"Gary Lovisi - Finders Keepers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lovisi Gary)

Finders Keepers

An original Griff and Fats story

By

Gary Lovisi



I said to Fats, "You know, Fat man, we got another call coming in over the box. ItТs on the edge of Blacktown."

He only nodded. He knew it would be trouble.

ThatТs the way it was back in the bad old days of 1962 in a town IТll call Bay City. Even today, years later, I donТt feel right Ц or safe Ц using real names in all this stuff IТm telling you. But thatТs the way it was in those days, being a cop, doing what we had to do to hold the line. Even then the slime was taking over, doing their damnedest to bust us down, destroy law and order, twist justice, kill cops. To get away with all kinds of crime so that they could just do it all again the very next day!

I was being much too thinkful. Fats had a thing against too much "thinkfullness," as he called it. Fats said I did that too much. He was right, of course. Fats was always right. Fats hardly ever did any heavy thinking, hardly ever talked, but when he did, it always meant something important. ThatТs the man I was partnered with back then. Sergeant Herman Stubbs, 290 pounds of blubber with an attitude. IТm Lieutenant Bill Griffin, one of the lone survivors from the old days, still left alive and telling our stories.

"Hey Griff?" Fats asked, interrupting my mental meandering with his mouth full of Crackerjacks. He was driving, but every so often heТd upend the box and pour a glob of caramel coated popcorn glop down his gullet. Then crunch it into oblivion.

"Yeah, Fats?" I said, watching as we flew by all the hookers on Dumont Avenue.

"You know what I think?" he said, sorta thoughtful. Fats never got that way unless he had something on his mind. Which wasnТt often.

"I donТt know, Fats. IТm kinda afraid to ask." I said, and meant it.

Fats just laughed as if to say, "You should be."

If you knew Fats thatТs just the way he was. But he only smiled at me and added, "What I figure isЕ I think weТre about due. AinТt we, Griff?"

It had been weeks. Things going along smooth on the job. Kinda normal. At least for Bay City. No major problems. I knew what Fats meant. It was about time. We were due for another dose of some major-league weird, or some super sick crap, or any of the other stuff that gets thrust upon you in this job from time to time.

"Fact is, Griff, I think weТre kinda overdue, so we may be in for some extremely super weird crap. What do you think?"

I grunted. He had a point, on that big fat head of his.

Fats grunted back, smiled. Knocked off the box of Cracker Jacks, opened another, and headed our Plymouth out to Livonia Avenue. We got the call there was a body laying in a yard waiting for us to give it the once over.

When we got to 426 Livonia Avenue Ц sure as the СSquare Mile of ViceТ is the real center and heart of this hell town Ц there was supposed to be a manТs body laying out on the lawn. What we saw was a white guy, mid-thirties, working-class clothes, and not very dead at all. He was wearing bracelets and very much alive and sitting calmly on the porch of #426.

"No one I know," I said to Fats as we walked over to the guy. He was with two of our uniform guys, our buddy Smitty, and his rookie partner, Billy Ryan.

"So whatТs up?" Fats asked, now on his third box of Cracker Jacks with the end hardly in sight.

Smitty gave us the nod, indicated the man in handcuffs on the porch. "ThatТs Mr. Arnold Kroptic, who lives here. We were called to investigate sounds of gunfire."

I nodded. Fats burped, meaningfully.

Smitty then produced a .32 handgun wrapped in a handkerchief, said, "The gun Kroptic used to shoot and kill John Strossen."