Elmore Leonard - Freaky Deaky

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Freaky Deaky

By Elmore Leonard

To my wife Joan for giving me the title and a certain look when I write

too many words.

Mankowski's last day on the job, two in the afternoon, two hours to go,

he got a call to dispose of a bomb.

What happened, a guy by the name of Booker, a twenty-five-year-old

super-dude twice-convicted felon, was in his Jacuzzi when the phone

rang. He yelled for his bodyguard Juicy Mouth to take it.

"Hey, Juicy?" His bodyguard, his driver and his houseman were around

somewhere.

"Will somebody get the phone?" The phone kept ringing.

The phone must have rung fifteen times before Booker got out of the

Jacuzzi, put on his green satin robe that matched the emerald pinned to

his left earlobe and picked up the phone. Booker said, "Who's this?" A

woman's voice said, "You sitting down?" The phone was on a table next

to a green leather wingback chair. Booker loved green. He said,

"Baby, is that you?" It sounded like his woman, Moselle.

Her voice said, "Are you sitting down? You have to be sitting down for

when I tell you something." Booker said, "Baby, you sound different.

What's wrong?" He sat down in the green leather chair, frowning,

working his butt around to get comfortable. The woman's voice said,

"Are you sitting down?" Booker said, "I am. I have sat the fuck down.

Now you gonna talk to me, what?" Moselle's voice said, "I'm suppose to

tell you that when you get up, honey, what's left of your ass is gonna

go clear through the ceiling."

When Chris got there a uniform let him in. There were Thirteenth

Precinct cars and a Tactical station wagon parked in front of the

house. The uniform told Chris that Booker had called 911. They

radioed him here and when he saw who it was he called Narcotics and

they jumped at it, a chance to go through the man's house wide open

with their dog.

A guy from Narcotics who looked like a young vagrant told Chris that

Booker was a success story: had come up through the street-dealing

organizations, Young Boys Incorporated and Pony Down, and was now on

about the third level from the top. Look around, guy twenty-five

living in a home on Boston Boulevard, a mansion, originally owned by

one of Detroit's automotive pioneers. The guy from Narcotics didn't

remember which one. Look how Booker had fucked up the house, painted

all that fine old oak paneling puke green. He asked Chris how come he

was alone.

Chris said most of the squad was out on a run, picking up illegal

fireworks, but there was another guy coming, Jerry Baker. Chris said,

"You know what today is?" And waited for the guy from Narcotics to say

no, what?

"It's my last day on the Bomb Squad. Next week I get transferred out."

He waited again.

The guy from Narcotics said, "Yeah, is that right?"

He didn't get it.

"It's the last time I'll ever have to handle a bomb, if that's what we

have, and hope to Christ I don't make a mistake."

The guy still didn't get it. He said, "Well, that's what Booker says

it is. He gets up, it blows up. What kind of bomb is that?"

"I won't know till I look at it," Chris said.

"Booker says it's the fucking Italians," the guy from Narcotics said,

"trying to tell him something. It makes sense, otherwise why not shoot

the fucker? Like we know Booker's done guys we find out at Metro in

long-term parking. Guy's in the trunk of his car, two in the back of

the head. Booker's a bad fucking dude, man. If there was such a thing

as justice in the world we'd leave his ass sitting there, let him work

it out."

Chris said, "Get your people out of the house. When my partner gets

here, don't stop and chat, okay? I'll let you know if we need Fire or

EMS, or if we have to evacuate the houses next door. Now where's

Booker?"

The guy from Narcotics took Chris down the hall toward the back of the

house, saying, "Wait'll you see what the spook did to the library.

Looks like a fucking tent."

It did. Green-and-white striped parachute cloth was draped on four

sides from the center point of the high ceiling to the top of the

walls. The Jacuzzi bubbled in the middle of the room, a border of

green tile around it.

Booker sat beyond the sunken bath in his green leather

wingback. He was holding on to the round arms, clutching them, fingers

spread open. Behind him, French doors opened onto a backyard patio.

"I been waiting," Booker said.

"You know how long I been waiting on you? I don't know where anybody's

at, I been calling-you see Juicy Mouth?"

"Who's Juicy Mouth?"

"Suppose to be guarding my body. Man, I got to go the toilet."

Chris walked up to him, looking at the base of the chair.

"Tell me what the woman said on the phone."

"Was the bitch suppose to be in love with me."

"What'd she tell you?"

"Say I get up I'm blown up."

"That's all?"

"Is that all? Man, that's final, that's all there is all, nothing

else."

Chris said, "Yeah, but do you believe it?"

"Asshole, you expect me to stand up and find out?"

Chris was wearing a beige tweed sportcoat, an old one with sagging

pockets. He brought a Mini-Mag flashlight out of the left side pocket,

went down flat on the floor and played the light beam into the

four-inch clearance beneath the chair. The space was empty. He came

to his knees, placed the Mini-Mag on the floor, brought a stainless

Spyder-Co lock back pocketknife from the right side pocket and flicked

open the short blade with one hand in a quick, practiced motion.

Booker said, "Hey," pushing back in the chair.

"Cover yourself," Chris said.

"I don't want to cut anything off by mistake."

"Man, be careful there," Booker said, bringing his hands off the chair

arms to bunch the skirts of the robe between his bare legs, up tight

against his crotch.

"You feel anything under you?"

"When I sat down it felt .. . like, different."

Chris slit open the facing of the seat cushion, held the edges apart

and looked in. He said, "Hmmmmm."

Booker said, "What you mean hmmmmm? Don't give me no hmmmmm shit.

What's in there?"

Chris looked up at Booker and said, "Ten sticks of dynamite."

Booker was clutching the chair arms again, his body upright, stiff,

telling Chris, "Get that shit out from under me, man. Get it out, get

it out of there!"

Chris said, "Somebody doesn't like you, Booker. Two sticks would've

been plenty."

Booker said, "Will you pull that shit out? Do it."

Chris sat back on his heels, looking up at Booker.

"I'm afraid we have a problem."

"What problem? What you talking about?"

"See, most of the foam padding's been taken out.

There's something in there that looks like an inflatable rubber

cushion, fairly flat, laying on top of the dynamite."

"So pull the shit out, man. You see it, pull it out."

"Yeah, but what I don't see is what makes it go bang.

It must be in the back part, where the cushion zips open."

"Then open the motherfucker."

"I can't, you're sitting on it. It's probably a two-way pressure

switch of some kind. I can't tell for sure, but that'd be my guess."

Booker said, "Your guess? You telling me you don't know what you

doing?"

"We get all kinds," Chris said.

"I have to see it before I know what it is ... or whether or not I can

disarm it. You understand?"

"Wait a minute now. You saying if you can take it apart?"

"And the only way to get to it," Chris said, "is to cut through the

back of the chair."

"Then cut it, cut it, I don't give a shit about the chair."

"You run into the frame, all that heavy wood and springs ..." Chris

paused. He said, "I don't know," shaking his head.

Booker said, "Look, motherfucker. You get this shit out from under me.

You cut, you do what you have to do, you get it out."

"On the other hand," Chris said, "it might not be a bomb at all. Just

the dynamite in there. You know, to scare you, keep you in line. I

mean, is there a reason anybody'd want to take you out?"

Booker said, "You mean like just the shit, but no way to blow it?"

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FreakyDeakyByElmoreLeonardTomywifeJoanforgivingmethetitleandacertainlookwhenIwritetoomanywords.Mankowski'slastdayonthejob,twointheafternoon,twohourstogo,hegotacalltodisposeofabomb.Whathappened,aguybythenameofBooker,atwenty-five-year-oldsuper-dudetwice-convictedfelon,wasinhisJacuzziwhenthephonerang.H...

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Elmore Leonard - Freaky Deaky

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