Free Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? by Stephen Dobyns Page A

remember something.”
    â€œMaybe. He may have been talking to a young guy with a tan, like he was the only person on the street with a tan. They drove off in his car, a little blue thing.”
    â€œSo they’re in it together,” says Manny.
    â€œAnd maybe they’ve got nothing to do with it. Maybe you’re rushing things. Can I get back to my dinner now?”
    Manny shuffles his feet and gives Mrs. Vikström an apologetic look. “We need to talk to Fat Bob’s widow, and we need a picture.”
    Vikström has sat down and was just lifting his fork, which is now suspended in midair. “You kiddin’ me? That was supposed to have been done this afternoon.”
    He gets up again. He knows that Manny has put off this final bit of information for the moment when Vikström felt he could again sit down.
    â€œPhelps and Joanie were supposed to do it, but they got called off to a drug bust. You’d better get your coat. Temperature’s dropping.”
    Vikström makes a point of never swearing in front of his wife. As a result he’s tongue-tied.
    Manny looks sympathetic. If we have crocodile tears, we should also have “crocodile sympathy”—a wincing, squinched expression suggesting emotional pain. “Sorry to mess up your dinner,” says Manny. “Maybe we can grab a burger. G’night, Mrs. Vikström.”
    Manny pushes open the storm door as Vikström grabs his coat; then Vikström has to catch the door as it swings back and nearly hits him. He hurries out to Manny’s Subaru Forester parked at the curb. Manny prefers the Subaru to the Detective Bureau’s dark blue, unmarked Impala, saying that the Forester’s 2.0XT Touring model “has got big teeth,” meaning it does a good job of gripping the road. This is pure vanity on Manny’s part, but at least he’s had the Subaru equipped with a police radio at his own cost.
    As Vikström gets in, the Subaru starts to move.
    â€œHey!” he calls.
    â€œSorry, sorry.”
    But Vikström knows he isn’t sorry; it’s just that tonight’s steady flow of passive-aggressive behavior seems less passive than at other times. He also knows it goes back to that damn karaoke box. What can Vikström do at this late stage? There’s no point in saying sorry, no point in asking to be invited to the next musical evening; he can’t even shout, “Sing to me, sing to me!” It’s too late for that.
    Sometimes two weeks will go by when Manny’s passive-aggressiveness slips back to dormant aggressiveness. Then it begins again. Vikström doesn’t know why.
Was it something I said?
he wonders. So Vikström remains on alert, which is tiring. Two months back, around New Year’s, Vikström had been hearty and chummy and willing to let bygones be bygones, but Manny had seen through it. There’d been a mocking grin, a sarcastic snippet. “Who says you get off so easy?” Manny had asked.
    Now Vikström contents himself with brief displays of long-suffering patience. He sighs a lot.

SIX
    I t’s nearly eight, and Vasco had promised to meet him at seven, but Connor expected that—when had his brother ever been on time? Connor sits on a stool at the Scorpion Bar at Foxwoods, nursing a Corona and bypassing the many kinds of tequila and tequila drinks as he surveys the assortment of glitter with a south-of-the-border motif. The skulls on display at the entrance must belong to former customers. More skulls dot the walls around the room, as well as gaudy silver crosses. Behind the bar in a large glass box, a six-foot rattlesnake slithers back and forth. The music is loud, and Connor’s been told the go-go girls get busy at ten o’clock. The bar is one of those places meant to be an event by itself: the people sit quietly, while the bar, with its decor, flashing lights, and constant music, enacts the party. It saves people