Free Ten Little New Yorkers by Kinky Friedman Page A

How the hell did I know? Anyway, I never saw it there. Then I left for Texas. That was my story and I was sticking to it.
    â€œHey, Tex,” said a familiar voice. “Come on in. Didn’t realize you’d been waiting in the green room so long. Sorry ’bout that. Been a ball-dragger of a day and it hasn’t even started yet.”
    The voice and, of course, the vessel that housed it belonged to none other than Detective Sergeant Buddy Fox, a man not often known for being this positively chatty. His tone and demeanor were friendly, conversational, almost breezy, a far cry from Cooperman’s blunt, bullying, doom-and-gloom telephone technique. Was an incipient case of good cop–bad cop already taking form? Why bother with such a charade for a guy like me? I wondered. Hell, I wasn’t even a person of interest yet. Or was I?
    â€œThanks for coming back so fast, Tex,” said Fox, as he led me down a long, cramped corridor and ushered me into a small, drab room, the only other occupants of which appeared to be filing cabinets. “Myself, I’ve wanted to go on a vacation ever since the day I first put on a badge. I try like hell, but I can’t get away. Know why, Tex?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause the poor miserable bastards that make up the human race keep on killing each other. They’re probably doing it just to keep me from taking the family to Sea World. I haven’t had a vacation in thirty years. Kids are all grown up. Don’t even want to go to Sea World. I’m the only one who wants to go to Sea World. But the bastards keep killing each other.”
    â€œThat’s tough.”
    â€œGo ahead and smoke, Tex, if you like. I’m going to. If we can’t kill somebody else we might as well kill ourselves. Right?”
    â€œRight,” I said. I pulled out a cigar and lopped the butt off. Before I could light it, Fox, like some thoughtful waiter, fired up his Zippo and did the honors for me. Then he lit his cigarette. Fox inhaled, then exhaled extravagantly—and rather sadly, I thought, as if he were losing the smoke of life.
    â€œMort’ll be here in a minute,” said Fox lightly. “Go easy on him, Tex. He’s pretty grumpy today.”
    â€œMaybe he needs a trip to Sea World.”
    â€œMaybe,” said Fox. He didn’t say anything else for a while. He just looked straight ahead, as if attempting to establish eye contact with a nearby filing cabinet.
    The little room seemed to noticeably darken when Cooperman finally made his entrance. He carried with him the now-several-days-old Daily News opened to McGovern’s story with the bold headline “Twenty-four Hours to Die.” He tossed the paper to me and hoisted his large body onto a desk.
    â€œRead it,” was all he said.
    I pored over the piece dutifully. There was a photo of Scalopini that seemed to vaguely resemble one of the three wise men McGovern had dragged to my loft, but I really couldn’t be sure. He’d apparently not been a model citizen. He’d done some time more than twenty years ago on sexual assault charges involving a young girl. Since getting out of prison eight years ago, he’d worked on and off as a bouncer, a shoe salesman, and a limo driver. He’d been married and divorced twice. And, of course, on the last night of his life, he’d stopped by to pay a social visit to Kinky Friedman’s loft. There wasn’t much else to it. There didn’t have to be.
    â€œIs that the guy?” growled Cooperman. “Guy who came to your party?”
    â€œIt wasn’t a party. I didn’t—”
    â€œIs that the guy?”
    â€œI think it’s him. I can’t really be sure.”
    â€œYou think it’s him. What else do you think? ”
    â€œNot too much,” I said, looking doubtfully down at the guy’s picture in the paper.
    Suddenly, something struck me in the chest, startling me out of