For a moment a weather chart filled the screen, then the Timberwolves were back. Following a few seconds of shocked silence there were ironic cheers and a couple of customers hurried out of the bar. The bartender put his forearms on the counter and leaned over toward Bob, biceps bulging.
“I’m guessing you ain’t about to use your authority to check the weather, Lieutenant.”
“Detective.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay,” said Bob. “Five minutes of basketball. And a double Johnnie Walker.”
Without turning around the bartender reached up to the shelf behind him, took hold of a bottle and poured a drink.
“Pretty smart trick,” said Bob, tossing back the contents and returning the empty glass to the counter. “How about letting me see it one more time?”
Things were looking bad for the Timberwolves and got even worse when they missed two desperate efforts at three-pointers. Bob recalled what the coach of his soccer team once said, thatlosing affects your ability to make good, rational decisions. And Bob had been losing for some time now. At least in sports the games come to an end and you get to start the next one at 0–0. He checked the time. Three minutes had passed, but already he could feel the effects of the whiskey.
“Tell me what’s happening…” a voice behind him said.
He turned. It was Shirley, the reporter. She was standing up close to him and smiling invitingly. She took hold of his ID card “…Detective Bob Oz.”
“What’s happening,” said Bob, and heard how he slurred a consonant slightly as he fastened his gaze on her husky-blue eyes, “is that I am halfway down a Johnnie Walker and then you and I are going to have another one. Alice has kicked me out, I fuck everything that moves, and I’m suspended for defending myself against Tony. How about you, Divine Blue?”
“Sorry, Rick, strike one,” she said, laughing into the microphone, which Bob now saw for the first time. “Back to you.”
She removed an earbud from under the long red hair, the smile was gone, and she wasn’t laughing along with the cameraman and sound technician crouched behind her.
“What the fuck,” said Bob. “Did that go out live?”
“Just local TV,” Shirley said sourly, in a tone that suggested she was aiming for bigger things. “But this’ll be out on YouTube soon enough.”
“Funny,” said Bob. “What’s happening back there?”
“Don’t know, they’re keeping us away. A black man against MPD, no witnesses. Poor man.”
“He isn’t…” Bob started to say, but Shirley and her team were already on their way out.
Bob swore, paid and left.
People were crowded onto the skyway and trying to get a view into Track Plaza. Super Mario was among them, with his cleaning cart. Bob approached him.
“Excuse me,” he said, flashing his ID card. “I saw you talking to a guy who just came out of the restroom. It looked like he was explaining about something inside. What was it?”
Super Mario looked up at Bob. “The fan has fallen out.”
“The fan?”
“The fan in the ceiling. It’s hanging open. He said someone should fix it.”
“You mean the fan in front of the ventilation shaft?”
“Yeah.”
—
Kay watched as yet another man emerged from the restroom and froze at the sight of the weapons pointed his way.
“He’s been in there nearly ten minutes now,” she said to O’Rourke and Hanson.
“Maybe he knows we’re here,” said O’Rourke.
