“So what happened, Dirk? I really want to know.”
“I got hit over the head in my underwear.”
“You got hit or hit someone else? There is of course the matter of that Chinaman lying in the living room.”
“I got hit,” says Dickerson, his eyes still raw with pain, his hand rubbing the sore spot on his head.
“Who did it: Wu, or was there more than one?”
“I don’t know. I was talking to a bird when it landed on my head.”
‘A bird, eh?’ thinks Step, but doesn’t say anything out loud. Instead, he takes out a Wagon Wheel cigarette likes he’s in a hurry, but lights it up slow, keeping his head down the whole time, possibly to conceal an expression of disbelief at what his wounded partner is telling him.
“So it was a stout and serious rook that landed on your head? Or no, excuse me, something hard and heavy landed on your head while you were talking to the bird. No, that doesn’t seem strange to me at all. And then you don’t remember anything until just now when I turned on the light to see you coming to your senses in your kitchen in a pair of black knit socks and those baby-blue boxers… that your wife bought you for Christmas, if I’m not mistaken. Oh, sorry, she bought you a genuine leather billfold. Now I remember.”
“The bird was really bugging me, so I told it to pipe down… or else,” says Dickerson, now looking for a cigarette himself.
“Ok, I get it, that’s when you took it over the head, when you had your back turned talking to the bird… or rather yelling at it out the window. So it must have been Wu & Company that whacked you, but you got him first. No, of course, that’s not right; Wu was already dead and you had nothing to do with it. Why would you kill your shrink? Am I crazy to think such a thing? Yes, he was a pest but he had a wife and kids like you. And anyway he wasn’t your shrink, and would I please stop saying that? You’d just gone to him that one time, just that once and no more because of agency procedures, that’s all… stress and what not.”
“I’m as normal as you Step,” says Dickerson and then squints at his partner as if to make sure of something.
The conversation continues in like manner, with Dickerson first closing, then opening the upper leaf of his kitchen window, checking at least once to see if that bird was still hanging around. But it’s dark outside, so he produces a bottle of Johnnie Walker from a paper bag standing upright in the cupboard above the sink and pours two full milk glasses worth.
‘There must have been someone else in the flat,’ thinks Step, ‘so why the charades… the bit about the bird or this generous helping of Johnnie Walker for that matter? Dickerson’s trying to cover something up and not doing a very good job. His head must still hurt, impeding his ability to lie, buying time, that’s it. Maybe I should play along, ask if he needs something from the store…’
“Birds are strange creatures, Jack, especially those rooks. They’re all over Kyiv. You get the feeling they’re watching you… not out of interest like a predator surveying its hunting grounds, much less like a pigeon looking for a handout. They look like they despise us…”
“Us, Dirk?”
“That’s right, us, you and me and every other human being in this city and on the whole planet for that matter. It’s like we’re stupid, low and inferior, and they know it as they always have and always will…”
Step brings up the Discovery Channel, then steers the conversation back to the instrument of his partner’s head injury.
“A large and heavy object, as you said, but not a hammer, a lead pipe or that bottle you just put back in the brown paper bag. A pistol, but how would you know, unless you just caught a glimpse of it before receiving the blow? That’s it. No, no it wasn’t that, but you can’t be sure about anything now with that head still hurting and it being late. But there was more than one of them if I count Wu. No, forget about Wu, and it could have been the bird who did it for all you know, so let’s just drop it, all right? You’re a big boy who can take care of himself, and sick of all this detective crap, which, look what it’s done to your life with your wife and the kids…”
“Damn it to hell. This is all beginning to stink,” shouts Dickerson, menacing the air with two fingers, his eyes bulging in rage. “Can’t you smell it? It’s coming from him,” he points at Wu. “We’ve got to disguise that stench…”
…
‘I’d better pick up some Red Man tobacco,’ thinks Step, making his way to the flat earlier that evening.
It’d been raining, so he thought he’d go out for a walk. ‘I wonder if Harry will be in…’ or maybe that new fellow was working tonight.
He didn’t like the new fellow and not because he was fat or tinsel-haired, but because he looked straight at you all the time and seemed to follow you around the store with his eyes, even using the mirrors if you ducked behind the reading rack – at least it seemed that way. And it being Monday, Step wondered if it was a good idea to go there at all. He had a half pack of Wagon Wheels after all. But Dickerson always asked for some Red Man. You could chew the smell out of the worst of mouths. Better red than dead, he would say.
Filed January 6, 2015