At first Max thought that it was just his imagination. As a general rule, very few people at work paid much attention to him. Oh, there were those who proffered the obligatory nod, wave, smile, grunt, etc. upon meeting in the parking lot or passing in the hallway. Now and then there was even a wink or a suppressed grin from some of the female types. One or two of them always managed to thrust their noses a little farther north along with a hint of a blush upon crossing his path. Now, don't get me wrong, Max is by no means to be considered as a reincarnate Casanova. It's just that, somehow, he happened to have developed a reputation as somewhat of a character. 'Character' might be a little mild. Atavistic, balls-out, full speed party animal, or perhaps even, fully folded, spindled and mutilated lunatic is probably a bit more accurate.
Not withstanding this somewhat dubious, if not well deserved, distinction, Max was taken aback to see people scattering out of his path like cockroaches from a bright light. More than one of the morning commuters were twisting their necks and staring at him as they jockeyed for position in the parking lot.
"What the hell did I do this time?" Max muttered, checking himself over for bare feet, toilet paper trailing out of his belt, etc.. Not finding much grossly out of place, he snatched his battered day-glow orange brief case off the seat and slid out, along with a cascade of McFood wrappers and empty beer cans. He clamped his choppers onto his key chain, and transferred the briefcase to the macadam as he scrambled after a rolling sixteen ounce empty. He deposited the majority of the flotsam and jetsam into the back seat along with the spare (flat) and last winter's snow tires. He slammed the door and looped a hanger wire over the handle and through a convenient hole. "Gotta fix that one of these days," he mumbled half out loud.
Walking up to the front entrance, two co-workers stopped in their tracks at Max's approach. They both suddenly veered off toward a side door.
A bit more convinced that something had to be seriously mucked up, Max slowed to a stop, lifted his orange attaché above his head, turned, and sniffed his armpit. Twice.
"Whew! A little gamy, but, not that bad."
Facing the large silvered plate glass windows of the administration building, R. Maxwell Beemer squinted back at himself.
Five foot nine inches tall (well, 5' - 8", but nobody's going to check). A fly-away mop of formerly brown, rapidly greying, hair blasted from the top of his head, around his ears, and crept down his neck. Max's middle-American, Joe-everyman 165 pound body was mounted upon a pair of Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star high top basketball shoes. The kind with black (or white, depending upon the formality of the occasion at hand) canvas uppers and rubber lowers with a little white rubber patch at each ankle. He wore an extra large T-shirt emblazoned with some tacky slogan, logo, product endorsement, sincere philosophical or political statement, as appropriate. The thought for today was, SAVE OUR KIDS, SHOOT A DRUG DEALER. The caption was printed beneath a dripping hypodermic syringe striking dead-center at a bull's eye target.
Max squinted at this apparition in the glass through bright blue eyes squeezed into mean little slits in a constant battle with smoke from a smoldering Camel. The butt was held captive in full lips centered in cheeks studded with random patches of two-day-old whiskers.
"Huh! You handsome dude! Don't you ever die! Heh-heh-heh." He grunted with a little chuckle and strode into the lobby. A gait that bounced slightly on the balls of this feet, telegraphed a positive, cheerful, and let's go get 'em attitude. Very uncharacteristic for a Monday.
Max sauntered down mahogany row, past the closed (usually open) door of his boss's office. He worked his way through the endless labyrinth of cubicles of the rank-and-file to his designated and assigned work station. Actually just another generic cubicle accentuated with a hollow-core metal door and an outside window. The door, and especially the window, were very hard to come by in this outfit. As a matter of fact, doors disappeared, and cubicals were relocated to darker and smaller quarters for those who chose to cross blades with the boss.
Max's door was still there, so was the window. Unfortunately, the mountainous jumble of work was also still there. It seemed to have undergone some sort of self-regeneration over the past week and was now twice as big since leaving last Friday night. Right on top of the stack, like a cherry on a sundae, was one of those 'While you were out' messages. This one, from the boss's secretary, looked particularly ominous as it commanded Max to make an appearance ASAP; NLT SOB! Mon. AM. (translation: as soon as possible, no later than start of business Monday morning).
"Sit down, Max. Shut the door."
Uh-Oh! thought Max. Here it comes and there goes my door.
"Max, my boy--" His boss was either putting off an unpleasant duty as long as possible, or relishing in the discomfort that Max was experiencing. "Max, they want to see you down in I.A. Some sort of interview. Probably just routine."
"Just routine! You've gotta be kiddin'. I've seen what happens to the saps that end up in routine interviews with Internal Affairs. I mean I don't know what happens to them. I've never seen them again afterwards. They just disappear, and it's not just a missing door or getting shuffled off to a shitty office. It's no more name on the wall, no phone number in the directory, no stencil on a parking bumper. In short, no thanks, Boss. Gimme a break, will ya? What did I ever do to you, anyway?"
"Max, Max, Max. Now just take a breather. I just heard about this myself. We've had no input to or from I.A. at all. You know that we look out for our own here in the Coroner's Office."
Little beads of perspiration formed on Wilton's round dome of a forehead. The beads grew and fused, forming droplets, and moved ever so slowly down over the bridge of his reddening nose. Three or four droplets gathered at the tip of his nose until critical mass was achieved and the salty globule splashed onto his clip-on bow tie.
The more that Wilton tried to calm Max down, the more agitated he became, himself. He reminded Max of how much he was appreciated, how much he was needed etc.. This was Max's cue to strike back.
"Then why did my last raise and promotion die on the vine? Huh? I mean, if I'm so important and valuable, where's the rub?"
Wilton sputtered out the slippery brown cigar butt from his frothing lips. The stogie did a perfect one and a half gainer into a styrofoam cup of hot coffee, followed by his pince-nez spectacles that were always threatening to spring off his nose into parts unknown. Making a futile grab at the specs, his stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick but otherwise perfectly manicured, whacked into the coffee. A scalding torrent rushed over the desk and into Wilton's lap, nicely complimenting a stain from the morning's jelly donut droppings.
Max smirked as he grunted out a chuckle and popped out of Wilton's office, just in time to dodge the ballistic arc of a scotch tape dispenser lobbed out into the hallway.
"He's on his way." Both security guards heard Wilton's voice buzz from their handy-talkies.
On the stark battleship-grey steel table was a small cassette tape recorder with a round, donut-sized remote microphone resting directly in front of Max. One of the 'interviewers' sat in a similarly painted chair pulled up on the other side of the table. The other guy...well, not technically a 'guy', stood stone-cold stiff against the far wall. This other 'guy' was a puckered-up prune of a bitch wearing the same cheap, ill-fitting suit that appeared to be de-rigueur for the I.A. staff. Max had dealt with both of these clowns on several previous occasions. The first time was during the initial interview/hiring process for his current job with the Coroner's Office. They seemed human enough at the time. Even (or perhaps especially) the prune queen. The two of them were there to help explain and complete the personal security questionnaire (PSQ). The multi-paged legal size form asked questions regarding past employers, previous encounters with he law, personal references, previous addresses, political and philosophical inclinations. Particular emphasis was placed on the use of so-called 'controlled substances'. The prune quizzed Max on his sexual preferences, marital status, and social activities. Perhaps that was where he got the idea that the prune might be someone that he should get to know a little bit better. After all, she didn't have a wedding ring, and he was positively fascinated the way her pupils would dilate and contract as the sexual preference and general social activities topics were bantered about. Max was moderately truthful in regards to his past, and sometimes present, experiences. He freely admitted that he had used marijuana and cocaine in years past. He pleaded that his use was merely 'recreational investigation' during his college days. When quizzed about his current status as a user of illegal drugs, he made an attempt at his best facade of innocence, if not downright insult, at such a question. At the time, any and all of the questions and formality seemed very routine and of no consequence. Today, however, the atmosphere and demeanor of the prune and her sidekick was much much different.
"Now, Mr. Beemer, tell us a little about your acquaintance with a Mr. Manfred Gustafson."
"Sorry, never heard of him"
"Mr. Beemer, Ridpath, we happen to--"
"Max! The name is Max."
"Mr. Beemer, Max, perhaps you didn't hear me correctly." The prune was still stuck up against the wall, while the junior dick was beginning to get agitated. "The name is Manfred P. Gustafson. Tell us about your relationship with him."
It was getting close to lunch time, and Max had to take a piss. He hadn't had a smoke in nearly two hours. "Look, asshole, I'm getting tired of this shit and like I just told you, I've never heard of the guy." Max pulled out the Camel from behind his ear.
"Aw, to hell with it!" He lit up.
"Mr. Beemer!" the prune finally spoke. "This is a non-smoking government facility!"
"For crying out loud, Shelly, don't get your tit in a wringer. What are you gonna do to me anyway, give me the bright light treatment? Bamboo under the fingernails or what?" Max blasted a lung full, not at the prune but at the seated dick.
Speaking of tits, Max took in an eye full of Shelly. From past experience he knew that the fine specimens adorning his tormentor were of the store-bought variety, but what the hell, they were a fine pair. Shelly jerked her hands from her hips and re-arranged her jacket so as to obscure his view. Max concealed his smirk with a deep drag on the Camel and stubbed out the butt in the dick's coffee.
"Max," the prune implored. "Be nice, give the kid a break. We're trying to make this as painless as possible. Now how about some cooperation? About Gustafson, perhaps I can stimulate your memory a bit."
He chuckled under his breath at Shelly's remark about 'the kid'. The dick (aka kid) had just shrunk-down a couple of notches and did indeed look to be only about 21 years old. The little nerd was obviously crushed, staring morosely at the Camel butt in his java. Max was also thinking about Shelly's attempt at stimulation. The last time that she had attempted to stimulate Max, it was not with a dossier on Manfred P. Gustafson, but it was with those ersatz knockers. Max was beginning to wonder if there still might be some promise in continuing the interview with Shelly in a more amenable venue.
"Manfred Plosti Gustafson, born December 31st 1944, Lakehurst, New Jersey. Small time con-man, forger, bookmaker, drug dealer, etc. etc. etc.. Currently under investigation by the D.A. in connection with a number of strong-arm loan collections and clandestine drug production, specifically crystal methadrine. Gustafson has also been known to use several aliases. To wit: Peter Gordon, Fred Gustafson, Manny Gordon--"
"Manny? Hold it! Wait a minute. Why didn't you tell me it was Manny in the first place?" She had finally gotten Max's attention. "Yeah, I know Professor Gordon. He's doing some endocranial research work at the University."
Even the kid perked up a little at the stimulation of Max's memory. "Good, Mr. Beemer, good, now were getting somewhere."
"The D.A.'s office is interested in contacting this Gustafson, or Manny as you know him. For your information, I seriously doubt that Gustafson has anything to do with any university. This man is a convicted felon, and has a very long history with this department. There is nothing on his sheet even vaguely resembling higher education, let alone steady full-time employment."
Now this is starting to get interesting, maybe even make a little sense. Max thought. No wonder Manny has been so nervous lately. He was now picturing Professor Gustafson in a completely different light.
"There has been a lot of drug activity on the streets the past few months, particularly violent activity. Two known crystal methadrine producers have been engaged in a turf war that has degenerated to the point of open warfare. The very idea of these scum killing each other off and fire-bombing each other's labs is not at all unwelcome. Unfortunately, the press is eating us alive. You know the routine, gangland murderers running rampant, putting the good taxpayers in jeopardy, blah-blah-blah. We have reason to believe that Mr. Gustafson, Manny, may be able to provide incriminating information that could be valuable in putting at least one, if not both of these actors on ice indefinitely. Of course, the bad guys know this too. There's the rub. Not only is the D.A. itching to get his hands on him, but the Mob wants him out of circulation in the worst way."
"So? What's this all got to do with me? I barely even know the guy."
The kid spoke up again. "Mr. Beemer, since you became an employee of the city, specifically in your capacity as a technician in the Coroner's office, you have also come under the scrutiny of the District Attorney. The D.A.'s office is concerned that a city employee, like yourself, may not have the city's best interest at heart if you are freely fraternizing with known criminals. We believe that it is best--"
"Now hold on a minute, junior! I don't know what the hell you're driving at, but the both of you are way off base here! And besides, as of--"
"As I was saying, Mr. Beemer, in light of the fact that confidential sources have indicated that you have not only been in contact with Mr. Gustafson, but may be involved in his activities. The specifics of that involvement, and the type of any such activities is why we have called you here today. Unfortunately, it is becoming painfully obvious that obtaining your voluntary cooperation in this investigation may be long in coming. Therefore, at this juncture, the department believes that it will be in the best interest to both parties if you are put on administrative suspension until the specifics of your involvement, if any, can be clarified. Therefore, I have no choice but --"
"Hey! Fuck you, asshole. And the horse you rode in on! As far as I'm concerned, I think that it's in my best interest if I take this fucking tape recorder and cram it up your rosy-red ass! I'm sick of all this crap. You can take your administrative suspension and shove it, too! As of right now, I'm on vacation, so you can't do a damn thing to me until I get back. Shelly, you can tell old-man Oxford that I'm heading for the hills. I'm outta here."
"Hello?"
"Manny? Is that you?"
"Who's this?"
"Manny, it's me, Max. Can you talk?"
"Oh, hi, Max, how ya doin? Yeah, I can talk, but I don't really want to, especially on this phone. Hows about I meet you down at DeLiso's in 20 minutes? It's close enough to lunch for me and I can sure as hell use a drink."
"Okay, 'Manfred', or whatever the hell your name is. Be there."
Max slammed down the receiver. He was still pissed at the treatment that he had gotten from I.A.. Now he was starting to get a little worried.
Ninety minutes and three straight shots of Jim Beam later, Manny sidled up next to Max at the antique carved wooden bar. Max looked straight ahead at Manny's reflection in the mirror above the back bar. "Where the hell you been?"
Manny waved at the bartender, pointed at Max's empty shot glass, and held up two fingers. The bartender picked up the empty glasses, wiped down the bar in front of Max, and poured two whiskeys. Manny belted his down and asked for another with a water back. Max ordered a red beer chaser. Manny looked over his shoulder and scanned the restaurant. There was one elderly couple, quietly eating manicotti and hallah bread, seated at a small corner table with a red white checkerboard tablecloth.
"Who ya been talkin' to, the cops?" Manny whispered sheepishly, staring into his shot glass as the bartender refilled it. "Or maybe Little Ed?"
"Why don't you just start with the truth, Manny. You don't mind if I call you Manny, do you? You jerk. And no, I haven't been talking to the cops, technically." Max snapped his fingers at the bartender. "My 'friend' here wants to buy me another drink."
"If it ain't the cops, or Little Ed, who told you--"
"Internal Affairs down at headquarters. Goddamn it, Manny! They had me down there all morning grilling me about my extra-curricular activities. They said that you were involved in some drug shit. They said you're connected with a bunch of murdered dope pushers, probably the same slate of stiffs that I've been carving up on overtime for the past month. Manny, they want to put me on administrative suspension until they satisfy their little pea-brains that you and me aren't an item. Who the hell is Little Ed, anyway?"
Manny stared vacantly into his glass. He rocked the fluted jigger back and forth, around and around, so that the puddle of scotch swirled and climbed up the sides. Legs of liquor trickled back to the bottom, held in abayance by rising alcohol vapors. He swiped an index finger around the inside. He licked off his finger and tossed back the remaining booze down his throat, visibly shuddering like someone had just stepped on his grave. He could feel Max's stare burning a hole into his forehead.
Max drummed his fingers on the bar. "Goddamn it, Manny, have you been talking to the Prune? Shit, I know you have."
"Prune?"
"Cut the shit, Manny!" Max slammed down his glass. Manny jumped. "You know who I mean. Talbert. Shelly Talbert. You're all she could talk about, Manny. What ever you've got goin' has got her all jazzed. That's for damn sure."
"It's Little Ed. He came lookin' for me last week. I've been kinda late in my payments. If I didn't come up with two yards, he was gonna start breaking my balls."
Manny sucked in a breath so deep and so long that Max thought he might pass out.
"I didn't have it," he continued. "I gave him something in trade to get him off my back. I didn't know that Talbert was involved, but even if she wasn't before, she is now. The day after I gave him the sample, Talbert had a couple of flatfoots pick me up. I wasn't too worried at first. But we didn't go downtown. They drove me around on the south side for about an hour. One of 'em had a beeper. When it went off, he stopped at a phone booth and made a call. Next thing I know is I'm in some rotten-ass warehouse spillin' my guts to Talbert."
Manny looked scared. Max could almost smell it.
"Max, I told 'em about you--"
"Whaddya mean, you told them about me? Manny what the hell is there to tell?"
"Oh God, Max, I'm sorry," Manny whimpered. "I told 'em that you were my connection. Without you I couldn't get any more...merchandise. I was afraid that they'd off me right there until I told 'em that you were in the dark. You were only the source of raw materials."
Manny jerked his head back to the bartender and waved for a refill.
"Jesus H. Christ, Max! They can't put you on suspension. I need you! God All Mighty, Max, they're gonna kill me if you...er, I don't come through!"
"What the hell are you talkin' about? Jesus, Manny, get a grip! I know that your are not any kind of a professor, and sure as hell you aren't working at the University. And I want to know just what in the hell you've been doing with all of those tissue samples that I've been giving to you. Samples taken from, it seems to appear, corpses delivered to me courtesy of you and your scum-bastard friends! Oh, yeah, for the last time, who the hell is Little Ed?"
"He's one of them, Max. You can thank Little Ed for most of the deliveries to the morgue suffering from blunt instrument trauma."
"Good God, Manny, I wasn't serious!"
"Well, I am, and so is Little Ed. He was workin' for one of those south-side bad boys. Now he works for Talbert." Rivers of sweat were starting to run down Manny's fat red face like varicose veins on an old woman's leg. "A regular no-neck leg breaker, and I'm gonna be his next customer if you get fired."
"I'm not getting fired, Manny. As a matter of fact, as of right now, I'm on vacation. So, right now, spill it! Tell me what the hell is going on!"
Manny related his current predicament to Max. He had gotten into the loan sharks and the meth lab operators for several thousand dollars and was working his way out of very serious trouble as a collector/enforcer of petty debts. He had convinced his handlers that he had access to a large supply of a virtually unknown, and very powerful, super-drug. After providing a few very potent samples, unwittingly provided by Max, he was fronted even more money. Manny was supposedly using the funds to develop a continuous supply that would make them all rich. It was a promise that he was unable to keep, and a supply that he was unable to secure. Without Max and his access to the county morgue, even the small and infrequent samples were beyond Manny's power to produce.
"Okay, Manny, lay low for the next few days. I'll see what I can do to get I.A. off my ass. I'll call you next week from the lab."