Free Old School by Daniel B. O'Shea

bodies because we weren’t doing DNA yet, and there’s no way in hell we’re going to try to get exhumation orders just because you’ve got a bug up your ass. Funeral homes would have cleaned the kids up anyway. We got no prints. In short, we got no real way to tie this guy in even if you get anything that starts making sense, which right now you don’t. Chief doesn’t want to touch it because it will look like he decided to turn some poor old fuck’s life inside out just on account of some old cop friend called in a marker. DA doesn’t want to touch it ‘cause this Novak’s got Alzheimer’s and couldn’t stand trial even if they had a case, which they don’t. Which you don’t. So you get no rhythm on this, Lou. And if you get out of line, then we are gonna slap your ass down hard. Nobody wants that.”
    McBride got up, headed for the door.
    “Nice suit, by the way,” said DeGatano.
    McBride turned. “What?”
    “Your suit. It’s nice. I mean I always went with that off the rack shit from Sears, navy blue every time, on account of I ripped the knees out of the pants or get some blood on anything, it was all mix and match. But what you got there, that’s nice.”
    McBride shrugged. “Wife pick’s ‘em out. Brooks Brothers mostly. You’re gonna be a player, you gotta wear the uniform.”
    “So I guess when you got off the street and joined the suits, you joined all the way.”
    McBride stood there, looking at DeGatano.
    “You’re still an asshole, Lou. You might be a fucked up old man wasting his last days chasing ghosts, but you haven’t lost a step in the asshole department.”
     
     
    ***
     
     
    Tuesday. Visiting day for Gladys. Kid was in his Cub Scout uniform again, but Novak wasn’t having a good day. Still, he seemed to be kind of tracking the kid, always seemed to be facing him. But Novak’s eyes were vacant, his face slack.
    DeGatano reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of cord maybe four feet long. He’d cut it off the blinds in his room the night before. Maintenance would be up his ass if they ever noticed, which they wouldn’t. When Novak turned his chair toward him, DeGatano tossed the cord into Novak’s lap. Novak didn’t seem to notice, just kept tracking the kid around the room.
    The girl was playing checkers with Gladys. Hank wandered over, stood watching. The girl kept looking up at him, like she expected him to bite her or something.
    “We’re playing checkers, Hank,” Gladys said.
    “Playing peckers playing peckers playing peckers . . .”
    DeGatano caught Novak’s hands moving out of the corner of his eye. He looked over. The cord lay across Novak’s lap, tied in a perfect sheepshank.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    T-Bone sat in DeGatano’s recliner, had the Sox game on, giving DeGatano shit about the Cubs.
    “It’s a spiritual discipline, kid,” DeGatano said. “You don’t get it.”
    T-Bone was his grandson, Tony Jr. Called himself T-Bone, dressed in those baggy-ass hip-hop clothes, did pretty much anything to get a rise out of his old man. Kid was kind of an asshole too, so him and DeGatano, they hit it off. Mostly, the kid came by ‘cause he could sit in Lou’s room, watch a game without his Dad getting on his ass about anything. Also he could hit Lou up for some cash now and then, Lou usually coughing it up ‘cause it felt nice to have the kid around some. Fuckin’ kid even calling him Lou, DeGatano trying to imagine the beat down his old man would have given him if he ever went and called his grandpa by his first name.
    “So, you got prom and stuff comin’ up?” DeGatano asked.
    Kid gave one of his lame half-shrugs. “I dunno. Dad, he still thinks it’s like the 80s, you know? I mean these guys and me, we were gonna get a limo, all that shit, and I try to hit Dad up for a little cash, make that work, and he’s like ‘You don’t need a limo. You can borrow the Buick.’ And I’m supposed to what, pick up some chic in the damn Buick ,