Saving Room for Dessert (29 page)

“Wait wait wait,” Rayford said. “Her fuckin’ old man was the one stuck Boo with that thing that was covered with dog shit—anybody
remember that? They just took him off the critical list yesterday. Monday, when I saw him, he was makin’ no fuckin’ sense
at all. They had him full of the most powerful antibiotics they got, that’s what the nurses told me—and we’re gonna start
runnin scared ’cause some motherfuckin’ reporter is speculatin’ about Boo and old ladies? Fuck that!”

“I know, I know—”

“You know?! Hey, Chief, all due respect, but got-damn, man, every time we got some real shit in a nuisance bar, who’s first
one in the door? Who gets called out—whether it’s his watch or not?”

“I know, I know, I’m the one who calls him.”

“Well we goin’ let him get hung out to dry ’cause some old lady lock her keys in her Toyota? I own Toyotas, man, I know how
hard they are to pop the lock. Boo told me ’bout that one, she busted his balls big-time.”

“He lied about his shield number to die other one.”

“Aw, man, this ain’t nothin’ but chickenshit. Got-damn Scavelli, shoulda shot that motherfucker my own self. Like to see what
the pres of the local AARP woulda said Scavelli smeared dog shit over all
his
doorknobs. Or when he’s cornin’ at him with a shovel fulla dog shit. Or when he’s pointin’ a blow-dryer at him, tell him
he’s walkin’ too fast. Deal with that shit night after night for a coupla years, then we’ll see who he wantsa talk shit on.”

“You know,” Carlucci said, turning to Nowicki, “probably wouldn’t be a bad idea you call the local president in, whoever it
is, have a heart-to-heart with him. Sure wouldn’t hurt. Maybe even let him read some of the UIRs about the Scavellis.”

“Yeah. And get that reporter down here too, let him read ’em. Let him go talk to the people at Mental Health.”

“Stop already, you know they’re not allowed to talk to him.”

“Off the record?” Carlucci said. “Why not? If you talk to the director up there first, clue him in.”

“Wait a second,” Rayford said. “There’s some things I got to know. Hornyak get himself a lawyer?”

“Whatta you think?”

“Okay. Then does the physical evidence match up with me or with him—and don’t bullshit me now, this I gotta know.”

“Matches up with you,” Carlucci said. “Shell casings ejected where you said. Blood started drippin’ on the street edge of
the sidewalk, and went back onto the grass where he fell. And we had to wait till Saturday to get a metal detector, but we
found the one you fired into the grass. Just would be a whole lot better if we had a witness, that’s all. Eyewitnesses stink,
but, uh, for some reason people believe ’em, don’t ask me why, I don’t know. I was plannin’ to talk to Buczyk again.”

“Well I know he heard me, got-damn!”

“You got him for assault and aggravated assault on Hornyak from two weeks prior. Without a deal, would you wanna help you?”

“Well, screw it, kick it down,” Nowicki said. “Tell him you talked to an assistant DA and he told you he couldn’t make aggravated
stick. Tell him he cops to simple assault, you’ll see he gets ARD, plus costs. First offense, right?”

“Yeah. Pretty amazing, considerin’ how many times we been called there, but that’s all it is for him.”

“Well if he’s lawyered up—”

“Told me he can’t afford one, has to get a PD.”

“Okay. Then get the PD in on it, see if his hearing improves or not.”

“You can do that?” Rayford said. “Without talking’ to somebody from the DA’s Office first?”

“That recorder’s still off, right? You sure?”

“It’s off, it’s off, Christ.” Carlucci stood and stretched. “We done here? Anything else?”

“Course we can do that.”

“Well what’s Hornyak goin’ say?”

“Fuck can he say?” Nowicki said. “DA and the judge go along with the ARD, his civil suit’s dead, he can’t say nothin’. Okay,
I’m done here, who’s left? Reseta? Then we got to see if Boo’s in good enough shape to talk. Okay, William. Anything else,
we know where to find you. Second watch tonight, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, hey, look at it this way: with her dead, him in Mental Health, and Hornyak on crutches, cruisin’ the Flats oughta be
a walk in the park tonight.”

Rayford hung his head and shook it. “Don’t care what you say, man, that place ain’t never goin’ be a walk in the park for
me.”

“Cheer up, William. It was a clean shooting. I know that, Rugs knows that, two-thirds of this board is gonna know that, especially
if Rugs gets Buczyk to clean the shit and sawdust out of his ears. Then all we gotta do is make sure Mrs. what’s-her-face
doesn’t get to one of the other two. Remaley.”

“Who’re the other two again?”

“Trautwine and Figulli,” Nowicki said. “Trautwine’s no problem, but Figulli? I don’t know. She’s got somethin’ on him.”

F
IRST INTERVIEW
with Patrolman Robert Canoza in re case number ninety-nine dash four sixteen. Place is room 421, Conemaugh General Hospital,
Rocksburg, PA. Time is 1805 hours, Thursday, April 22nd, 1999. Present, in addition to Patrolman Canoza, are Rocksburg PD
Chief Nowicki and me, Detective Sergeant Carlucci.”

“Hey. How’s it goin’?” Canoza said, his eyes puffy and red, his lips sticking together. He’d obviously just awakened from
a nap. He was on his left side, propped up with two pillows behind his back, an IV drip in the back of his left hand. “Fuckers
bring me anything to eat?”

“No,” Carlucci said, shaking his head and turning the recorder off.

“I didn’t know you were allowed to eat anything,” Nowicki said.

“Aw listen to you, allowed to eat anything. Hope to fuck you both wind up in here real soon, like next week, so I can visit
youns with empty hands. Didn’t your mothers teach youns any better than that? Jesus Christ. I could die in here from the shit
they feed you. Everybody works in that kitchen oughta be under arrest for fraud, pretendin’ that shit is edible.”

“At ease, at ease, what the fuck,” Nowicki said. “I’ll bring you somethin’ tomorrow—”

“I’m hungry now! What’s with the tape recorder?”

“Hey, Robert,” Carlucci said, “try to focus, okay? We’re here to ask you about the night you got stabbed, okay? Try not to
think about food for a couple minutes.”

“Hey, you try. I’m starving’ here. Least go get me a couple Her-shey bars or somethin’, Jesus, I’m tellin’ ya—listen to what
I had for breakfast today, no shit. They bring you like a half a cup a rolled oats, glass a skim milk, like six ounces of
orange juice, fuckin’ toast somebody put like a quarter-size glop of margarine in the middle of each slice, and fuckin’ coffee
so weak you could see the bottom of the cup—imagine me tryin’ to survive on that, huh?”

“Hey,” Nowicki said, “let me go down the coffee shop get this jaboney some candy bars or somethin’. Go ’head and start without
me, I’ll be right back.”

“Kid who was in here with me? Didn’t weigh one-fifty, he gets the same thing I get. Same fuckin’ amount.”

“Robert? Yo, Robert, you with me?”

“Huh? What? What?”

“Gotta ask you some questions about Friday, April 16th, you know? Case number ninety-nine dash four sixteen, you with me?”

“What questions? What’s with the tape recorder I asked you.”

“We got some problems, Robert.”

“Which we you talkin’ about? What problems?”

“You. Me. Us. All of us in the department.”

“All of us? What problems?”

“For one thing, uh, Mrs. Scavelli? Remember her?”

“Exactly how could I forget her?”

“Well. Bad news there, pal. And try to take this a little more seriously, okay? By the way, you on any kinda pain meds right
now? Morphine drip, Percocet, Percodan, anything like that?”

“Nah. Took me off all that stuff yesterday. I can have some of that Perco-stuff if I want it, but I hate it, I told ’em don’t
give me any more of that stuff, it just constipates the shit outta me. Two of those you need an enema. And it don’t do nothin’
for the pain anyway. Just makes you sleepy. Still fuckin’ hurts and you can’t shit, some fuckin’ pain relief that is.”

“So you’re not on anything now—that you know of—that would interfere with your memory, right?”

“Just told you no, what do you want? Ask the nurses you don’t believe me.”

“Hey, Robert, another thing—try to watch your language, okay? We got a pain-in-the-ass committee to deal with and the chairman,
chairwoman, chairperson, whatever, she doesn’t like people swearin’, okay?”

“What committee? Safety Committee?”

“No. Not the Safety Committee. An ad hoc committee to investigate Rayford’s shooting.”

“Huh? Rayford? He got shot? When?”

“No no no. No. He didn’t get shot, he shot Hornyak.”

“He shot Hornyak? When? He dust him off?”

“No he didn’t dust him off. Shot him in the right kneecap. Right about the time Scavelli was stabbin’ you with that rake.”

“You’re shittin’ me. He shot him?! You’re not shittin’ me?”

“C’mon, I wanna turn this thing back on, okay? Stop cussin’!” Carlucci shook his recorder at Canoza.

“Stop cussin’? Why? I can’t cuss I can’t fuckin’ talk.”

“Stop, will you please? You don’t cuss when you’re talkin to civilians. And I told you why. Pay attention here, c’mon. The
woman Bellotti appointed to run the committee, she thinks swearin’ is a sign of a lack of vocabulary, a sign of immaturity.”

“Hey I got a vocabulary I’ll put up against hers any day—whoever she is. I study vocabulary books all the time. Like she could
tell me the difference between necrology and nephrology, huh? Or between oncology and ontology—”

“Not the point, Robert, c’mon, stop bustin’ my balls here, please? We got problems I’m tellin’ ya!”

“You keep sayin’ that, I keep askin’ what problems, you don’t tell me what problems—”

“Listen up and I’ll tell you, okay? First problem is Hornyak. We got lots of witnesses heard the shots. Lots of’em saw the
first shot. But if anybody saw the second shot, they don’t wanna say.”

“There were two shots? When’d this happen?”

“You sure you’re not on pain meds here?”

“Now who’s bustin’ whose balls? I told ya no!”

“You tellin’ me you don’t remember hearin’ two shots right around the time Scavelli was stickin’ you?”

“I heard one.”

“One?! Not two?”

“What, somethin’ wrong with my vocabulary here? One is one, two is two. I heard one!”

“Yesu Maria. Think, Robert, this is important.”

“I am thinkin’. But if
you’re
thinkin’, you know?
You?
You might remember I was havin’ a little problem myself.”

“I know you were. That’s the other problem we got, you know? Mrs. Scavelli?”

“Yeah? What’s up with her?”

“You gonna get serious now? ’Cause I’m turnin’ this back on, you hear? It’s on now, okay?”

“Okay, okay, so what’s up with Mrs. Scavelli?”

“She’s dead, Robert. Croaked out.”

“Oh yeah? When? What happened? I was hopin’ maybe I get the chance I could take her down the river and drown her ass—”

“No goddammit!” Carlucci said, jamming the stop button on his recorder so hard he broke the edge of his thumbnail. “Don’t
say shit like that, Robert, Jesus Christ, c’mon! Holy fuck, don’t do that, please, okay? Givin’ me a heart attack here.”

“Why? What’sa matter? Stop talkin’ in circles, Rugs, tell me what’d I say, huh?”

“Listen to me, Robert. We got a humongous fuckin’ coupla problems here, okay? Number one, I told you about Rayford. Number
two, after you carried Mrs. Scavelli up to your car—remember? You put her in the back, right? You do remember that?”

“Yeah yeah, so?

“Well when Rayford went to check her out, she was dead, man, you capeesh?”

“Wait wait, fuck you sayin’—I killed her?”

“No! Nobody’s sayin’ you killed her. No.”

“Why you hesitatin’?”

“I’m not hesitatin’.”

“Fuck you ain’t, I know when you’re hesitatin’. What’s goin’ on? Somebody sayin’ I killed that old witch?”

Carlucci squeezed his temples. “Robert, clean up your mind here, please? Start thinkin’ like the police officer you are, will
you please? We got an officer-involved shooting, that’s Rayford. And we got an old woman found dead in your MU after you carried
her out between the houses and put her in the backseat. Coroner says she died from a cerebral hemorrhage. He also found a
bump on the back of her head. Rayford saw you set her down on the trunk of your MU and he says he saw her fall back and he
saw and heard her head hit the trunk, okay? You startin’ to understand the nature of the problems here?”

“Ohhhh man. Rugs, listen to me, I did not hurt that woman. All I did was pick her up, I was startin’ to carry them both back
to their house, okay?”

“Wait, I’m gonna turn this on now—”

“No no no no, don’t turn it on yet! Just listen! Listen to me.”

“Hey don’t tell me what happened first, Robert, it’s gonna sound like we been rehearsin’ here.”

“I’m not rehearsin’, I’m just telling’ ya, c’mon. What rehearsin’, what the fuck, listen to me here.”

“Don’t tell me till I turn this on, okay? And then remember that it’s on, okay? Remember that it’s on and watch your language,
okay? Remember that you’re a police officer and you got a good vocabulary. And, also, remember that you’ve had some problems
with old ladies, okay?”

“Wait, hold it, why do I have to remember that? What’s this shit about problems with old ladies? What’s goin’ on, Rugs?”

Carlucci told him about the reporter at the scene and about how that reporter had been called by the two old ladies whose
car locks Canoza had popped, how their encounters with him had been, to put it mildly, something less than professional.

“Awwww man, I’m fucked.”

“You’re not fucked, Robert, listen to me. You just gotta start thinkin’ like the police officer I know you are, okay? Are
you listenin’ to me?”

“I’m fucked, Rugs. They’ll find out I lied about my shield number to that one lady, they’ll find out I made that other one
cry, now this. Aw fuck me. Goddamn Scavellis. It’s dagos like them give dagos a bad name everywhere—and don’t act like you
don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, Rugs, ’cause I know you do. May as well eat my fuckin’ piece right now—”