Fantastic Metropolis

“It is not easy slog through your mind maze, Blade.”

“Not for you, copper. Your breed is not famous for subtleties. But for some future kid writing his PHD thesis in Harvard, no problem. The case will become a classic of the forties. Wait. Watch when they do this surreal century’s definitive bio.”

“And the best candidate you could find for the 1950’s was a screenwriter?” Pickle said.

“Seymour Roff? That whole episode turned to a farce. I didn’t like Roff or his movies. Too preachy, too liberal, no question. But my point there was to shovel up some antagonism toward the crazy right wing scavengers who were ripping the entrails out of the constitution. Every evidence you found incriminated the neo-Nazis next door in that hotel where he died. I gave you guys a road map. You think using his typewriter to kill him was a fluke? No way. The statement was about freedom of speech. But then that prick director, Wattle, the Bivalve man, confessed and my whole purpose was clouded. I made the best of a bad situation. I salvaged what I could.”

“So you wrote an obit practically calling Sy Roff Joe Stalin? This advanced the cause of civil liberties?”

“When I saw that Roff died in vain I decided to use the twist that he was probably a pinko or commie. At least I made him sound like he stood for something besides higher taxes and handouts. There were no national headlines in a moldy screenwriter. But red baiting was solid gold. I didn’t go in for it myself. The thing I counted on was for you to grab one of the brown shirts down the hall. After you booked the wrong man, what was I left with? Go with the flow. So I went. You talk about regrets. I had it on my head that Bivalve was re-released. Members of my own family paid to see that piece of shit. Some of them even liked it. And I had to make Wattle a Cold War hero. I am not proud of the Roff affair but you own some of the blame. How could you convict a nebbish for such a nifty murder?”

“I didn’t convict him. A jury convicted him.”

“Sure, blame the jury. Can we get on to the next case?”

“Do you have indoor plumbing or do I have to go down the street and find a hydrant to relieve myself?” Pickle said.

“Through the blue door and turn right. How many times do you go in a day?”

“Including the night? Too many times.”

“The whole bladder scene is a disaster. I spend more time flushing than I do word processing. I tried those new drugs, the ones with the side effects, but all I got was the side effects.”

“You’re coming with me, Blade. Hands on your head.”

“The hands again? I have to watch you piss? You think I’ll run away? Why should I? You’ve got zilch on me. This whole conversation is a fantasy you had on your way to the nursing home.”

“Wait. You won’t be so pompous when they inject you with a lethal dose of side effects.”

On the way to the bathroom, Pickle said, “1969. Ms.Ursula Cron.”

“Her I enjoyed. Even the polar bear enjoyed her. And the guy you nailed, the shrink? On bear hair? Talk about flimsy evidence.”

“His name was Benjamin Glik. An accomplished analyst.”

“Yes, yes. Glik. I enjoyed that too. Every time I picked up the papers I got hysterical. Apollo 11. The idea of my species clomping around on the moon while people like Cron, Glik and Simon Pickle banged their heads together on the earth struck me as a terrific comedy skit. You wouldn’t need a laugh track.”

“Write me the skit. Make me hysterical.”

“First Cron stirs up the ladies and tells them to burn their bras, get hatchets to circumcise their boyfriends, grab the big jobs, raise consciousness instead of kiddies, write books complaining about lecherous uncles and daddies who sat watching football while their mammas cooked brisket. Next, she does a full 360, says the girls should come to the door wearing a cellophane nightgown when hubby comes home and give him a Lewinsky while he smokes a Cohiba. Ursula Cron drove a whole generation off the cliff. Every biological clock in America went spinning like bird eyes in a cartoon. Then she gets into the animal rights business. Love minks, pigs and chickens. Oh, and save some affection for lab rats. No more experiments. A bad precedent especially when you and I stand around waiting for Lourdes in a bottle. Any minute Cron would have turned against the animals the way she turned against liberated ladies. Every dog, cat and parakeets would have run for cover. Cron was a disaster. She milked the media like it was her personal udder. Did you know she owned a farm for organic vegetables that happened to be on a toxic waste dump in New Jersey? And half-interest in a company that makes goddess statues for the witch market, plastic Willendorf Venuses with basketball bellies and boobs like barrage baloons? And I hear she had a piece of a factory in China that makes coat collars from poodles”