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at Ben’s but that’s not a priority, and only works if I’m alive and the queue of tourists doesn’t stretch too far around the block.
    This is a pretty slapdash plan but I figure I’ll have plenty of time to fine-tune it on the bus.
    But the best-laid plans come undone, and the causal ones unravel even faster. My shower and change proceeds exactly as envisioned but the gun-bus-pizza portion of my strategy lasts precisely five steps from the club when I notice an unmarked cop sedan idling beside the hydrant opposite. I know the two cops inside by the shapes of their heads. Coupla knucklehead detectives called Krieger and Fortz, who Lieutenant Ronelle Deacon once informed me couldn’t find their dicks with mirrors and a dick-o-scope, which cracked me up at the time. Now that level of incompetence seems a little ominous. Fortz looks like he’s wearing a helmet and, with his long neck and slender skull, Krieger could have a lightbulb on his shoulders.
    Maybe they’re not looking for me, I think.
    Yeah, and maybe if Zeb’s Uncle Mort had a pussy and so on and so forth.
    Krieger spots me in the mirror and attempts to exit the squad nonchalantly, which is tough to do when your partner has parked level with a hydrant. Krieger dings the door panel real good before he realizes he’s shut in there.
    This would be a great jumping-off point for me if I wanted to get into some back and forth with these guys, but I’m feeling a little worn out with all the morning’s repartee, plus I got an envelope in my breast pocket with big denominations inside it, which I am pretty certain were not attained legally. With this in mind I decide to play it straight with these blues no matter how much klutzing they get up to.
    Fortz slides out the driver side but keeps his distance. I guess the word is out that I can knock people over pretty good.
    “Morning,” says Fortz, hiding his bulk behind the door. “Or is it afternoon?”
    “Brunchtime,” I say, all cultured.
    “Good one,” says Fortz, flopping his wallet open to give me an eyeful of the ID inside. “I’m Detective Fortz and that dummy trying to get of the car is Detective Krieger,” he says, a thumb hooked into his belt, keeping one hand close to his holster. “You’re McEvoy, right?”
    Not much point in denying it. “That’s me, Detective Fortz of the force. What can I do for you?”
    Fortz is living proof that evolution goes both ways. He’s got the aforementioned helmet-head look going on, with a skull that shines like a buffed bowling ball. The man is completely hairless as far as I can see and his features seem to belong to a much smaller face. It’s as if his head kept growing but his eyes, nose and mouth said screw it at about age fifteen. His tongue lolls a bit when he’s not speaking and another one of my doorman theories states that tongue lollers are quick to violence. Someday I’m gonna write all these nuggets down for future generations of doormen. Maybe I’ll attain guru status and get on Dr. Phil. I would love that, sitting on the chair opposite Phil, just close enough to smack that smug fucker in the chops. I probably wouldn’t take the shot, but little dreams keep a person going.
    Fortz swaps his wallet for a phone and checks the screen to show me how in demand he is.
    “Lieutenant Deacon wants to see you,” he says. “It’s important.”
    “You’re running errands for the Troopers now?”
    Fortz grins. “Just lending a hand. We’re all on the same team.”
    I tell myself not to panic. Ronnie is straighter than Robocop and I haven’t done anything bad yet today. “Tell her I’ll be in the club later and to come on down.”
    “Nah,” says Fortz. “She sent us to pick you up, get it?”
    In my imagination the envelope is glowing through the fabric of my jacket.
    “What kind of appointment is this?” I ask, like there’s a good kind.
    “I think it’s a doughnut-tasting sorta deal,” says Fortz, his little features jiggling with