Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

The guy from Narcotics said, ‘Yeah, is that right?’

He didn’t get it.

‘It’s the last time I’ll ever have to handle a bomb, if that’s what we have, and hope to Christ I don’t make a mistake.’

The guy still didn’t get it. He said, ‘Well, that’s what Booker says it is. He gets up, it blows up. What kind of bomb is that?’

‘I won’t know till I look at it,’ Chris said.

‘Booker says it’s the fucking Italians,’ the guy from Narcotics said, ‘trying to tell him something. It makes sense, otherwise why not shoot the fucker? Like we know Booker’s done guys we find out at Metro in long-term parking. Guy’s in the trunk of his car, two in the back of the head. Booker’s a bad flicking dude, man. If there was such a thing as justice in the world we’d leave his ass sitting there, let him work it out.’

Chris said, ‘Get your people out of the house. When my partner gets here, don’t stop and chat, okay? I’ll let you know if we need Fire or EMS, or if we have to evacuate the houses next door. Now where’s Booker?’

The guy from Narcotics took Chris down the hall towards the back of the house, saying, ‘Wait’ll you see what the spook did to the library. Looks like a fucking tent.’

It did. Green-and-white striped parachute cloth was draped on four sides from the centre point of the high ceiling to the top of the walls. The Jacuzzi bubbled in the middle of the room, a border of green tile around it. Booker sat beyond the sunken bath in his green leather wingback. He was holding on to the round arms, clutching them, fingers open. Behind him, French doors opened onto a backyard patio.

‘I been waiting,’ Booker said. ‘You know how long I been waiting on you? I don’t know where anybody’s at, I been calling — you see Juicy Mouth?’

‘Who’s Juicy Mouth?’

‘Supposed to be guarding my body. Man, I got to go to the toilet.’ Chris walked up to him, looking at the base of the chair. ‘Tell me what the woman said on the phone.’

‘Was the bitch supposed to be in love with me?’

‘What’d she tell you?’

‘Say I get up I’m blown up.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Is that all? Man, that’s finals that’s all there is all, nothing else.’

Chris said, ‘Yeah, but do you believe it?’

‘Asshole, you expect me to stand up and find out?’

Chris was wearing a beige tweed sports coat, an old one with sagging pockets. He brought a Mini-Mag flashlight out of the left side pocket, went down flat on the floor and played the light beam into the four-inch clearance beneath the chair. The space was empty. He came to his knees, placed the Mini-Mag on the floor, brought a stainless Spyder-Colockback pocket-knife from the right side pocket and flicked open the short blade with one hand in a quick practised motion.

Booker said, ‘Hey,’ pushing back in the chair.

‘Cover yourself,’ Chris said. ‘I don’t want to cut anything off by mistake.’

‘Man, be careful there,’ Booker said, bringing his hands off the chair arms to bunch the skirts of the robe between his bare legs, up tight against his crotch.

‘You feel anything under you?’

‘When I sat down it felt... like, different.’

Chris slit open the facing of the seat cushion, held the edges apart and looked in. He said, ‘Hmmmmmmmmm.’

Booker said, ‘What you mean hmmmmmmm? Don’t give me no hmmmmmmmm shit. What’s in there?’

Chris looked up at Booker and said, ‘Ten sticks of dynamite.’

Booker was clutching the chair arms again, his body upright, stiff, telling Chris, ‘Get that shit out from under me, man. Get it out, get it out of there!’

Chris said, ‘Somebody doesn’t like you, Booker. Two sticks would’ve been plenty.’

Booker said, ‘Will you pull that shit our? Do it.’

Chris sat back on his heels, looking up at Booker. ‘I’m afraid we have a problem.’

‘What problem? What are you talking about?’

‘There’s something in there that looks like an inflatable rubber cushion, fairly flat, lying on top of the dynamite.’

‘So pull the shit out, man. You see it, pull it out.’

‘Yeah, but what I don’t see is what makes it go bang. It must be in the back part, where the cushion zips open.’

‘Then open the motherfucker.’

‘I can’t, you’re sitting on it. It’s probably a two-way pressure switch of some kind. I can’t tell for sure, but that’d be my guess.’

Booker said, ‘Your guess ? You telling me you don’t know what you doing?’

‘We get all kinds,’ Chris said. ‘I have to see it before I know what it is... or whether or not I can disarm it. You understand?’

‘Wait a minute now. You saying if you can take it apart?’

‘And the only way to get to it,’ Chris said, ‘is to cut through the back of the chair.’

‘Then cut it, cut it, I don’t give a shit about the chair.’

‘You run into the frame, all that heavy wood and springs...’ Chris paused. He said, ‘I don’t know,’ shaking his head.

Booker said, ‘Look, motherfucker. You get this shit out from under me. You cut, you do what you have to do, you get it out.’

‘On the other hand,’ Chris said, ‘it might not be a bomb at all. Just the dynamite in there. You know, to scare you, keep you in line. I mean, is there a reason anybody’d want to take you out?’

Booker said, ‘You mean like just the shit, but no way to blow it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Like they telling me look what could happen?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Say I could just get up, was all bullshit what they made her say to me? On the phone?’

‘That’s possible,’ Chris said, ‘but I don’t think I’d take the chance. Let’s see what my partner says, when he gets here.’

Booker said, ‘Man, I got to go the toilet, bad.’

Chris watched Jerry Baker taking in the size of the house as he came up the walk, away from the uniforms and the blue Detroit Police radio cars blocking both sides of the boulevard. It was Jerry’s day off. He wore a black poplin jacket and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap: a tall man, bigger and older than Chris, 25 years on the force, 15 as a bomb tech. He remembered what day this was and said to Chris, ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

Standing inside the doorway, Chris told him about the green leather chair Booker was sitting in.

And Jerry said it again, looking at his watch. ‘No, you shouldn’t be here. Forty minutes, you’ll be through.’

He looked outside at the guy from Narcotics waiting on the porch, waved him over and told him to call for Fire and EMS and get everybody away from the house. The guy from Narcotics said, ‘Can’t you guys handle this one?’

Jerry said, ‘You’ll hear it if we can’t.’ Walking down the hall to the Jacuzzi room he said to Chris, ‘If we save this asshole’s life, you think he’ll appreciate it?’

Chris said, ‘You mean will he say thank you? Wait’ll you meet him.’

They entered the room, Jerry gazing up at the green-and-white tenting, and Booker said, ‘Finally, you motherfuckers decide you gonna do something?’

Chris and Jerry took time to look at each other. They didn’t say anything. Jerry got down to inspect the sliced-open seat cushion between Booker’s muscular legs and said, ‘Hmmmmmmmm.’

Booker said, ‘Another one, goes hmmmmmmmm. I’m sitting here on high explosives the motherfucker goes hmmmmmmmmm.’

Jerry stood up, looking at Chris again. ‘Well, he’s cool. That’s a good thing.’

Chris said, ‘Yeah, he’s cool.’

As Jerry walked around to the back of the green leather chair, Booker, sitting upright, raised his head.

‘Hey, I got to go the toilet, man, bad.’