Free Big Numbers by Jack Getze Page A

shivering in the rear of Detective Jim Mallory’s city-sponsored four-door Ford Crown Victoria. Fog shrouds a blinking red train crossing as we approach. Our tires squeal to a halt. The wooden gate drops inches from our headlights. Clanging bells poke my ears, and in the distance, the engineer blows his discordant horns.
    Not sure whether to blame my shivering and shaking on another sudden shift in New Jersey’s weather or the anticipation of additional calamities. Mallory and the Eagle Scout are driving me to Luis’s Mexican Grill for unexplained reasons, and I’ve got a nasty chill worrying what we might find.
    A misty drizzle keeps the wipers busy thumping across the windshield. Those hurricane remnants and warm humid air have given way to a storm front out of the Great Lakes. Much lower temperatures. In the closed Ford, I smell leather, gun oil, and from the back seat’s stained ru g, a feint stench of dried vomit.
    A crime’s been committed at Luis’s, I was told. A bad one, I’m guessing. Across the tracks, throug h the glare of the flashing crossing lights, I can see into the restaurant’s parking lot. Three squad cars, half a dozen cops, and a circle of yellow tape surround a lump on the asphalt. The lump’s covered by a blue tarp.
    The train arrives, shutting off my view. The yellow tape and blue tarp stay bright in my head. Neon color in a wet drab world.
    “Somebody dead?” I ask.
    Neither detective speaks. They keep looking straight ahead. Ignoring me.
    “Come on, tell me,” I say. “Or I’m not saying another word until I see a lawyer.” Hey, I watch all the good cop shows. If everyone exercised their right to be silent, our prisons would be empty.
    Mallory sighs. “Someone who works at the restaurant has been shot. A Hispanic male.”
    The train passes, the gate lifts, and we pull across the railroad tracks into Luis’s parking lot. My heart’s skipping rope, jogging and jumping at the same time. There’s a double-granny knot in my stomach. Did Branchtown Blackie’s friend take another, better aimed shot at my favorite bartender?
    When we pull up, the Eagle Scout jumps out and yanks me from the Crown Victoria. None too gentle. Mallory’s partner is stronger than he looks. The little dick.
    The drizzling fog tastes like fish. The Catch of Yesterday.
    I try walking toward the tarp, thinking they want me to have a peek at the body, but Mallory grabs my arm. “This way, pal.”
    Mallory’s tug pulls me off balance. Stumbling backward, my ex-favorite T-ball coaching partner slams me against a squad car. Whoa. What’s the hell’s going on?
    Mallory’s Crown Victoria blinks high beams on me. My hand jumps up to cover my eyes.
    Somewhere in the darkness, a cop says, “Put your hand down, asshole.”
    I comply, but can’t help squinting at the Crown Victoria’s brights. My eyes sting with the glare.
    “Stop making faces,” the same cop -voice says.
    Finally it dawns on me. I’m in a one-man line-up, scoped out by someone behind those lights. Am I a murder suspect? Oh Lord, I hope that dead body isn’t Luis.
    “That’s him,” a whiskey voice says. “That’s the guy what lives in the camper.”
    Sweet Jesus. The uniformed cop who called me an asshole and Eagle Scout tug me over to Mallory’s Crown Victoria and stuff me in the back seat. I missed the smells.
    Mallory’s grinning when he sticks his head inside to talk. “We have a witness says you were fighting with the victim. Lots of shouting, cursing.”
    My skin turns clammy, my breathing shallow. Oh, please, not Luis. “Who’s the victim?”
    “You wanna take a look?” Mallory says. “I mean, if you admit hanging out here a lot. Knowing everyone.”
    Mallory walks me over. My legs are wobbly. Trickles of sweat run down my flanks. The foggy air closes in on me like heavy snow.
    The Branchtown detective waves , and one of the uniformed cops pulls back the blue tarp. Another train’s coming. I hear the clanging bells. The