George Higgins - The rat on fire

“Alfred,” Mack said.

“I don’t know what his name is,” Fein said. “I met him once and I was completely satisfied. He is a nasty little prick which the world would be better off without.”

“I don’t think I want to comment on that,” Mack said. “Do you believe you could do something for your tenants that would maybe get them off my back? I hate to impose.”

“Like what?” Fein said.

“If you could just get rid of the rats,” Mack said.

“As a personal favour,” Fein said, “as a personal favour, I will do my best.”

“Scared the living shit out of him,” Proctor said to Malatesta at the Scandinavian Pastry Shop. “Told him if he didn’t come through, pronto, I was gonna dump him.”

“Did he come through?” Malatesta said.

“Sure did,” Proctor said. “I get out there in Framingham this morning, there’s old Tiger Mike Fogarty, got his yellow suit on and he’s loaded for bear. ‘You Proctor?’ he says. I’m Proctor,’ I say. I’m Fogarty,’ he says, ‘I’m yer gawddamned lawyer. Keep yer mouth shut and don’t say nothin’.’ I tell you, Billy, tied the guys up in knots. That trooper didn’t know whether he was coming or going, and by the time Tiger Mike got through with him, he didn’t much care.”

“Get bound over, the grand jury?” Malatesta said.

“Lemme think,” Proctor said, laughing. “ ‘Driving Under,’ right? No evidence I was driving. They had a charge of ‘Wading Under the Influence,’ they would have had me. But that’s not against the law, and the cop didn’t see me driving. ‘Driving So’s To Endanger?’ Same thing. Cop didn’t see me driving. ‘Drunk?’ They don’t indict you for being drunk. And they were gonna make me enrol in that temperance thing they got, where you learn about all the bad things happen, you drive when you’re stiff, except they can’t make you go to the meetings unless they catch you driving drunk, which they didn’t, me.”

“I thought you said some things,” Malatesta said.

“I did,” Proctor said.

Mickey and Don entered the pastry shop together, both sweating in their green uniforms from the summer night. “Goddamned pork,” Mickey said. “I hate carrying pork. There isn’t one foot of the way, I don’t start thinking about that goddamned pork, this time of the year.”

“I had corn,” Don said. “Least the unit wasn’t on. Easier when it’s just crates.” They took stools and both of them ordered coffee. The waitress explained that the cream was not real.

“Look,” Mickey said, “I heard that before. And I put my own sugar in. I know that, too. Just gimme the coffee, all right?”

“Mister,” she said, “I have to tell people that. It’s my job.”

“Bring the damned coffee,” Mickey said.

“The thing of it is,” Proctor said, “as Tiger Mike reminds the judge, what I said don’t matter unless the arresting officer says something first.”

“Oh, oh,” Malatesta said.

“Which,” Proctor said, “he did not.”

“Something like: Tm a police officer,’ “ Malatesta said.

“And,” Proctor said, “ ‘anything you say may be taken down and used against you as evidence in a trial in a court of law. You have a right to remain silent. If you do say anything…’”

“I’m familiar with it,” Malatesta said.

“Well,” Proctor said, “the elephant never did that. And when Tiger Mike got him on the stand, all he could do was show him the waiver I signed in the station, when I was still trying to get ahold of Four-flusher Fein. Except, I didn’t say anything after I signed that waiver. The case got blown out like a tornado went through it.”

“What’d Fogarty cost you?” Malatesta said.

“Nothing,” Proctor said. “Fogarty cost me nothing. What Fogarty cost Fein I do not know, and I didn’t ask, either. I’m not gonna ask.”

“Hey, lady,” Mickey said to the waitress, “you got any blueberry Danish tonight?”

She snapped her gum. “I’ll check,” she said.

“Now,” Proctor said, “tomorrow morning I’m gonna light off a little one.”

“There’s people in there, Leo,” Malatesta said.

“This is why it’s gonna be a little one, Billy,” Proctor said. “Just a little one. Won’t do anybody any harm. Won’t do nobody no bodily harm. Just a little smoke and stuff, get the fuckers pull the alarms and evacuate the fucking building. Any kind of luck, enough damage so they won’t want to move back in.”

“What’s the explanation gonna be?” Malatesta said.

“For you?” Proctor said. “Wiring. No sweat.”

“There ain’t no Danish, mister,” the waitress said to Mickey.

“No Danish,” Mickey said.

“No Danish,” the waitress said.

“No Danish at all,” Mickey said.

“Nope,” she said.

“You got a boyfriend?” Mickey said.

“What business’s that of yours?” she said.

“Will you shut up, Mickey?” Don said.

“Why the hell should I shut up?” Mickey said. “I asked the lady a civil question. I come in here, night after night, and she hasn’t got any Danish. All I want’s a goddamned Danish. I’m not tryin’ to get her pants off.”

“Will you please shut up?” Don said.

“No,” Mickey said, “I will not shut up.”

“Excuse me a minute, Leo,” Malatesta said. He stood up and walked over to Mickey and Don. He stood behind them. He said, “Sir, I’m a police officer, and you’re creating a disturbance. Why don’t you quiet down and save everybody a lot of trouble?”

Mickey spun the stool and looked at Malatesta. “You’re a police officer, huh?” he said.

“Yeah,” Malatesta said, “I’m a cop.”

Mickey looked him up and down. “You don’t look like a fuckin’ cop,” he said. “You look like somebody that sells brushes, or brooms or something.”

“You wanna see my badge?” Malatesta said.

“Yeah,” Mickey said, “I wanna see your goddamned badge.”

Malatesta displayed his badge. “Be goddamned,” Mickey said. “Badge 1412, you believe that? Guy really is a cop.”

“Now,” Don said, “will you leave this kid alone?”

“Yup,” Mickey said. “Miss, could I have a honey-dipped doughnut?”

“It was really quite simple,” Walter Scott told Wilfrid Mack. “Alfred was due at my place at eleven. He was only an hour late. There wasn’t any work, and Herbert was taking his nap in the cellar, face-down on his comic book. I didn’t think anything about it. When Alfred’s only an hour late, I figure it must be a national holiday, showing me some special consideration. Doesn’t bother me at all. The later Alfred is, the less chance there is he’ll set the place on fire, drop his joint in a display casket or something.

“Mavis called me,” he said. “Must’ve been close to two in the morning by then. ‘I need some help,’ she said. I was mostly asleep. At first I thought it was somebody calling from the Southern Mortuary for a pick-up. Pissed me off. Those guys’ve got the regular number. There’s no need to wake me up. That’s what I have Herbert and Alfred and the station wagon for, along with the business number: so I can have a decent night’s sleep. It was okay, I got waked up when I first started and I was building the business, but I’m gettin’ along in years now, and I need my rest. Man my age. “I was kind of grumpy,” Scott said in Mack’s office. “I was more than half asleep, and I wanted to be all asleep, which I had been until the damned phone rang. So I said, ‘Call the regular number. You guys know the regular number. Call that. I got two kids to handle this kind of thing at this hour.’ “Then it hits me,” Scott said. “I never heard of any women working the early shift at the Southern Mortuary. Now I admit, it’s been a while. There’s women all over the place, doing things I never heard of women doing. I’ve had kids down in the cellar for several years, handling the early-morning stuff. ‘Pick ‘em up and stick ‘em in the icebox. I’m going to bed. See you in the morning, and I’ll see the customer in the morning too.’ How do I know if they got a woman working the early shift at the Southern? I haven’t taken a call from the Southern on the early in years. But it’s still kind of hard for me to imagine. I say, ‘Who is this?’ Because generally when somebody calls for a hearse, they do not say that they need help. That is not what they usually say. See, I was starting to wake up.