Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? (5 page)

Manny thought Vikström was suffering a sudden attack, which in a way was true, because Vikström was laughing deep, uncontrollable belly laughs, laughing so hard he had to wipe away his tears with his handkerchief as he hit the wheel with a fist. “Oh, that's good!” he kept saying. “Bubbles? That's really good!”

Manny rubbed his chin and looked out the window. “You don't like music?”

“No, no, I love music. You really get up on a little stage in your spare bedroom?” Again he laughed.

Manny wished he could put a bullet through Vikström's skull, and the fingers of his right hand toyed with the butt of his Glock. Instead he remained silent as they waited for the police tow truck to arrive and fix the front wheel. Vikström was silent as well, though every few minutes he'd chuckle. Then he'd say, “Sorry, sorry, I can't help it,” then he'd chuckle some more.

The next day Manny asked the supervisor of the Detective Bureau, Detective Sergeant Masters, if he could be transferred. She said it was impossible, unless he wanted the Mountain Bike Patrol. Manny didn't think so.

“Whatever your problems with Vikström,” Masters said, “get used to them.”

But the laughter was like broken glass in his gut. No way could he get used to it. Anyway, he stopped complaining. “I've internalized the problem,” he told Yvonne.

When disappointment becomes central to your life, it's like a religion. It takes up all your spiritual space. Are you Baptist? Are you Methodist? No, I'm Disappointed. That's how it happened with Manny.

So the disappointment provoked by Vikström left its mark, just as other disappointments had left their mark. It was a disappointment he'd lost his hair. It was a disappointment he was forty-five instead of twenty, a disappointment he was overweight, a disappointment he hadn't made detective sergeant, a disappointment that his kids had moved to California—the two sons to L.A., a daughter to Bakersfield—a disappointment that his cat, Flutie, had run away. It made a long list; and if Manny was sitting in the car—on a stakeout, for instance—he'd tot them up once again and find more. And looking in the mirror, he saw that each disappointment had carved a new wrinkle on his face until the wrinkles formed a portrait of his disappointment, which in itself was disappointing. So this was how it was with Manny: the sun-drenched, rolling hills of karaoke on one side, an alp of disappointments on the other.

“He walks like he's got a tombstone on his back,” Vikström told another detective.

Late in the afternoon, Manny talks to twenty people in stores and offices near the alley that opens onto Bank Street, and as he makes his way from one to the next, he has a quiet talk with himself in the area of lexical semantics. Is it disappointment that obsesses him or is it grievance? Both identify loss, but grievance also suggests resentment, holding someone accountable. So perhaps his disappointments are in fact grievances. On the other hand, he might have disappointments and grievances at the same time. He's disappointed with Vikström, but he also has grievances against him. Manny's burdens seem to double. He staggers, and an elderly woman across the street shakes her head over evidence of intemperance in an otherwise respectable-looking gentleman.

When Manny thinks he's almost done talking to people, he calls Vikström to see what he wants next.

“Have you checked all the upper-floor offices?”

“I'm working on it,” says Manny untruthfully.

“I think it's a good idea. Don't you?”

Over the next half hour, Manny talks to four people who occupied upper-floor offices. They'd all heard the crash and hurried to their windows, but by the time they looked, the accident was over, while its very drama made them incapable of examining the details of its display—that is, they were at a loss for words.

That changes when Manny talks to a middle-aged woman who works above the music store. She's a smoker in an office where smoking isn't allowed and where her boss, a data supervisor, has told her more than once that if she must smoke, she has to do it out on the street. But perhaps it's raining or she doesn't care to hunker in a doorway as if selling illegal substances. At those times she rolls her chair to the window, sticks out her head, and unless the wind blows directly in her face, lights up for a few puffs. Across the street is a three-story, flat-roofed building of gray granite blocks. To the right of the building is an alley, and within the alley that Monday morning she'd seen a large green truck with its motor idling.

The woman—her name doesn't matter—describes this to Manny at some length, but then she reaches the important part.

“All at once the truck backed up, and it didn't do it slowly. It rushed back, and I knew the driver wasn't looking both ways. It made a roar, and suddenly there was the motorcycle. I pushed my chair back from the window, but I heard the crash. It was terrible. I still hear it.”

Manny takes her through her story several times, but the important part stays the same. The truck had “rushed” back into the street, and the driver hadn't looked to see if any traffic was approaching.

“You see any brake lights on the truck?”

“Not that I remember.”

“What happened to your cigarette?”

“I dropped it, I was so frightened. I just hope it didn't hit anyone.”

Looking from the window, Manny envisions the scene. The worst part is that it suggests Vikström was correct: the truck driver, Leon Pappalardo, had backed up in order to put the truck in the path of the motorcycle. Manny's sorry about this. It's ugly when Vikström turns out to be correct. But how did Pappalardo know when to back up?

Manny thanks the woman, leaves the building, crosses the street, and finds the stairs to the second floor. A minute later he's talking to J. Arthur Madison, LL.M.

“The exhaust was pouring into my office—pure carbon monoxide, as you can imagine. I'm still queasy from it. It went on for about five minutes, and when it became unbearable I went to close the window—such a pity on a beautiful day. Then I saw a man across the street in front of the window of the music store.”

“And what'd he do?” Manny believes he already knows what the man did.

“That's just the thing, I didn't wonder about it at the time, because the truck made this roar and a frightful cloud of exhaust poured in through my window. Later I put one and one together, and now you're here as well. The man's hands were behind his back. Then he took one out, the right one, and made a small flipping gesture.” J. Arthur Madison makes a flipping gesture with his right hand, like a shy child waving his daddy good-bye. “That's when the truck began to roar, so I didn't hear the motorcycle at first. The man stepped back into the alcove of the music store. Then I saw the motorcycle. The biker tried to stop, but . . . well, he couldn't. . . .”

“Can you say what the guy looked like?”

“He wasn't a tall guy, that's for sure, and he had thick, black hair, like Elvis.”

And Detective Manny Streeter thinks,
Damn Vikström anyway.

S
o what's this business Connor Raposo has gotten into? Is it legal? “It's been a family business for four generations,” says Didi with the self-deprecating laugh of someone hiding pride's shining light under humility's handkerchief. During a business lunch at the Asti Ristorante on Fifth Avenue in San Diego in November, Didi told his nephew that the name of the business was Bounty, Inc. This was over their shared antipasto: gamberi e capesante al limone. Then, over the fish, salmone marechiaro, Didi said the name was Step Up, Inc. And twice over grappa and espresso he called it A Shot in the Arm, Inc. Perhaps it was all three; perhaps it was all three and more; perhaps it was something else entirely.

Bounty, Inc., by any name, raised money for charities—Didi couldn't say how many. When it began in the early 1930s, it consisted of Didi's grandfather Vado, a great-uncle, and several other relatives going door-to-door to solicit funds for organizations such as the Holy Sisters of the Blessed Little Feet, the Dust Bowl Relief Fund and New Homes for Old Horses. Vado, short for Osvaldo, would pick a town—like Topeka—pick a neighborhood—say, around Southwest Twelfth and Southwest Fillmore—and then he and his associates would solicit door-to-door for two days and get the hell out. The next day they would show up in Omaha or Kansas City or Tulsa.

But it was easier then. First of all they only dealt in small amounts of cash. Next their charm and the apparent need of their cause to elicit sympathy for groups like One-Legged Veterans of the Great War was enough to establish their credibility. Vado would say that deception was to him what singing was to Caruso, and if he couldn't bring five people to tears on any day of the week, the day was wasted. No mail solicitations, no phones or computers: it was all face-to-face. And there weren't the legal constraints and licensing complications that exist today, so many mission statements, papers of incorporation, and boards of directors. A few snapshots of one-legged veterans or the decrepit motherhouse of the Holy Sisters of the Blessed Little Feet were enough. As for the groups for which they collected, or groups with vaguely similar names, they always received a money order for fifteen percent of the funds raised. So the Little Sisters and the rest were grateful, even if the amount was only ten dollars.

For a few years after Vado retired, Bounty, Inc. was inactive. Then his oldest son, Robert, called Betinho, came up with a new plan, and off they went again—half a dozen family members blowing into a midsize city to squeeze a bit of money from the softhearted. They might be villains, but they were public-spirited villains. One or two went to jail, one or two others had warrants served. They never grew rich; it was a modest living, a job like any other. As Betinho said, the game meant as much as the money. And the charities—Childhood Victims of Hoof-and-Mouth Disease, Organ Grinder Monkey Retirement Ranch—received their pittance.

We doubt if Didi hoped to make big money. The notion of putting Bounty, Inc. on the road began when he met the young man he called Vaughn Monroe, allegedly a distant cousin, in a halfway house in Imperial Beach, south of San Diego and across the fence from Tijuana. Didi never revealed his real name, and Vaughn claimed to have forgotten it. What made Vaughn valuable was that Didi's target group was the silver generation, folks between the ages of fifty and ninety; so Vaughn was Vaughn, and Didi was happy.

Still, it's unlikely that Didi would have revived Bounty, Inc. if imitating the voice of Vaughn Monroe were Vaughn's only skill. At most he might have managed a small career for Vaughn in karaoke bars. What energized Didi's ambitions was Vaughn's skill as a computer hacker. It meant getting two skills for the price of one. But when Connor met Vaughn, he had his doubts. Was he reliable? He seemed, as Connor said,
weird
. Didi gave a self-confident chuckle. “Everyone's got a little weirdness in them someplace,” he said. And then, more seriously, “Remember, he doesn't have any parents. We're all he's got.”

“Is he a minor?” Connor had asked.

“Not technically, nor legally either for that matter. He's just weird.”

This was the start of Didi's master plan. After that he signed up the young woman he called Eartha Kitt, who had formerly been Shaw-nell or Beatriz. She, too, was a distant relative, a Brazilian, and her surname was Barbosa. Didi claimed it gave her a tugo connection, though she hadn't known it till then.

Lastly came Connor, who was working as a slot attendant at the Viejas Casino, thirty-five miles east of San Diego, and was sick of the drive, sick of the noise, sick of the gloomy faces. Before coming to San Diego, he'd been a slot attendant at the MGM Grand in Detroit, which was tolerable because his brother Vasco often passed through and seemed to work for MGM Grand. “Seemed” is an essential word when describing Vasco. This was after Connor had taught high school English for two years at Iron Mountain in the Upper Peninsula, until the school system downsized, meaning he was fired. Despite a master's degree and glowing recommendations, he hadn't found another job. Schools solved teacher shortages by increasing class sizes. Then, when Vasco called about a casino job in Detroit, Connor gave up on education. His ninth-graders brought in cake and ice cream for a going-away party. So long, kids.

A problem with Bounty, Inc. was that men who came after Vado and Betinho often grew impatient, even greedy. Then the line between legal and illegal wasn't so much crossed as crushed. Could this happen to Didi? Connor worried that Didi's ambitions might land them all in jail. But Connor's life was stagnating; he needed a change. Gradually his worries diminished, and then they stopped, or almost. So he told Didi he'd give it a try.

Didi's first task was to raise the cash for the Winnebago and “put the show on the road,” which meant doing fund-raising in San Diego. Here Vaughn's computer skills were essential. He hacked the websites of San Diego veterinarians, and soon he had a list of older folks who owned beagles, as well as a list of the dogs' names. Although unlawful, it was for a good cause, Didi said, and sacrifices must be made. As for other legality issues, Didi said that the papers of incorporation were “pending.” He waved a sheet of paper at Connor, declaring it was a mission statement. And the board of directors? Didi made Connor a member; Vaughn was one already. Armed with claims like “We'll get the legal shit settled in no time,” Didi had his group make calls for Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc., meaning beagles used in medical research rather than beagles hanging out on street corners.

“Is your puppy at risk of becoming a smoker?” Vaughn would melodiously rumble into the phone. “A crooked lab could snatch him right off the street.”

“Cigarette addiction for your Suzy would be an awful thing,” Eartha might whisper. “You can't protect the good beagles if you don't protect the bad.”

This was Didi's strategy: scare them, then soothe them. If a man or woman contributed, Didi sent a certificate stating that so-and-so was a member in good standing of Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc. “Just your small contribution,” he'd say in a phone call, “has saved another pup.” The donor would receive a form, and then cash (preferred) or a check made out to FBNA, Inc. would be sent to one of several post office boxes.

As for the voices, they gave Vaughn Monroe and Eartha Kitt the credibility of familiarity. Often a customer would ask, “Don't I know you from someplace?” Their hesitations and stutterings indicated awe. “I thought you died in 1973.”

Vaughn might answer, “Only technically.”

The fund-raising went well until complaints against FBNA, Inc. began to build up and the police department's Financial Crimes Unit took an interest. But by then the used Winnebago had been purchased and Didi said it was time to “fly away to the highway.” Had fifteen percent of the earnings been sent to the Humane Society? Didi said that it had. “Would I cheat a pooch?”

But Connor worried. “Give me a better reason I should I go with you.”

“The cops will see you as an accomplice. But as a first-time offender, you'll get a suspended sentence or probation, meaning no jail time.”

“Are you serious?”

“It's best to expect the worst.”

The danger, as Connor saw it, was that Didi's ego let him confuse the possible with the certain. If he thought a thing was true, it must be true. If he wanted a thing, he must deserve it. Take his hairstyle—silver and parted in the middle with a brushed-back wing on either side. Didn't they remind Connor of the wings on the helmet of the god Hermes, Didi had asked. “No,” Connor told Didi. “They don't.”

“Hermes,” Didi said, “god of travelers, god of wit, god of deception, god of thieves and gamblers, god of poets. He's the trickster. You see how fitting it is?”

“I don't think a judge will buy it,” Connor said.

But Didi held these beliefs lightly, as he held everything lightly. Why put your cards on the table if you didn't have to? He saw life as bookended by the tragic and the ridiculous, which weren't necessarily independent: the tragic occurring on Monday and the ridiculous on Tuesday. If his philosophy had a flag, its symbol would be a banana peel on a sidewalk, and its focus was the man giving amusement to people on the street by stepping on the peel and flying into the air, only to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. The “tradiculous,” Didi called it. “Think of the Supreme Being as the one who drops a flowerpot onto your head from a celestial window.” The universe, he argued, is governed by whimsy.

Connor said that Didi wasn't “dependable” or “trustworthy,” but they weren't the right words. They were only symptoms of a larger issue.

“You don't take life seriously.”

“What's to take? People pretend to take it seriously because they're terrified. They say there's no such thing as a coincidence, or what goes around comes around. That's like chewing gristle. It's hard work. The flowerpot falls on your head because the maid bumped it, not because you deserve punishment. Get real.”

But what's real? Didi was sure he traveled along a straight line, but we know how it is. The straight line develops a kink. Didi thinks he has the future figured out, but he knows nothing about Fat Bob, Marco Santuzza, and Leon Pappalardo, nothing about Sal Nicoletti and his sexy wife, nothing about Manny Streeter and Benny Vikström. Call them flowerpots waiting to happen.

As for Connor, despite his doubts, his mind was changed when Didi said they were heading to New England, because right now Connor's brother Vasco—the previous owner of the black Bruno Magli slip-ons—is in southeastern Connecticut for a few weeks doing some work at a casino, although Vasco hasn't said what.

At times Vasco appears to be a general consultant; at other times he's a security consultant or a slot adviser. The job remains vague. But spending time in New England will give Connor a chance to see him. In fact, this Monday evening Connor is supposed to have dinner with Vasco at Paragon, the most exclusive of the Foxwoods restaurants.

—

D
etective Benny Vikström's wife, Maud, at times makes Vikström a casserole for dinner that he especially likes: salmon, sweet potatoes, shredded carrots, egg yolks, and yellow raisins. They have it tonight, and Vikström thinks of it as their “orange dinner” apart from the raisins, which are almost orange. With the dinner comes a nice green salad with orange sweet peppers and butterscotch pudding for dessert, maybe with whipped cream, possibly turned orange with food coloring.

So it is with a degree of irritation that, as Vikström is tucking his napkin into his shirt collar, there comes a familiar
tap, tap-tap, tap, tap
, which signifies that his partner, Manny Streeter, is waiting on the porch.

Vikström understands that Manny could have arrived a half hour earlier or a half hour later and it wouldn't have mattered, but Manny knows that his partner eats dinner at seven o'clock on the dot, and he has timed his arrival for its nuisance value. It's a way for Manny to share his existential disappointment.

“Not again,” says Maud.

Vikström goes to the door. The weather is turning cold, and Manny wears a charcoal gray overcoat and a blue watch cap to protect his shaved head.

“I got news for you,” he says.

Vikström lets Manny enter and waits. Manny hangs up his coat on a peg by the door but keeps on his blue watch cap. As he walks through the living room, he says, “They still haven't found the head. It's absolutely vanished. They brought in a dog, but even the dog can't find it.” Reaching the dining room, he pauses and nods to Vikström's wife. “Good evening, Mrs. Vikström. Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

“May I get you a plate?” This is nice of Maud Vikström, because what she really wants to ask is,
What head?

Manny stares at the “orange dinner” longer than is polite. “I don't think so, not tonight. Looks good, though.” Manny glances around the dining room as if he has forgotten the reason for his visit.

“So what's going on?” asks Vikström. “Or is this a social visit?” He stands by his chair, uncertain whether to sit down. He hopes that whatever is “going on” won't mean leaving his dinner to be heated up later in the microwave. Maud Vikström stares at Manny's large, silver belt buckle showing the dying, spear-carrying Indian on the dying horse. She always stares at it. Maybe she doesn't know it represents a work of art; maybe she thinks it indicates a kind of fetish.

Manny assumes a
Would you ever believe
it?
expression, lifting his eyebrows and pursing his lips. “It looks like it wasn't an accident after all—I mean the truck and Fat Bob business. It looks like it was done on purpose.” Manny's been holding this back so that he can drop it on Vikström at dinnertime like a sharp object. He describes his talk with the woman over the music store who told him how the truck rushed backward to the street, and he describes his talk with J. Arthur Madison. “The guy said he saw a man signaling to the truck driver—what's his name, Poppaloppa.”