Yesterday's News

chance.”
    He smirked again. “Even better.”
    Turning, he walked me to the door, holding it open for me. “My name’s Duckie. Duckie Teevens.”

    Bernard “Bunny” Gotbaum sat like a Buddha in a large judge’s chair behind a desk piled high with paperwork. Obese, his sausage-like fingers played with the collar of a long-point sports shirt that bulged at each vertical seam. Wearing a toupee the color of cream soda, overall he gave the impression of a man who hadn’t burned twelve calories since kindergarten. The teeth, however, earned him the nickname. The upper two front ones bucked out far enough to open beer cans.
    The office carpeting didn’t match the walls, and the walls didn’t match the furniture. A second man, timid and short, was sitting in a subservient chair reading from what looked like an invoice. From somewhere behind the rear wall, I could hear the projected sounds of a woman faking ecstatic and somewhat extended groans.
    Gotbaum glanced up at me and said to Duckie, “The Law?”
    Duckie said, “Uh-unh.”
    “Just a second then.” Gotbaum addressed the little guy in the chair. “So you figure we can get I Only Have Thighs for You and The Shape of Things to Come for the same rental?”
    The man said, “Yes, Mr. Gotbaum.”
    “I like that second title. Any lezzie shots?”
    “Just the one, ten minutes before the gang bang.”
    “Good. That’s where they should put all of them. The Shape of Things to Come. The guys who come up with these titles. You’d think somebody would have used it already.”
    Duckie said, “Somebody did, boss.”
    Gotbaum looked over at him. “They did?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Who? I don’t want no product confusion here.”
    “Old book, boss. Don’t worry, none of our customers read it.”
    “You sure?”
    “Positive.”
    Gotbaum turned again to the guy in the chair. “Okay. That’s it then. Call me if the shitheads give you any problems.”
    The little guy said, “Right, Mr. Gotbaum,” and left the room.
    Gotbaum sized me up. “So, who are you?”
    “My name’s John Cuddy. I’m a private investigator looking into Jane Rust’s death.”
    “The tw... the one from the newspaper?”
    “That’s right.”
    Gotbaum tossed a pencil against the plastic in-box on his desk and said, “Sit down. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
    I sat while Duckie shifted over to the wall, peripherally in sight but well out of reach.
    “I’d like to know what you think happened to Charlie Coyne.”
    Gotbaum said, “What I think happened to him? Dead is what I think happened to him. That it?”
    “Not exactly. Coyne worked for you, and Rust said he was a confidential source for her. Now they’re both dead, and I’m wondering if you see any connection.”
    “Connection. Duckie, that’s a nice word there, ‘connection,’ isn’t it?”
    “Sure is, boss.”
    I said, “What do you mean?”
    Gotbaum said, “You never knew old Charlie, did you?”
    “No.”
    “He was a broad-jumper. World cham-peen.”
    “Coyne was a track star?”
    Duckie said, “The boss means jumping broads.” Gotbaum said, “He saw more ass than a toilet seat, right, Duckie?”
    “If cocks was brains, Charlie woulda been Einstein.”
    “All of which had to do with what?”
    Gotbaum said, “Coyne. He looked like a piece of
    shit. I mean, you saw a photo of the guy, you woulda
    burned it. Skinny like the Duck here, but no class. Scrungy little beard, one eye green, the other brown, pygmy ears. Nothing. But the broads, I never seen him around one who could keep her hands off him.”
    “So Coyne was popular. So what?”
    “So what? So what if this Rust broad was duking him. Like nightly.”
    “Maybe twice on Sunday,” said Duckie.
    “Wait a minute. Coyne and Jane Rust were lovers?”
    “Lovers!”
    Gotbaum nearly choked on a laugh, Duckie giggled behind me.
    Gotbaum said, “I don’t know they heard bells ringing or what. Though maybe they was like that. She’s the only one I know he was doing he never bragged about it. Even had to drag it out of him. Not like that broad he was living with.”
    When Duckie didn’t add anything, I said, “What’s her name?”
    Gotbaum said, “His shack-up?”
    “Yes.”
    “I dunno. Duckie, you knew her, right?”
    “Don’t think so, Boss.”
    “Oh sure you did. She couldn’ta been more’n a coupla years behind you in school there. Cleary, wasn’t it? No. Like that, though. Fearey, right?”
    “Maybe,” said the Duck.
    “Yeah, yeah.