Free Ting-A-Ling by Mike Faricy

just what I’m worried about. Manning’s on some case, any case and the first thing he thinks of is ‘how can he pin whatever happened on me?’ ”
    “A little paranoid, are we?”
    “You know the history.”
    “I know you’ve never been convicted of something you didn’t do.”
    “That doesn’t really make me feel any better.”
    “Which is something you should take up with Detective Manning. Sorry, I can’t help. Anything else?”
    “Well, yeah, now that you mention it, I...”
    “Nice to talk with you, Dev,” he said, then hung up. I didn’t think it would help to call back and suggest we’d been disconnected.
     
    Chapter Nineteen
     
    I was stylishly late to my meeting with Detective Manning. The truth was, I didn’t want to face Manning alone and I’d been trying to get hold of Louie, but I hadn’t been able to reach him. I figured he was either still in court or drinking in some sleazy, tawdry dive and I wished I was with him. It was almost three-forty-five before I made it into the police station and announced myself to the Desk Sergeant.
    “Oh yeah, Haskell, I thought that was you coming in. Yeah, Manning’s called down a couple of times to see if you even bothered to show up. You know how he gets. Let me just buzz him and let him know you finally decided to pull the thumb out of your ass.”
    “Yeah, Detective Manning. Sergeant Gennaro. Yes, sir. Just now. I see. Well, I think that might be a little inappropriate, sir,” he said then glanced over and chuckled.
    “I could come back at another time,” I said, nodding and trying to appear helpful.
    Gennaro shook his head and sort of waved me off. “That would be best, Detective. You will? Okay, we’ll wait down here. Yes, not a problem. Thank you, sir.”
    As Gennaro hung up the phone he shook his head again and mumbled, “Oh, boy.” Then he looked at me, smiled sweetly and pointed to a line of orange plastic chairs pushed up against the far wall. The wall was covered with a large black and white mural of the St. Paul Police Force taken in about 1890. About thirty really rough looking guys and two horse drawn paddy wagons. “Just have a seat over there. Someone will be here to escort you up in a few minutes, Mr. Haskell.”
    Apparently, we had different perceptions of the term, ‘a few minutes’ .
    As I waited I was entertained by a cast of characters. There was a skinny woman with sky blue hair wearing hot pants, seamed stockings and sporting what looked like a fresh black eye wishing to report an assault.
    Some drunken guy with his hands cuffed behind his back and a large officer on either arm entered the lobby, singing, “I’ve got friends in low places. I’ve got friends in low places, I’ve got...”
    A neurotic, middle-aged woman in a full length fur coat and holding a small white dog wearing a matching fur coat wanted to report an accident that ‘certainly wasn’t her fault’ .
    A police officer carrying a large box of what sounded like live chickens walked up to the counter, shook the box and shouted at Gennaro, “Dinner is served.”
    It was a few minutes after the second time I’d approached the counter and asked, “Do you think he forgot about me?” that a heavy set guy wearing a light colored sport coat and in need of a shave walked into the lobby.
    “Mr. Haskell,” he called out, like he was searching the crowd for me. I was the only one other than Sergeant Gennaro sitting in the lobby. I sort of nodded and signaled with my index finger as I stood up.
    He nodded back at me then walked over to a security door, punched in a code and waited for me to catch up. On the ride up in the elevator he didn’t say anything. I think he was trying to rub the sleep from his eyes, running his large hands up and down over his red face and sighing a couple of times. I could hear a bristling sound as his hands ran over his unshaved face.
    Just before the elevator doors opened he took a deep breath, and then assumed a stance like