Saving Room for Dessert (23 page)

“Ah you talk to Reseta too much, all that psychology shit.”

“I’m tellin’ you, next time—and guaranteed there’ll be a next time—you watch those two. They’re eyeballin’ each other. That
man is checkin’ out her legs and behint, don’t think he ain’t.”

“And what’s she checkin’ out?”

“Don’t know that. But her old man’s gut is so big, I’ll bet she gotta tie his shoes for him.”

“So what?”

“Hey, would you want that whale humpin’ you?”

“I don’t want any whale humpin’ me. Or any guy either.”

“Plus, that man’s a heart attack walkin’. What if he has one on top of her? He collapse on top of her? She’d suffocate, man.”

“Aw he just drinks too much beer, that’s all. Eats too much pizza. And you think too fuckin’ much. Course that would be funny.”

“What would?”

“The headline. Fat husband fucked to death, crushes thin wife to death. Police suspect foul foreplay.” Canoza thought that
was hilarious.

“And you think
I
think too much? How long you been workin’ on that one?”

“What, you think I didn’t just think that up? I ain’t as slow as everybody thinks.”

“Yeah? Well think about this. You ready? ’Bout two weeks ago Reseta and me were runnin’ along the old Conrail tracks, you
know? And we saw ’em.”

“Saw who?”

“Who we talkin’ about? Joe Buczyk and Mary Hornyak.”

“Aw you two fuckin’ guys, you’re seein’ shit all the time, swear to Christ. You two, I’m tellin’ ya, he’s got your head so
fulla that psychology shit, you don’t know what the fuck you’re seein’ anymore. Besides, even if you saw ’em, say it was them—which
I ain’t, okay? But say it was. How you know they weren’t just tryin’ to patch things up?”

“I didn’t say I knew what they were talkin’ about. What I’m sayin’ is they were alone. Their spouses weren’t anywhere around,
okay? And they were lookin’ very chummy when we passed ’em.”

“Aw probably wasn’t even them, c’mon. How good a look’d you get? And anyway I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’ for a long
time now.”

“What?”

“All white people look alike to you?”

“Aw will you shut the fuck up—do all white people look alike.”

Canoza threw his head back and howled and gave Rayford a playful backhand into his shoulder that nearly knocked him off his
feet.

“Hey man, easy, what the fuck, you tryin’ to bust my shoulder?”

“C’mon, just a little love tap.”

“Oh yeah, real glad we’re buddies and shit. You don’t know your own strength, man.”

“I been wantin’ to ask you that ever since I met you. Just wanted to see your face, see how you’d react.”

“Yeah? So?”

“It was worth it. Shoulda seen your face. You got really pissed there for about a half second—till you caught yourself. Wish
I’da had a fuckin’ camera, man, that was funny. You fuckin’ spades make me laugh, no shit.”

“Is that a fact? Us fuckin’ spades make you laugh, no shit.”

“Hey don’t get all huffy, I meant that in a good kinda way.”

“Did you now?”

“Yeah. Hey listen. When I was in Nam, know what I did? I ran the NCO club in Pleiku. Know why? ’Cause they needed a bouncer.
’Cause the fuckin’ MPs got slower and slower respondin’ to shit, know what I mean? So when I showed up, they said, oh man,
here comes Big Stupe. Let’s get him to run the fuckin’ NCO club, nobody’s gonna fuck with him. Well they didn’t fuck with
me but they sure fucked with each other. Believe me, I saw more shit, more blood than half the guys in the line outfits. And
you know what most of it was? Shit between the whites and the blacks. Not the lifers. The FNGs, the ones that went through
NCO School, Leadership School or whatever they called it, over there.”

“The what kinda NCOs?”

“FNGs.”

“What’s that?”

“You were in the air force, you don’t know what FNG means?”

“Just ast you, didn’t I?”

“Fucking new guys. Get a couple stripes, go to that school, they’d come in with chips on their shoulders big as pizza pans.
After about six months of that shit, I’d just walk up to ’em soon as they came in, I’d say all white people look alike to
you? ’Cause if they do, just turn around and get the fuck out now. ’Cause those ones thought like that? Get three, four beers
in ’em, man, they’d start woofin’ and shit? Knives, pistols, bottles—I don’t know how I didn’t get killed in that fuckin’
place. I did more hand-to-hand combat in there in one week than most grunts did their whole tours, and I didn’t even get a
fuckin’ CIB out of it.”

“A what?”

“Combat Infantryman’s Badge.”

“Wait wait—you wanted a medal for breakin’ up bar fights?”

“Hey fucker, combat’s combat, I don’t care who it’s against. You think you shouldn’t get letters of commendation when you
make a good collar just ’cause you collared Americans? Case you haven’t noticed, you ain’t collarin’ Canadians. PDs hand out
medals all the time, you get one you gonna give it back ’cause it wasn’t in action against some fuckin’ slopehead? Since when?”

“Oh yeah? Well there’s an interesting point of view. So, uh, back to this other thing. Tell me, you ever ask the white guys
if all black people looked alike to them?”

“Huh? Whattaya mean?”

“I mean did you ever ask the white guys? You said you asked the black guys if all white guys looked alike, but you didn’t
say anything about askin’ the white guys if all black guys looked alike—”

“Hey, Rayford, c’mon, okay? I’m just bustin’ your balls, that’s all. I never asked anybody anything—whatta you think, I’m
stupid? If I’da asked everybody came in the door somethin’ that dumb, how long you think I woulda lasted, huh?”

“Oh. So was it really that bad? Between the blacks and the whites?”

“Hey, all I know about is when I was there, which was from June ’69 to June ’70. And there was a lotta bad shit between ’em
then. You don’t remember that time? Man, after Martin Luther King got dusted, whatever was here, it just got carried over
there.”

“You kiddin’ me? I wasn’t even born till 1969.”

“Trust me. It was bad shit after King got dusted. Riots everywhere, man. But hey, even before he got dusted, there was bad
shit in LA, Newark, Detroit, ’65, ’66, I don’t even know all the cities where they had these riots.”

“Yeah, I’ve read about ’em. Lotta people got killed by cops, they weren’t just killin’ each other.”

“Course they did, whatta you think? Just like in Nam, lotta guys got dusted by friendly fire. That shit happens. Every war.
And all these people all worked up about the MIAs, you know? You ask me, half those guys are deserters, and the other half
got blown into so many pieces they couldn’t even find their dog tags. Know how many MIAs there were in World War Two? I looked
it up once ’cause I got sick of listenin’ to all this bullshit about the MIAs in Nam.”

“No. How would I know that?”

“Just thought you mighta read about it. Can’t guess? Huh? Take a guess.”

“Guess? Couple thousand, what do I know?”

“Aw what’re you, shittin’ me? Couple thousand, come on, Christ. Like between fifty and sixty thousand. All over Europe. Just
fuckin’ disappeared. Now how many of those guys you think traded some Lucky Strikes or Camels for some civilian’s clothes
and just sorta faded into the woodwork, huh? C’mon. I had uncles and cousins in that war in Italy, man, they told me. Fuckin’
guys were buggin’ out every day. You can only stand so much of that war shit, you know? Then you either go nuts and shoot
yourself in the foot, or blow your thumb off, or start takin’ your clothes off, shakin’ your dick at your CO. We got this
dumb-ass attitude in this country, everybody in Big Two was Audie Murphy or John Wayne or some shit.”

“John Wayne was never in a fuckin’ war. Only war he was ever in was in Hollywood, even I know that much.”

“I know that. But not Audie Murphy. He was for real, man. Most decorated soldier in World War Two. He was a real fuckin’ hero,
that guy, way before he was a movie star. But what I’m sayin’ is, for every Audie Murphy, there was ten guys never fired a
shot. My uncle, he went through the whole fuckin’ war in Italy, never fired his rifle once.”

“Yeah, but which side was he on?”

“Oh that’s fucking hilarious. Our side, you Bojangles motherfucker you.”

“Yeah, but can he prove that?”

“Same way you can prove you saw Joe Busy runnin’ with Hornyak’s old lady.”

“Joe Busy?”

“That’s what I call him. How you s’posed to pronounce all them
z
’s and
c
’s and
y
’s? When he says it, it sounds like Bu-chek. I just say Busy. Fuck’s the difference, I know who he is.”

“And I don’t, huh? ’Cause all white people look alike to me?”

“Now you got it. Right. Exactly right.”

“Aw fuck you. Who’s writin’ this up, you or me?”

“Hey, I wasn’t the first one here. This is yours.”

Rayford remembered that conversation as if it had happened yesterday. In fact, it had happened only two weeks ago, right after
he and Canoza had processed Joe “Busy” Buczyk for violating the statutes prohibiting assault and aggravated assault on Pete
Hornyak.

And now here was Rayford again, pulling up to the curb across Jefferson Street from the Hornyaks’ house. He left the light
bar and engine on, pushed the foot brake, and put it in park. He reached for his baton and MagLite and got out, slipping them
into their loops on his duty belt, and walked quickly across the street, stopping before he reached the sidewalk.

Hornyak and Buczyk were in each other’s faces, each standing on his side of the property line which extended from between
their houses out to the street. They were both inviting the other to cross the line as Rayford approached, saying, “Whoa down,
folks, everybody just whoa it down here a second. Take a step back, please. One step back, c’mon, you can do it, I know you
can.”

Dogs were barking and howling in both houses. One of the Border collies in the Buczyks’ house was scratching the aluminum
storm door.

“I ain’t afraid of you, Joe,” Hornyak was saying.

“Well good for you, you ain’t afraid of me. I ain’t afraid of you either.”

“Well that’s good that nobody’s afraid,” Rayford said. “’Cause fear will mess you up, make you do all sortsa dumb stuff. What
do we have here, gentlemen? Who wantsa go first?”

“Whatta we always have here?” Buczyk said.

“You tell me. You sayin’ it’s about the same thing as last time?”

“And the time before that and the time before that and how far back you wanna go, huh?”

“Okay okay, let’s see if we can’t find somethin’ different about this time, okay? This time. Right here, right now, okay?
Stay back, Mr. Hornyak, don’t be edgin’ up there.”

“Tell him stay back!”

“I’m askin’ you to stay back, sir. I’m asking both of you to stay back, awright?” Rayford had stopped about four paces equidistant
from them. The light was fading. He guessed it would be dark in another thirty, thirty-five minutes. He glanced at his watch
and saw that it was 1910 hours. So maybe he didn’t have as much daylight left as he thought. Need to get these two off the
street and inside their houses soon. Don’t wanna still be out here after it gets dark. The dark would trigger the streetlight
on the corner shortly, but even after that happened the two large maple trees in front of the Buczyks’ house would cast the
sidewalk in shadow where the two neighbors were facing each other.

“So, Mr. Hornyak, you wanna tell me what this is about?”

“He’s an asshole, that’s what.”

“Any particular reason?”

“You want a reason? You were here two weeks ago—what, you forgot that already?”

“I didn’t forget, sir. Just want you to explain to me, in detail if you would please, what’s got you upset now?”

“I came outta my house, he was out here, I’m tryin’ to mind my own business, I’m not sayin’ nothin’, right away he starts
in—”

“I didn’t start nothin’, that’s bullshit and you know it—”

“Whoa, Mr. Buczyk, you’ll get your chance—”

“Yeah shut the fuck up!”

“Pete, please don’t, okay?” came his wife’s voice from their front porch. Behind her, a dog began scratching the inside of
their storm door.

“Oh what, you gonna take his side again, what kinda shit is that, huh?”

“Whoa, Mr. Hornyak, lower your voice, sir.”

“Don’t tell me how to talk. If you knew what the fuck you were doin’, he’d still be in jail. Why’s he out anyway? You told
me aggravated assault was a felony, fuck’s he doin’ out, huh? If that’s a felony?”

“Hasn’t been tried yet, sir. As I understand it, he’s out on property bond, right, Mr. Buczyk?”

“Don’t try explainin’ anything to him, he doesn’t understand bail, he doesn’t wanna learn anything, thinks he was born knowin’
everything—”

“Oh me, I’m the know-it-all, huh? Yeah, you, you go to the library, right, read up on this stuff? Is that what you’re sayin’
now? In a pig’s ass, that’s where you go to do your readin’, don’t give me that shit I don’t wanna learn nothin’, there ain’t
nobody on this planet with a harder fuckin’ head than a Polak—”

“Watch it, Pete, don’t start with that Polak stuff, huh?”

“Hey! My old man told me forty years ago, forty years ago he said—you listenin’, huh? Forty years ago what he said about Polaks,
he’s still right! You fuckin’ Polaks, you got the hardest fuckin’ heads in the world. I argued with him, you hear me? Hear
what I just said? I argued with my father about you. I said, nah, not my friend Joe, uh-uh, he’s not like the rest of them,
pure fuckin’ concrete between their ears—”

“Oh I’m sure that’s what you said—”

“Hey I’m tellin’ you, you fucker you. I argued with my father for you. Got smacked in the face for it, that’s what I got,
defendin’ you, you sonofabitch—”

“Easy, Pete, go easy, man, I’m tellin’ ya—”

“Yeah yeah, that’s what you said when I told you don’t cut that tree down. Your exact words, I remember, go easy, man, don’t
worry, we ain’t gonna take the whole tree down, just those branches up over our gutters, that’s what you said.”

“And that’s all I did—”