Detective

husband who was ridiculed for saying the sun rose in the east in his neighborhood, and she’d seen the same show! Not then; it was a repeat, she’d seen it years ago. But she remembered it, particularly because of the question about the sun and the east.
    Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell her the kicker to the story, that when the client finally showed up it turned out he was the super in the building, and even though he had been injured in his own room on his own time and not while working on his job, that technically made it a workman’s compensation case, which meant there was no money in it and Richard wouldn’t take it anyway. I couldn’t tell her that, because I couldn’t tell her I had tried to get out of taking the case. But it didn’t matter, because “The Newlywed Game” thing was so funny, and we laughed about it a lot, and the end result was we wound up in bed.
    But tonight it wouldn’t happen. I couldn’t get it up. Which shows you what a state of mind I was in. That’s not to say it had never happened to me before. When I was young it used to happen to me all the time. That’s because, like everything else, I was always scared of women. Scared of sex. Scared I wouldn’t be able to perform, which, of course, made me incapable of performing.
    Oh, I got by. I’d get drunk and kill my inhibitions. But I still had trouble, particularly with one-night stands. And, forgive me for being a sexist pig again, but when you’re young, most girls are one-night stands, or are meant to be. And there’s always such a frantic hurry the first time. Once you get her pants off, you want to get it in there before she comes to her senses, realizes the enormity of what she’s doing, and puts them back on again. So you’re always in a rush, and you always defeat your own purpose. Or I always did. I’m sure other people aren’t necessarily so neurotic.
    But that, as I say, is in the past. With my wife, with whom I’m secure, it’s different. Give me a look at her tits or ass and generally I’m a goddamn pogo stick.
    Tonight was different. My wife was really nice about it. She thought I was upset about the amputee, having a transference, going through castration anxiety. She helped me along and we got the job done, but it was a struggle.
    She fell asleep afterwards, as is her fashion.
    I turned out the lights, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay there beside her in the dark, feeling somewhat lower than shit.

34.
    I T W AS E IGHT THE N EXT morning when I pulled into a deserted junkyard out in Queens. I got out of the car and looked around, but there was no one there. I wouldn’t have been there either, if I could have helped it. The sun wasn’t high enough yet to really steam up the garbage, but nonetheless the place really stunk. Well, I never expected the job to be easy. I gritted my teeth, and wandered out among the junk.
    I found a king-sized mattress right off the bat. I hauled it out and propped it up against the shell of what had once been a Chevy van. I paused to catch my breath, then plunged back into the rubble for another mattress.
    This time I couldn’t find one. I found cars, refrigerators, TVs, washer-dryers, but no damn mattress. What was going on? Was someone running a used mattress concession? Had I been one step ahead of him in bagging a mattress someone had just thrown out the day before? Christ, I hoped not. The one I’d found I wouldn’t have wished on my worst enemy.
    I found another mattress, queen-sized this time. Well, the queen should go with the king. It was a longer haul this time but I got it there, and propped it up against the first one.
    Once more into the breech. An even longer journey this time, and a less rewarding catch. Another king, but in terrible condition, the bottom edge resting in mud and all but rotted away. Well, beggars can’t be choosers. I pulled it out, making a mental note to be sure to wash thoroughly and hoping such a precaution would be effective, in light of the strong possibility the mattress might have passengers aboard. I lugged it over and leaned it against the other two, putting the queen in a two-king sandwich.
    I went back to the car, popped the trunk, and took out Pedro’s gun.
    I think I’ve mentioned I don’t like guns. In fact, months ago, when Fred Lazar first asked me if I wanted the job as a private detective, my first question was, “Will I have to carry a gun?” Of course, I didn’t have to. If I had, I wouldn’t have taken the