Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? (11 page)

Manny and Vikström nod their heads, mildly intimidated.

Manny leans forward and whispers, “Why was he called ‘Wrestling'?”

Potter looks around again; Jean is approaching with a tray. “Because he wrestled with the devil,” whispers Woody Potter.

“Ah,” says Manny, as if this described everything. “Been there, done that.”

Jean puts the tray on the table and distributes the coffee and Danish. The tray is scratched brown plastic rather than the shiny chrome tray that supported Vikström's sundae. The three men notice this but choose not to comment. Jean hangs over the table waiting for a word to be spoken so she can enter the discussion. No one speaks, and soon she retires, looking disappointed.

Vikström has told Potter little about why they are in Brewster, only that it concerns the accident yesterday in New London when Pappalardo backed up the dump truck and how Bank Street had been closed for hours. Now he explains that a witness saw someone signal to Pappalardo as the Harley approached, which was when Pappalardo tromped on the gas.

The Harley, a Fat Bob, belongs to another man: Robert “Fat Bob” Rossi. And the guy riding it, Marco Santuzza, had borrowed it, maybe meaning to buy it. So it's unlikely, but still possible, that Santuzza was the intended victim. In the meantime Fat Bob has disappeared, probably because yesterday evening a green Ford drove up to his ex-wife's house and a man, identity unknown, shot up his motorcycle. Fat Bob had run out the back door and hadn't returned.

Contrariwise, Fat Bob might have set up the whole business to kill Santuzza himself, and maybe he's being pursued by Santuzza's associates. As for Pappalardo, he may have been killed by Fat Bob or by whoever signaled Pappalardo to tromp on the gas. Manny uses the word “tromp” four times and gives it special emphasis each time, making it sound drumlike.

“But it might be something else entirely,” says Potter. “Santuzza might have been killed by an enemy of his own—the same with Pappalardo. Someone might have killed him who has no connection to the business in New London. Even his wife might have killed him. I mean, it's possible.”

“But not likely,” says Manny.

“No, not likely, but you can't rule it out. Anyway, I'm glad it's your mess and not mine.”

Manny chews on his Danish as Potter sips his coffee. Vikström works on his banana split. He eats it slowly, scooping up a spoonful, staring at it briefly with a fond smile, inserting it carefully in his mouth so no drops fall on his necktie, and looking up at the ceiling with a blissful expression. This is no more than show business. As for the motorcycle business, he's already guessed that Santuzza might have been the real target. So maybe Pappalardo was killed by a friend of Santuzza's seeking revenge, or maybe by a friend of Fat Bob's seeking revenge. Did Santuzza and Pappalardo know one another? Or did Fat Bob know Pappalardo? And who was the guy who signaled Pappalardo to
tromp
on the gas?

Woody Potter has finished his coffee and pushes away his cup. “I'll get Chief Gazzola to talk to Pappalardo's connections here in Rhode Island to see if anyone has a motive and if Pappalardo knew Santuzza or Robert Rossi. And there's the guy who signaled to Pappalardo. D'you know what he looks like?”

“We're working on it,” says Manny, who chooses to keep the information about the black pompadour to himself.

“How was your ice cream?” Woody asks Vikström.

The banana split, the hugeness of it, made Vikström a little ill, and he knew he'd have to skip dinner. But he gives no sign of it. “I could eat another,” he says.

“And what are you going to do?” Manny asks.

“Right now,” says Potter, “my wife's making spaghetti carbonara, and I have to pick up some fresh bread and stuff for a big salad. This is supposed to be my day off.” Potter heads for the door. “We'll be in touch.”

A
round noon Connor stops in Brewster to pick up groceries on his way back from New London and then continues to the beach and the Winnebago. The sky is turning blue, the temperature is rising, and the snow will be mostly gone by morning. Reaching the gravel road to the water where he and Vaughn shoveled snow, he guns the motor and fishtails forward to the Winnebago.

Connor parks next to the gray Ford Focus, carries in the groceries, and sets them down on the counter by the sink. Eartha and Vaughn are on their phones; Didi writes addresses on envelopes and inserts creative invoices detailing the amount pledged. What makes them creative is they have borders with photographs of beagles hooked up to smoking machines. Didi also inserts a fulsome letter of thanks and a return envelope with a stamp attached to make the return easier. The return address does not say Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc
.
but FBNA, Inc., which stands for one of Didi's bank accounts: Frank Bishop Negotiating Accountant, Inc. The return envelope goes to a post office box at the U.S. Post Office on Masonic Street in New London, a massive three-story stone-and-brick building. It's an example of Classic Revival architecture and already on the National Register of Historic Places. Didi doesn't like his mail going to ticky-tacky P.O.s.

Near the FBNA post office box is another post office box. So if the first post office is watched, Didi can avoid suspicion by going to the second, which contains a few picture postcards. Didi imagines that if the “watcher” sees him fussing with a mailbox, he'll think he's opening the FBNA mailbox and try to nab him. At which point Didi will show the postcards and act out what Vaughn calls “righteous inflammation.” This is a subtle stratagem, but not once has Didi needed to use it. Still, it indicates how Didi plans for all contingencies. After a week both mailboxes are closed for good, and the postcards perhaps go to the dead-letter office, now called a mail-recovery center.

Didi enjoys writing these postcards:
John, Call home, Jimmy hit by tree
and
Maggie, The baby wasn't Henry's after all
and
Louis, I don't know what they are, but they're quick and they're filling the cellar.
These are a few of many messages Didi has used, and he likes to imagine the nervous narratives that his messages inspire in agonizing clerks.

It should be no surprise that Didi likes to arouse those unsettled feelings that make people peer back over their shoulders. Letting sleeping dogs lie is not him. People shouldn't get too comfy. He wants them to stop being complacent and start feeling anxious, which makes them careless in their choices. This is one of the axioms behind Bounty, Inc.: Anxiety produces better donors.

Detectives Manny Streeter and Benny Vikström also inspire disquiet. It's part of their job description, though they're hardly aware of it. It's become second nature. They work to inspire insecurity in others. It softens them up and makes them eager to tell the truth. Dread, for them, is a tool.

Connor's brother Vasco arouses disquiet as well. His skill is to make others feel lesser. When he tells a person, “You're looking better,” he or she will think,
Was I looking so bad before?
After that it's all downhill.

In each case the actor (Didi, Manny, Vikström, and Vasco) puts on a persona to get what he wants, an ersatz self whose role is to make others feel reduced. The actor may also value its comic element, but the victim is just a victim.

Connor sees this behavior in Didi and Vasco; and he may have seen it in Manny and Vikström, though he met them very briefly. After all, it's part of a cop's tool kit. For the cop it's a power issue: I'm stronger than you. For Vasco, it's an ego issue: I'm better than you. But Didi feels that people will have richer lives if they worry more. It gives them something to fight against. It teaches them to take nothing for granted. It undercuts complacency.

As for Connor, he takes life at face value. He's no patsy, but he leans toward the gullible. Nor is he skilled in convincing strangers to donate money to Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction or the Holy Sisters of the Blessed Little Feet. He throws out the pitch, and people hear the lie. So they hang up. This is why Connor was chosen to run errands. He's at the bottom of the scammer's ladder, and it shames him. So he practices little lies to get the hang of it. Remember? “I'm from Minneapolis,” says Connor, who is actually from Cleveland.

“Sixty-five thousand beagles are used in biomedical research each year,” whispers Eartha. “By doing nothing you put a gun to their heads.”

“Have you ever heard a hooked beagle hawk and spit?” murmurs Vaughn. “Have you listened to the smoker's gurgle in their lungs?”

“If you've noticed a white, unmarked panel truck cruising the streets of your neighborhood,” says Eartha, “then your Snoopsie will be next.”

After putting away the groceries, Connor takes a Dos Equis from the refrigerator.

“You got a call a while ago,” Eartha tells him. She wears a tight turquoise turtleneck, and again her breasts, for Connor, become armaments of the amatory.

“Who from?”

“I've forgotten. Hey, Vaughn, what was the number?”

Vaughn spits out a number: Michigan area code, Detroit-area exchange. This is another of Vaughn's skills. He's their address book.

Connor recognizes it as the number he'd called that morning: Roy's number. He calls right away. When Roy answers, Connor asks, “You learn anything?”

“You're eager, aren't you?” says Roy.

Yes,
thinks Connor,
I'm eager.
“Did you get Nicoletti's real name?”

“The fellow who gave evidence is Dante or Danny Barbarella. . . .”

“And his wife?”

“There's a woman involved. Her name seems to be Céline. Maybe she's the wife. Why the interest?”

“Just curious.”
Céline,
Connor thinks,
what a wonderful name.

“She's supposed to be beautiful.”

“That's true, she is.”

“This Danny Barbarella is no hero. People will soon be rearrested for the second trial. Some folks want him dead. Did the feds really hide him in Rhode Island?”

Connor wonders if he's making another mistake, but at least he hasn't mentioned New London. “Just keep quiet about it, will you?”

“I could make a chunk of change with this,” says Roy thoughtfully.

“What can I say? I can't afford to give you money. You really want to be responsible for his death?”

“That's okay. These aren't guys I want as friends. If you give them something, they always come back for more. So don't sweat it.” Roy hangs up.

Connor sits on the couch with his beer and engages in deep thoughts, though many would call it fretting. Despite the presence of Didi and the others, he feels alone in the room. He cares deeply for Didi, Eartha, and Vaughn, but they feel distant to him. It's like caring deeply for a vaudeville act. And can he believe Roy? What choice does he have? And what about Vasco? And who's Chucky with the soft hands who showed up at Vasco's table? What is this everyday persona that people adopt in order to meet the world? They appear serious and diligent, but underneath they're probably squealing as they dash like lemmings toward the ultimate pratfall. Whoops! And what do we have in the meantime? Maybe a few kisses in the dark.

Digging his cell phone out of the breast pocket of his jacket, Connor calls Vasco. The phone rings for a bit and then goes to voice mail. As sometimes happens, Connor feels a whisper of rejection. “I need to talk to you,” he says.

Again he thinks about Nicoletti. He wishes he'd never spoken to him, and now he's carrying him on his back, or at least he feels that he's hauling a heavy weight, a weight he can't put down. Connor has no particular feelings for Nicoletti, but he's concerned about his future, or rather its duration. He's concerned about being responsible for his death. And there's the wife, Céline. Now he has a name for her. Connor gets up and grabs his coat.

“Where're you going?” asks Didi.

“I've got to go back to New London.”

—

M
arco Santuzza lives, or lived, across the river in Groton, the “Submarine Capital of the World.” The Naval Submarine School is there, and it's where the first nuclear submarine, USS
Nautilus
, was launched in 1954. Santuzza's house is on Godfrey, just north of Electric Boat, an older two-story house that Vikström can tell needs several coats of paint. Three cars are in the shoveled driveway. A shiny black Buick sedan has a church sticker in the rear window:
ST. MARY STAR OF THE SEA
.

“Looks like she's got the God boys already chatting her up,” says Manny as he gets out of the car.

Vikström makes a grunting noise. His upset stomach from the banana split eaten in Brewster has been worsened by Manny's sudden swerves and abrupt stops.

The detectives stand by the Subaru and reflect on what might happen next. Because Santuzza's head was found the previous night, they assume his widow has been notified of her husband's death, though by rights they're the ones who should have first brought the news, while accompanied by Groton police. That, however, is a labor they're glad to have missed. Now they want to talk to her about Fat Bob and to get the names of Santuzza's friends. It seems like a simple enough task.

But as they proceed toward the front porch, they hear a cry: half weeping, half screaming. It builds to a crescendo and descends. The policemen have come into scenes like this often—hysterical grieving people—and they hate it, though neither has confessed this to the other. Manny Streeter hates the noise, the raw emotion. Benny Vikström hates his inability to give comfort. The door is open. They walk in.

A woman shouts, “I'll tell you one fuckin' thing, I'm not going to bury him without his fuckin' head! No fuckin' way! It's not fair!”

“Maybe we should come back later,” says Vikström, “or let the Groton cops handle this.”

Manny pretends not to hear him and enters the living room.

A large woman in a baby blue Mother Hubbard sits in the middle of a cat-tattered couch. This is Caroline Santuzza, and her eyes are red and damp. A young priest sits to her left with a hand on her arm. He slowly shakes his head as if once again astonished by the world's ravages. Two other women, about the same age and shape as the woman on the couch, sit in cat-tattered armchairs. Five cats are in the room, three sleeping, two prowling.

Manny introduces himself and shows his ID; then he introduces Vikström. By rights Vikström should be doing the introductions, but Manny has entered the room first. Vikström wonders if this is meant to be another rudeness.

“You found his fuckin' head yet?” shouts Caroline Santuzza.

Manny takes a step back. “We found it last night. We thought you'd been notified. The Groton cops were supposed to tell you. We're New London.”

“They only told me this morning Marco'd been killed! What kind of fuckin' cops are you that it takes so long to find a fuckin' head? It's got a beard, for shit's sake!” Mrs. Santuzza begins to weep again.

The young priest gets to his feet and introduces himself as Father William. He shakes their hands. Then he winks at Vikström. “Are you one of those famous Swedish detectives I keep hearing about?”

Vikström opens his mouth but says nothing. He thinks he's being baited in a puzzling way. He ignores the priest, walks to the couch, and sits down next to Mrs. Santuzza. “D'you mind if we ask a few questions? I know this is an awful intrusion.”

Vikström waits as the woman continues to weep. She has dyed reddish hair with a straight valley of gray roots down the center of her skull. It makes Vikström think of Moses separating the Red Sea. Mrs. Santuzza's cheeks are round and pink, each like half a tennis ball; when she weeps, the tears pop straight out of her eyes and drop to her lap. “Like what?” she says after a few seconds.

Vikström glances at Manny, who is poking around in his ear with his little finger. The two other women stare at Vikström as if he were a film star. “Like why was he riding Robert Rossi's motorcycle?”

This brings on another attack of weeping. “He wanted to buy it. Bob called yesterday morning and said he'd let him use it. Just to try it out, the son of a bitch.”

“Fat Bob made him take it,” came a voice.

Manny and Vikström turn to see a man seated in a straight chair by the wall. He sits next to a large green plant with red berries, and the detectives think that the plant must have hidden him when they first came in. The man is thin and red himself: red hair, red-freckled face, red ears, red shirt, red hands. The face is narrow and long, with high cheekbones and a long nose that looks sharp enough to cut bread. Some people resemble dogs, some people resemble monkeys, this man resembles a flame.

“Who're you?” asks Manny.

“That's Jack Sprat,” says one of the women. “He's Caroline's brother.”

“Sprat?” says Manny.

“It's from the poem,” says the other woman. “Jack Sprat eats no fat and Caroline eats no lean. He's always been Jack Sprat. It's like a nickname.”

Jack Sprat's eyes are like shooting sparks. He's gotten to his feet, and in his narrowness and angularity he resembles a bolt of lightning.

“Why d'you say that Fat Bob made Marco take the bike?” asks Vikström.

The man shows his teeth. Maybe it's a smile. “'Cause I knows what I knows.”

“That's not very helpful,” says Vikström.

“Why the fuck should I be helpful?” says Jack Sprat.

“What's your real name?” says Manny. “Show us your ID.”

There follows a brief verbal tussle as Jack Sprat says he won't show them any ID and Manny says that he will. This ends when Manny holds up his handcuffs and says he's taking Jack Sprat down to the Groton police station.