Robert Tanenbaum - Reversible Error

"It was a cop, wasn't it?" asked Dugman.

"Yeah. He done the shooting. I jus drove, man. That's all I know."

"You gonna give us a name?"

"If I do, what do I get out of it?"

"If you don't, we'll be glad to put you back to your momma's house and wait for the man to come again. I bet next time he won't be shooting from cross the street. Figure the range be around two inches next time."

For the next few seconds Booth's face showed clearly the frantic working of his brain. At last he said, "OK, I'll tell you, but you gotta look out for me."

"Who?" Dugman asked.

Booth said, "It's you-all's boss. It's Fulton." It had hurt worse than she had imagined, worse than the worst kind of cramps. She lay there silently, tears of rage and pain soaking into the panty hose wrapped around her head. He was arranging his clothes and pacing about the bedroom, not talking now. After a while she said, "Can I get up now?"

He didn't answer. He was thinking. He shouldn't have answered that call, but he couldn't resist, talking to the schmuck on the phone when he was looking up his girlfriend's cunt. There was a catch, though. Boyfriend could identify his voice; the girl knew his face. It was corroboration. Not good.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice thin and high.

He was wrapping the bedspread around her, tucking it in tightly on both sides, until she was like a mummy with its head wreathed in Tan Natural nylon.

"Please, let me…" she said. He straddled her legs and held the knife over his head with both hands and drove it down into her with all his force. "Wha-a-a-at!" cried Maus. "Lieutenant Fulton? Fuck you, scumbag! Try again!"

Maus turned his incredulous look toward Jeffers and Dugman, seeking support as to the absurdity of this statement, but the two other cops wore expressions of blank gravity.

"Hey, guys? You don't believe this horseshit, do you? Fulton?"

"Maus," said Jeffers sadly, "that car. Blue Trans Am with whitewalls. It was the Loo's car. And he was in it." The rapist checked himself carefully in the full-length bedroom mirror. There was no blood on him at all, except on his hands, where he had gripped the knife. He looked at the shape on the bed. He couldn't remember stabbing her that many times. He must have lost track of time. Time! He checked his watch. Only eight minutes had passed since the phone call.

He went into the kitchen and rinsed his hands and the knife and put the knife away in his jacket pocket. He brought the beer can and the glass he had used back to the kitchen, wiped both of them off, rinsed and dried the glass and tossed the can in the trash. Then he wiped the tap handle off.

Twelve minutes. Another wipe on the stereo where he had touched it. He walked toward the door. He felt good, as usual, except that his underwear was wet and sticky. He had experienced another, more intense orgasm as he was taking care of the girl. Two for the price of one, he thought, and then had an even more amusing notion: the police would think it was a nut case, all that stabbing. It was a different pattern. No one would ever associate it with him. He was not, after all, a nut. The rapist opened the door, his hand wrapped in a handkerchief, and let himself out. The three detectives and their guest drove south through the increasingly noisy evening. Each of the cops was chewing over Booth's revelation in private. Maus broke the silence.

"It still don't figure," he said. "Why are we taking this mutt's word for it?"

"It ain't just his word," replied Dugman from the rear seat.

"What, then? What! Rumors? Street bullshit?"

"It adds up. The street know something's goin down. Here, I'll show you. Maus, see that line of cars waiting to buy dope? Get in line. Mack, grab us one of them skells."

"Which one?"

"Any damn one. We doin a scientific sample."

Maus pulled the car over to where a dozen or so men were crying their wares. A thin brown man in a lavender T-shirt and a Mets baseball cap came up to the passenger window and put his hands on the sill, saying, "What you want? I got it all an' the price is right. I got weed, pills, smack, skag, coke…"

Striking like a cobra, Mack grabbed the man by an upper arm and jerked him through the window. Maus hit the gas and they roared off down the street.

Mack flipped the man around so that his head and shoulders were resting on his own lap, while the pusher's legs were flapping out the window. His massive forearm rested gently against the pusher's throat.

"Wha', wha'… wha' the fuck goin on! Leggo me!" the pusher began. Mack increased the weight of his arm and the cries choked off.

"Listen up, my man," said Mack softly. "We just want to know one thing. Where you getting your stuff. Not the mutt you get it from, the big slick. Who's the Barnes Man?" He raised his arm a hair.

"Dunno what you talkin about, man. What stuff?"

Mack dropped his arm again. When he raised it, the pusher gagged and coughed for a long time. Mack repeated the question and this time the pusher croaked, "Choo-choo."

"Choo-choo Willis, huh?" said Mack. "OK, who else still in business?"

"Blade still movin it. Some Jamaicans. Some spies. Willis been doin good since they aced all those guys."

"What's out on the street about who's doin the hits?"

The man's face clouded, and he hesitated. From the rear seat Dugman said, "Don't worry, it ain't us. Just tell what you heard."

The man coughed hard and then said, "I heard it was cops."

"That's what we heard too," said Dugman. "You hear any names?"

The man shook his head vigorously. "No, I didn't hear nothin else. It just street jive anyway, you know?"

"The name Fulton mean anything to you? Clay Fulton?"

The man screwed up his features, showing thought superimposed on terror. "Yeah. Couple of days ago, my man Socks say somepin about some Fulton. Like he was connected, wired. Big dudes want to know anybody saw him aroun'. Some shit like that."

Mack looked back at Dugman, who nodded. Mack said, "Pull over," and when Maus did so, he flung the pusher out the window like a piece of trash.

Half an hour later Booth and the three detectives were sitting in a luncheonette on St. Nicholas Avenue having coffee and arguing about what, if anything, to do.

"I say, confront the man," said Maus. "We go up there, we say we saw you when somebody was trying to ace Tecumseh here, the word on the street is you're dirty, so what the fuck, Loo? That's the right thing to do."

Dugman shook his head. "Yeah, it would be, if Fulton was playing straight with us. But he ain't. Which means he thinks he's covered some way. So what's he gonna say? Either yes, I'm bent, and what the fuck you gonna do about it. Or no, and fuck you for accusing me. Either way we're fucked in the ass. But…"

"But what, Art?" asked Jeffers.

"Like I said before, there's somethin deep goin on here. We ain't got near all the story, and this old nigger ain't about to go jumpin into somethin deep when he don't know the whole story."

"So what do we do?" asked Maus, a note of tension straining his voice. "We can't just go on working for the man, pretending everything's cool. Maybe you all can, but I'm not made for this happy horseshit. I got to know who I can trust, you know? OK, the Loo is bent-fuck me for a chump, I thought he was a class act. But now, I'll tell you right now, I'm gonna transfer out of here. I'm no fuckin virgin-plenty of guys on the take are standup cops. But not pulling jobs, killing people, even if they are scumbags. How can you trust a guy like that, if it's true?"

"Play along, Maus," said Jeffers. "Game ain't over yet."

"Yeah, but we got no cards," replied Maus glumly.

At this remark, a smile, and a not very pleasant one, broke out on Dugman's face. "Uh-uh, you wrong there, Maus. We got us the biggest card in the deck. We got us the ace." And he looked at Tecumseh Booth. The others did too. Booth shifted nervously in his seat.