“Hey Duff,” Sam said. “Did you hear why the new Polish navy got a glass-bottom boat?”
“Again with the nautical theme, Sam?”
He didn’t even pause.
“So they can see the old Polish navy.”
“Good one, asshole,” I muttered. I was a bit hungover, which surprised me because I hadn’t drank all that much. It might have been the mixing of bourbon and Schlitz, though that didn’t seem to bother me much in the past.
I was dredging through the paperwork and trying to get done with the tortuous Aberman file. In a session a couple of months ago Mrs. Aberman was complaining that Mr. Aberman seldom did anything romantic. Best I could remember it went something like this:
“He never gets romantic,” Michelle Aberman said. “Ever.”
“I rub your bunions,” Morris Aberman said.
“That’s not romantic. It’s nice, but it’s not romantic.”
“What would you consider romantic?” I asked therapeutically.
“Roses, champagne, you know, sweet talk, fancy dinners…”
It went on like that for over an hour. I was looking at Michelle and trying to figure out what she would have to do for me to get me to even consider rubbing her bunions. Just the thought of her bunions was disturbing enough that I had to force myself to sing “Don’t Be Cruel” for the rest of that day to not think about her bunions.
Writing about it was bringing about a similar revulsion, and I was to the part where the Jordanaires do the “oooooos” right before Elvis growls when Trina’s voice, thankfully, took me away from it all.
“Meet me in the parking lot in five minutes,” she said. “Don’t say anything to anyone.”
“Wha-”
“Don’t say anything!” Trina said.
At first, I thought Trina might be inviting me to something kinky in the early morning of a workday, but her urgency made me dismiss that quickly.
I nonchalantly made my way to the parking lot, not sure what I was about to get into. Trina was standing next to her Honda, nervously smoking a cigarette.
“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.
“Were you looking at porn in the office last night?”
“Are you with the bishop’s office or something?”
“I’m serious.”
“Well-”
She didn’t let me finish.
“Claudia knows. She checks that shit every morning with some program. She’s going to fire you. She’s already called Hymie and Espidera to meet with her. It’s in the policy manual.”
“I was looking at it because of Walanda.”
“It doesn’t matter. She thinks she’s got you now. She’s checking the browser history and she has the board guys coming in around four this afternoon to review it with them.”
“Shit.”
“Look, I gotta get back inside before she figures out I’m gone.”
I didn’t think a small office like ours checked computer activity, but it was just like the Michelin Woman to be hung up on something like that. Looking at porn at work is almost indefensible and I couldn’t let on that I was trying to solve a murder. I was screwed.
I had a couple of hours to come up with something, and I quickly figured out that it was time to call Rudy. He wasn’t in, but I left a message for him on his service and told them where I wanted him to meet me. Rudy would do anything for me and often did.
I met Rudy for an early lunch at AJ’s and ordered two double orders of AJ’s hot chicken wings. Rudy loved them and attacked them more than he ate them. Whenever we had wings, he wound up with orange stains all over the front of his shirt and covering the lower half of his face. He looked like some sort of Stanley Kubrick circus clown when he ate wings.
“What’s goin’ on, Duff?” Rudy asked. “What kind of trouble you in now?”
“C’mon, Rudy, what makes you think I’m in some sort of trouble?”
Rudy just looked at me.
“All right-I need a favor.”
AJ slid the two orders of wings in front of us. Rudy asked for extra bleu cheese, like he always did.
“You know, kid, I got my own troubles. What kind of favor are you looking for?”
“I need to get time off from work.”
“C’mon, kid,” Rudy rubbed his forehead. “That shit hasn’t died down from last time.”
“I’m not taking a fight, it’s something else.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s not important, it’s work bullshit. I think they’re going to fire me today.”
Rudy was cleaning the wings right down to the bone like a kind of sabertooth, prehistoric, short fat guy. There were already speckles of wing juice dotting his shirt. The scary clown face was starting to form.
The wings were good. AJ changed the oil in his Frialator about every solstice, which, as disgusting as it sounds, added to the taste.
“All right, but I can only give you a temporary thing. You’re not going to be able to go out on a full disability. This will give you about a week.”
“I’ll take it.”
“All right, let’s see… depression, nah too easy to question… fibromyalgia flare up… nah… better not… I got it.”
He started to scribble on one of his prescription pads. He wrote as illegibly as any doctor and when he handed the note to me I had no idea what it said.
“What is this?”
“Irritable bowel syndrome-stomach cramps, the shits-often brought on by nervousness. You can’t go into work because of the cramps and the shits and, of course, the stress in your life.”
Rudy was stripping the last evidence of DNA from the saucy drummette he held between his fat thumb and forefinger.
“Will it work?”
“Of course it will work. IBS is very hot these days.”
“Rudy, you’re the best.”
I finished up lunch and headed to Kinkos. I didn’t want to chance showing up and giving the Michelin Woman her chance to can me, so I decided to fax the note in. I hated the idea of Hymie thinking I was some sort of perv, but I could straighten that out later. They can’t fire you when you’re on disability, so I was in the clear-for a week or so.