Shy here?'
“Hold it. Bud. So anyway, he's got ‘em down and he's climbin’ up in the saddle, right? And he puts it in and he's pumpin’ away at this dead bitch ‘n all of sudden she comes to'—the detectives laugh—'an’ he goes. Whoa, SHIT. And he pulls his razor outta his pants, he's gonna cut the bitch's throat and FINISH, right? And he gets so excited tryin’ to get the razor outta his jeans he slices the end of his own fuckin’ THUMB OFF!” Screaming in the squad room. “An’ that's when ole Elmer comes boppin’ around the corner of the hallway and here's this naked broad runnin’ out of the morgue with blood all over her and he thinks he's got the goddamn dee-tees.” Laughter.
“I want to report a—'
“And he goes. Hey, you ain't supposed to take ‘em in there before they're completely DEAD!” Screaming.
“I was told come in here to report this. Is Detective Shy here?'
“Yeah,” he said, laughing, “that's Scheige over there. The one with the magazine.” He pointed out a skinny detective looking at a centerfold, and the cop called out his name.
“Hey, Scheige?'
“Hey. Check out the bongos on this,” Scheige said, holding up the magazine.
“This guy wants to see ya.” The cop tilts his head in the direction of the hype.
“Yeah?'
“Detective Shy?'
“Whatcha need?'
“I was told to come in here and report this to you. I seen that guy in the papers. You know the big, fat murderer? They said if I give you the information you could—uh, you know, pay me money for being, uh, er, uh, giving you d’ information?'
“This oughta be good,” one of the detectives muttered under his breath.
“What big, fat murderer you talkin’ about?'
“In da paper dere. The one d’ cop killed.'
“Oh. You saw the one the cop killed. Uh huh.'
A couple of giggles.
“He was naked and taking a bath in the alley off West Erie.'
Every cop in the room screamed with laughter as the hype stood there reddening.
“That's wonderful,” the one called Scheige said. The moon was full. The day before a guy had come in to “swear out a warrant” against someone called Voltan X, “swearing he had information the extraterrestrial was the head of an interplanetary kidnapping ring that was taking lawn elves and pink flamingos in the mistaken belief they were our children.
“I seen him ALIVE. Takin’ a shower in d’ rain, buck-naked right dere in d’ alley.'
“Wonderful,” Scheige said, dissolving in hysterics.
“Hey, man, this is for real. I ain't shittin'. I seen him—” His voice was drowned out.
“Bernie, jew ever hear about the time me and Mac busted Sweet William Trace?'
“Huh uh,” a cop replied.
“Sweet William was sniffin’ a whole shit pot o’ glue back then, and he was in the back of his limo all glued up, ya know, ‘n he was naked, beatin’ his meat and wearing a German army helmet. You know those old time Kaiser helmets with the big spikes? So anyway, Mac and me made the limo and we was just gonna stop it, I forget—some bullshit probably—and we have ‘em pull over, and fuckin’ Sweet William comes outta the back, stone-naked, glued to the max, wearin’ a German army helmet—he weighed about three-fifty, you know, ‘n Mac'd never seen him and he said he liked to pop a cap on him when he come outta that back seat!” The cops laughed.
“Did you ever hear about that sheep-fucker we nailed over in the twelfth?'
The hype turned around disgustedly and left the squad room and the flaky, laughing cops who didn't want to lay a taste on him for the good information. “Fuck it,” he said, sniffing and rubbing his arms.
