Slice

goddamn donuts, and we goin’ ta throw a couple bricks through the fuckin’ window and take the first three or four guns we can grab outta there.'

“Don't they got no burger alarm?” he asked, unconscious of his malaprop.

“Jesus sweet Christ. Of COURSE they gotta fuckin’ BURGLAR alarm ass-wipe, we ain't gonna STAY there fer shit's sake, we goin’ ta SMASH the fuckin’ glass, GRAB the fuckin’ guns, an’ BOOK. How long ya’ think that'll take?'

“Oh, I guess—'

“It'll take nineteen SECONDS is how long it'll fuckin’ take.” He was proud of his command of the situation. “I got a piece a’ windshield glass, and that shit is strong, and timed what'd take to sledgehammer through it ‘n reach in and take a couple a’ pipes and book. Nineteen seconds. A cop cain't wipe his fuckin’ heinie in nineteen seconds. We're outta there.'

“How about bullets? Where we gonna—'

“We BUY some bullets. Okay?'

“Yeah, but we need pistols or some shit. They ain't got nothing but big-ass rifles inna window of Helferd's last time we was by there. I want me a nice Beretta like double-o-seven, ‘n go—” He pointed at the door and went “PPPPPPKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKEEEEEEEEEE WWWWWWWWWWW! PSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHKK EEEEEEEEEEWWWW!” Sweet Jesus, the man named Wendell De Witt thought. I've got me a fuckin’ imbecile here.

“We take what's inna window. We ain't goin’ in an’ fuck around all night with no goddamn showcases. We grab rifles if there's rifles inna window, we grab shotguns iffn’ nair's shotguns. Okay?'

“Yeah, sure, that's cool. But how we gonna go walkin’ inna fuckin’ bank with fuckin’ big ole hunting rifles with goddamn telescopes ‘n shit all over ‘em?'

“Mmmmmm.” He sighed as if he hurt, pulling the tab on another Budweiser and flinging it away from him. “I swear ta Christ. We're gonna saw them off.” He said this with patience in his tone, that sweet sound he got right when he turned real mean. John Monroe had heard him talk like that once right before he proceeded to kick the living shit out of these two slick dudes in the goddamn gas station. Just whomped on the sides of their heads till the gray shit come out. He didn't say nothing, only nodded yes.

“Okay.” Wendell smiled. “So now we got our pipes all nice and sawed off.” He pointed his finger at Monroe and went, “PPPPKKKKKKKKKKKEEEEEEEWWW” the way a person will try to do when you can tell they ain't never played guns when they was a kid because they can't make the noise. “And then we go ask some a’ these fuckers to part with their money. How does THAT sound to ya?'

“Let's do it. Shit. I know a perfect place. That new little American Finance office out there where Long John Silver is, ya know? Onna highway?'

“Fuck that. I had a guy I knew in jail hit a little place like that ‘n he only come out with three thousand dollars in his sack. Shit. I ain't goin’ to do the crime if I cain't have a time. We'll hit a fuckin’ bank.'

“Yeah. Shit, we can hit a bank,” John Monroe said without an ounce of conviction in his voice.

“Yeah.'

“Like ta make sure they ain't a whole buncha assholes standin’ around. Shit, they can throw an’ alarm and shit an’ you know, a couple a’ people cain't cover no whole fuckin’ bank.'

“We ain't goin’ that route. We're gonna waltz innair with the fuckin’ president of the damn bank.'

“No shit?'

“I wouldn't shit mah favorite turd, would I?” he said with a big mean smile.

BUCKHEAD

He was getting as flaky as the nutbaskets he worked with, Eichord thought. That morning leaving for work he'd showed Donna what he'd bought for Dana.

“What'd you buy him?” she said with a smile.

“Little sign for his desk.” He'd found a bumper sticker with the word on it and found some desk signs in a drawer upstairs at headquarters. He'd slid one of the signs out and the bright Day-Glo sticker word fit perfectly across the plastic insert. When he slid the sign insert back into its stand, it looked like it had been custom-made for it. Wordlessly he sat the sign on the kitchen table and she screamed with laughter.

“Perfect.'

“I'm getting as fruitcake as he is.'

“I love it.” Her smile wrinkles deepened and she said, “When you invite them over, be sure you tell Dana that your wife sent him a special invitation—from next door.” They both laughed.

He put the sign back into the sack. This domestic stuff was all right. He could get used to this real quick. They sat finishing breakfast leisurely and he thought to himself how much he'd missed sharing things with someone. Even a stupid joke. Just to have someone you genuinely cared for meant so much. He looked over at this lovable lady and couldn't feel anything but a boundless joy.

“Now whatcha grinnin’ at?” she asked him through a bite of toast.

“My luck, baby,” he said, and went over and had a taste. Crumbs, grape jelly. Donna Eichord—the whole works.

When he finally got to work he was carrying Dana's new sign in a little brown sack that looked like his lunch, and he could hear Chink's voice all the way up on the first landing.

“How come you wanna play Hill Street Blues again, dammit?” he could hear them arguing. “It's been off for a hunnert years.'

“I liked it.'

“Keerist. You liked the Flying Nun. You been sick since they took Kojak off.'

“Go jack off? Go jack off yourself, you little kamikaze reject, if you can find that miniature gherkin you slopes laughingly refer to as a cock.” They went on like this all day. He always wondered how they could have kept it up all those years. After a while it made you tired to hear them. But he loved them, he supposed. And you overlook someone's faults when you love ‘em. He knew they had covered for him a thousand times over the years. Covered for him back when he stayed blitzed to the gills on the job. Of course, they never let up about it either. That was their style. Anything was fair game for these flaky friends of his.

“Good morning,” he'd say, and Lee would look up and shake his head, “Swacked again,” he would sigh, “Four hours late to work. Pathetic. All we ask is whatever you do don't breathe on the captain's shield. He just got it shined yesterday.'

“Yeah,” Fat Dana would chime in, “and that heavy a concentration of alcohol will tarnish gold faster'n saltwater'll eat out the bottom of a ‘64 Olds Cutlass.'

“Speaking of heavy concentrations of things that eat,” he'd say, and the thing that sometimes passed for witty repartee in Buckhead Station would begin.

Eichord's walk coming down the flight of steps was unmistakable to them and they made him halfway down, and he “overheard” them begin to discuss him at the top of their lungs.

“And another thing about that mother grabbing, headline-grabbing Jack Eichord, man, his EGO is so damn big he no longer thinks he has to shower or bathe. Have you noticed? PHEW!'

“Oh, shucks, yes,” Lee's partner could be heard to say. “Eichord stinks like a wet Saint Bernard's crotch. It's getting so bad—'

“The real question is how you assholes know what a Saint Bernard's crotch smells like,” Eichord said as he reached the door of the Squad Room.

“Hey,” Lee acknowledged his friend's presence. “Don't you love it when he talks dirty.'

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Tuny boomed in his announcer voice, “the Major Crimes Task Farce proudly prevents...” He cued his Oriental partner for a fanfare.