Free Onion Street by Reed Farrel Coleman

wasn’t sure how I’d gotten there, what streets I’d taken, or if I’d bothered stopping at red lights. The drive over wasn’t just a blur; it wasn’t even a memory. I was there, then I was here. In that time, however much time it was, I don’t believe I’d had one clear thought pass through my brain. It was so bizarre because when I was standing there in front of the body, I’d been pretty calm. Then, in the next second, my calm had begun to unravel. Now, I was a total mess.
    In the darkened front seat of the car, I couldn’t get warm. I was cold from the marrow out, and the Tempest’s heater was as useless to me as corners to a bowling ball. I took my hands off the steering wheel and watched them shake. I was helpless to do anything about it. The harder I tried willing them to stop, the harder they shook. Compared to what was going on inside me, my shaking hands were the least of it. Nevertheless, shock and shaking hands weren’t going to stand up in court as reasons for not calling the cops. Sure, the only things I knew about police work I’d learned from
Mannix
and
The Mod Squad
— which I watched because I thought Peggy Lipton was hot — but you didn’t have to be J. Edgar Hoover to understand that I was obstructing justice by not telling the cops I’d found a corpse, one that had met a pretty violent end. And that when I’d wiped away my fingerprints, I’d probably wiped away others as well.
    To distract myself, I listened to Cousin Brucie on the radio. When I was a little kid, I loved his goofiness. Lately, he drove me nuts. In all fairness, it wasn’t only his endless talking over the music that made me crazy. I mean, I liked the Monkees as much as the next guy, but how many times can you stand to listen to “I’m a Believer” in the course of a day before sticking needles in your eyes? I found myself daydreaming about a radio station where DJs talked in human voices, played songs from your favorite albums that weren’t hits, and spun long songs that didn’t get butchered down to three minutes. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. I might as well have hoped for wireless telephones or good-tasting American beer. Dream on. After a few minutes, I noticed my hands were no longer shaking and that I could actually put two reasonable thoughts together about something other than AM radio together without freaking out.
    That’s when it hit me: What the fuck had Bobby been doing at 1055 Coney Island Avenue to begin with, and why did he have keys to the place? I’d been so caught up in what was happening that the illogic of his presence hadn’t registered. There was a split second, I think, when I first spotted Bobby’s car that I wondered about what he was doing there, but then what followed overwhelmed the question. I guess dead bodies have that effect on me.
    Okay, I was pretty confident that Bobby, no matter what he was doing there, hadn’t killed the guy. For one thing, Bobby wasn’t up there long enough to have struggled with him. Besides, the bedroom window faced Coney Island Avenue, and as I was watching the upstairs windows from across the street, I would have seen a struggle. And though the apartment was pretty much a mess, there were no signs of a struggle: no broken furniture, no cracked plaster, nothing like that. And the body was ripe. My lack of a medical education notwithstanding, even I knew it would take at least a few days for the body to get that way. Still, none of that explained away Bobby’s being there and having keys to the place.
    Then, a sick, niggling thought wormed its way into my brain: What if Bobby wasn’t just going there, but going
back
there? I only had one connection, Lids, and he’d found someone to supply the address to me in less than twenty-four hours. Bobby had a million connections, and he always had money. So it was easy to see that if he wanted an address, Bobby would get it. If he got the address and found the guy who’d attacked Mindy hiding