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  The Dick

  Bruce Jay Friedman

  for Steven Vinaver

  and Harvey Breit

  PART 1

  In a somewhat easygoing way, the two lookalike Greek detectives began to rib each other with familiar nationalistic-style insults. Ordinarily, this might have tapered off into a friendly shoving match, but it was a sullen, pent-up time in the homicide bullpen. Not a single “fresh one” had come in all day. Somehow, neither Greek could put on the brakes; before long they had made deep slices in each other’s pride and flown at one another with nonregulation bone-bangers, generally kept out of sight in personal lockers. These were angry, heavy-headed little rubber chunks capable of slapping small craters into flesh, giving it the surface of expensive, hotly-bid-for Life Magazine lunar shots. In their fury, the two let it be known that they required more room so that they could really get at each other. Watching the brawl was Medici, a Negro detective who wore more guns than anyone in the department, two at the shoulders, a pair in the crotch. Assigned to Sex Patrol, he was known as the Dean of Child Molestation and had great, heavy-socketed eyes which he could never close completely, even in deep sleep. Medici accommodated the Greeks by bowing from the waist, saying, “Freedom, brothers,” and opening the bullpen door. Out they rolled, locked together in a single ball of delphic crime-fighting fury, pin-wheeling down the hall until they approached the partitionless office of a large, comfortable-looking man who sat at his desk arranging homicide clippings. A thin, nervously drawn line ran the length of his face, from forehead to chin, giving his pleasant features a curiously divided look, as though they had once been boundaried off by jealous, back-stabbing diplomats. On his desk was an empty silver holster in which he kept his pencils and glue brush; pinned to his large chest was a “baby badge,” an exact replica of the real thing, though scaled down to half the standard size. Although he had come east only two weeks before, his desk had a lived-in look to it. He took great pride in his clipping displays, always making sure to give them some slant or focus so that homicide chiefs, at a single glance, might get the drift of the week’s slaughter. In this particular layout, he had placed the suicide of a video kingpin in the center of the page and then bordered it with what he considered an ironic, point-making fringe of vicious little fruit stabbings. He had been about to finish the job, but then the bone-banging Greeks rolled in, and the tall, boundaried-off newcomer had to move his legs to let them by.

  “This is some violent place,” he said to himself. “This may be my worst yet.”

  He was Kenneth LePeters, a clippings expert for homicide bureaus, who for seventeen years had lived in polite and hearty towns of the Midwest, then sensed a storm coming up in his life and come back east to face it. He had enjoyed being in America’s heartland, yet in a sense it had been like pacing back and forth in outer hallways; he had always known that one day he would have to march into some main section of the house and face the music.

  He was slipping up on forty now and scared to death about it. The first part of his life had been bumpy, but tolerable. Lord knew what was coming up in the second and final section. Through the years, he had developed a comfortable, yet oddly contradictory body. A massive rib cage was his best feature. When he peeled off his shirt and huffed it up, he could make it look like the ruined prow of a newly unearthed Viking ship. Yet his arms and legs were thin and sensitive. LePeters enjoyed his powerful rib cage, yet it saddened him that there was little he could actually do with it. On occasion, he heaved it about ominously, but he knew in his heart there was no way, for example, to actually use it for beating up people. His hair was a puzzle; he wore what he had in tangled, deceptive swirls, but if you put a gun to his head he could not actually tell you whether he was bald. At times it seemed his hair had cleared out forever; then, when he had abandoned all hope of seeing it again, it would make spinetingling recoveries, rolling back in, like Allied troops, in fierce new junglelike waves. Girls, looking at his divided face for the first time, would rub their eyes as though confronted with a slightly out-of-focus film.

  He was not so much angered as curious about his scar and, as a child, had often pressed his mother for some answers. She fed him vague stories—a fall from a New England cliff; a powerful runaway zipper; a knife-wielding Negro in the night. He had not seen his widowed mother for many years. A scout for an employment agency, her job was to prowl the southern states, talking muddled Negro girls into coming up north as poorly paid domestics. Someday he would get around to pinning her down; he would make her tell him exactly how he had become a Boundary Face.

  Years back, he had been Kenneth Sussman, a young lieutenant in Army grain supply. One morning, prompted by no one, and after polishing off a barley requisition, he had turned himself into Ken LePeters, taking the name of a magic boy who had appeared long ago to his old New Jersey neighborhood, rallying a scraggly, thin-chested corner football team to thrilling, towering victories over richly equipped monster Catholic squads—then vanished, as though in smoke, at season’s end. Immediately after tacking on the new name, LePeters could have sworn there had been a global Sussman breakthrough. Each time he picked up a newspaper, it seemed a Sussman had rocketed to the top of an international cartel, smashed a record at Grand Prix, become a leading fashion photographer, seized the reins of a sensitive government bureau handling tricky inter-American trade relations. Somehow it was difficult for LePeters to reverse his field; he kept the new name loosely sutured to him, a poor toupee he would get around to adjusting one day.

  He was going to get around to a great many things. For forty-five years, his father, William Sussman, had worked like a dog in badger pelts, his goal a massive career’s end bonus that had been promised to him by company higher-ups. At home, LePeters and his mother would sit around and smack their lips over the future payoff, speculating on its size, dreaming about the marvelous things they would do with it once it tumbled in. One morning, before he had collected a dime, the easygoing old furrier quietly succumbed to occupational fur fumes. At the time, LePeters had been doing public relations for a small, kill-crazy homicide bureau in Montana. When he got the news he actually bought a ticket east, but somehow the thought of confronting the fur tycoons had frightened him and he never got on the train. His mother, Nan Sussman, bitterly took the first job in her life, as a Negro maid hustler. As LePeters curled his way across the nation’s homicide bureaus, he rarely passed a night without envisioning his vengeance trip to the fur tycoons. He felt no urgent responsibility to his mom; he would take care of her when she was old. But she was no chicken now. How long could she continue to parade through Dixie, selling a bill of goods to confused black teen-agers?

  The Midwest had been ideal for putting things off. Living in neat, measured-off, barracks-style homes, he might just as well have remained in the Army. His wife, Claire LePeters, bought blondewood furniture that smelled of the PX, dinette sets of a type favored by hard-drinking service families who were always being shipped to Wiesbaden. On weekends, along with other crime-busting families, they attended volleyques, acted in raucously thrown-together police versions of Most Happy Fella. LePeters let it be known that he missed deeper cultural stimulation, but secretly he wolfed down the combination volleyball games and charcoal cook-outs, loved dancing on stage in detectivey musicals. Still, he knew he had been treading water, splashing around in the temporary. Age forty loomed up, just around the corner. He longed to pay a visit to Frickman Furs, in memory of his dead dad, even if it meant just standing across the street and glaring at it. For years he had been unable to find his wife’s lips. He lay in ambush for them, leaped acr
oss to nail them as she slept, but generally had to settle for lipless sex. His pasted-on name began to itch at him, too. He felt somehow that it was pulling the boundaries of his face farther out of line.

  One day, Bruno Glober, his boss for all seventeen years, told him of a large, violent, but somehow conscience-stricken homicide bureau in the East that needed a public relations team to repair its grim and tawdry image. For trivial, microscopic shifts in policy, Glober had a way of summoning LePeters, his one-man staff, and addressing him with enormous ceremony, as though he were the entire population of Madrid. LePeters enjoyed the phony pomp and hoped one day to use it on a one-man team of his own. Because the news of the eastern shift was major, Glober dropped it casually, as the pair sat stall to stall in the detective john. Too embarrassed to be forthright, LePeters took his time in answering, shuffling his feet, whistling, scribbling a few clandestine penis-guns in a rosette about the dehumidifier. Finally, he lofted his reply over the partition.

  “All right then, count me in,” he said, as though he had come to the end of a massive conscience struggle. “I’ve got a few things I have to tidy up back there.”

  Timid about plunging right into the center of eastern life, LePeters stuck in one toe by selecting a home in a cordoned-off suburb, two hours’ drive from the city. A parched and barren place that seemed to have no connection with the East Coast, it might have been picked up during a storm and blown in whole from Wyoming. Bruno Glober had told him about the house, a modern job situated in a section once favored by retired police chiefs and called “Detectives’ Hill.” All the ex-dicks lolling about made it fiercely law-abiding, rape-free, and aside from an occasional indecent exposure, the most crime-starved little community in the hemisphere. Arriving east, LePeters took his family out to the house in a police squad car, driving tensely, with exquisite care, as though he had heads of state in the back. Earlier that day, Sergeant Cartney of the Motor Pool had told him yes, as a homicider he was entitled to drive a squad, but warned him about stepping out of line with it. “It will go much harder with you than with your average citizen,” Cartney said. “We step in and really crush your nuts.” The car was rigged up with twin police radios and there was no way to turn off the crime calls. LePeters enjoyed listening to Negro rhythm and blues music. He turned up the regular radio, trying to drown out the robbery alerts, and as he drove toward Detectives’ Hill, he got a strange new kind of soul-crime sound. His wife was a hell-for-leather driver, born in a state that was anxious to get people out on the road as soon as possible; it issued special pre-teen licenses, catapulted its tots from the nursery to the wheel; LePeters was proud of her recklessly confident style and more than once had said. “She’s the only broad I know who drives like a man.” Impatient now, Claire LePeters asked him if he could go a little faster.

  “I’m down on the floor already,” he answered, but he kept the needle glued to twenty.

  LePeters’s daughter was along, a ten-year-old boy–girl with great fascinated eyes and a fierce passion for skating-rink hamburgers. The two loved each other to an almost painful degree and took outrageous care not to hurt one another’s feelings. As they inched along, LePeters combed both sides of the road, searching for rinks.

  “If it’s hard for you, Daddy, just forget it,” the child said.

  “It’s not hard,” LePeters said, straining his eyes. “I love doing things for you.”

  “But if we find a hamburger place, think of the money it will take away from you.”

  “What if it takes every dime,” said LePeters. “It kills me when you talk that way.”

  The house itself was a furiously handsome puzzle of wood and glass owned by a trio of Croats who had been forced by some unmentionable tragedy to hack the price down to a ridiculous level. It was perched not so much on a normal hill but on more of a peak. Let a snowflake or two fall and you could forget about getting a car up to it. LePeters parked his squad below and then helped his family toward the house; radio calls for armed, white-sneakered Negroes in black leather jackets snaked out after them as they fought for the summit. Claire LePeters had gone through a stage in which she refused to move four steps without a taxi. Now she trudged up the sheer Everest-like driveway.

  “What about packages?” she asked, out of breath, yet gamely clawing her way forward. “How would we get them up?”

  “You put in some sort of a pulley arrangement,” said LePeters, the last fellow in the world for installing such a system.

  At the door, LePeters decided to flash his baby badge at the waiting Croats. “LePeters of homicide and his family,” he said, giving them a quick look and elbowing his way inside. He tended to use the badgette only on underprivileged groups, foreigners in particular. At one short-handed bureau in the Midwest, he had actually gone out on the homicide investigation of a murdered fruit merchant. When he flashed it at the clerk in charge, the man said, “This is shit,” and LePeters had been forced to stand behind the overripe avocado bin while his teammate, an authentic detective, looked for bloodstains. Attractively futuristic, the house inside was contradictory, filled with sad, cabbagey tenement smells. While LePeters looked around, the husbandless Croat mom and her two daughters hovered close by, weeping bitterly, their lips fiercely stitched together by some dark Slavic curse. LePeters was terribly anxious to know the secret of the preposterously underpriced house, yet he could not bring himself to say, “Out with it. What’s the deal?” He was not good at asking that type of question. For years, he had speculated on the exact amount of his dad’s salary, yet could never bring himself to come right out and grill the mild-mannered furrier. Had he ever queried his wife on her hidden lips? He wanted to say, “Do you really love me?” to certain people. Out of the question. LePeters shook off the grief-stricken Croats momentarily and went below, determined to root out the reason for the minuscule price. Always, he had been gunless, without real power in a world of violent men. Asked his profession at parties, he would say he was “sort of a detective.” Yet sometimes, particularly when he was alone, he felt like an authentic homicider, able to rip off tough questions, dig for clues. He prowled the basement now, making intense, crime-fighting faces. Through a basement window, he spotted the trickily concealed edge of an enormous golf course that bordered the house on one side. Muscular drives pumped past the ninth hole might easily slash six huge modernistic windows a day. A teen-age Croat who had stealthily tailed him downstairs sucked in her breath when he made his discovery. The jig was up. LePeters did some quick calculations. Even with a towering glass-replacement bill, the house remained a steal. Patting the frightened Croat on the head, he waltzed upstairs to say he would phone the real estate agency and come up with a binder. Upon hearing the news, the woman and her two daughters broke into tantalizing gold-toothed Gypsy smiles.

  His first day in the new bureau, LePeters met Chief Guster, head of Homicide, a kindly man who wore his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and had huge, furred, crime-busting forearms, much like those of LePeters’s expired dad. Up to his ears in aggravated batteries, the gentle top-kick put his arm around the new man’s shoulders, led him to the door, and dismissed him with a single word: “Compassion.” The second syllable shot through a gap in the elderly man’s teeth, encased in a small wet cloud, and reminded LePeters of a blind money-lender his father had had to deal with during the depression. The shylock, who conducted his business outside of luncheonettes, had only one condition for loans: that he be allowed to roll the money in a little ball and spit it contemptuously in the borrower’s face. Tickled to death to get the money any way he could, William Sussman had stopped more than one wet blast with his head. He would thank the blindie, pocket the balls, and run home to dry them out on radiators. One day, after watching his dad take one in the eyes, LePeters asked him if he got to repay the loans by spitting them back. “That’s all I’d need,” the furrier had said, patiently raking his fingers through his son’s hair. “I’d be dead in an hour.”

  Now, years later, when Chi
ef Guster spit “compassion” at him, LePeters’s first instinct was to check the carpeting for a damp fifty.

  Next, LePeters took a homicidal psychiatry test, designed to put the finger on queers and flush them out of the department before they took root. The test was administered by a psychiatrist named Worthway, who had to be called “Doctor-Detective” since otherwise there would have been no fiscal procedure for siphoning funds over to his department. Held in low esteem around the bureau, the psycho-homicider had no actual office and did his testing in a corner of the detectives’ bullpen beneath a giant “Cleanliness is what it’s all about” poster. As LePeters plunged into the first question, Detective Flamoyan, department rakehell, howled out the first of a series of simulated police sirens, while Gibney of Petty Vice, feigning official duties, took his regular morning riffle through the sex-crime photo files. A pushover for common-law wife mutilations, Gibney could not resist holding one aloft now and then, and hollering, “Here’s a lulu.” Just outside the door of the bullpen, Lieutenant Riggles of Polygraph had strapped himself into the lie-box and could be heard asking himself general questions to test the equipment. Are you a sweet guy? Would you describe yourself as being on the sneaky side? Have you ever stolen so much as a kiss? A polygraph pioneer, Riggles claimed that in twenty years he had never been able to put one over on the machinery, to beat his box. LePeters was peculiar about noise. During the credits on Antonioni films, he had been known to climb over seats in order to shush down movie mumblers nine aisles away. Yet once his mind was actually hooked into something, the grip of his concentration was like iron. LePeters had good luck with the first half dozen questions, easily spotting the fruit snares and belting them out of the park. From that point on, he was able to ignore his surroundings. In the chair beside him, Doctor-Detective Worthway squeezed in a catnap. He had been halfway out the door when he had spotted LePeters, and was still fully dressed, a fedora hooded low on his face, only his ears preventing it from covering his entire head. LePeters, meeting him for the first time, had wondered if he wore it in this style because of complexes. As LePeters barreled ahead with the test, Flamoyan crept close to the dozing shrink, slipped two fingers into his ribs, and said, “This is a stickup,” then finished him off with a lonely, wailing fake siren in his ear. “Schmuck,” said the psychiatrist, rubbing his eyes.