In the days following Dee Dee’s aborted putsch, Eichmann made repeated fraternal overtures toward me, sharing his clean clothing, his packet of instant bouillon cubes, and his imported Indonesian clove cigarettes. I didn’t know what to make of his uncharacteristic friendliness. I thought about it at night when I was suffering from insomnia, and every time I went out to meet a customer. I took it as a sign I could be honest with him because things were going wrong for me, extremely wrong.
One afternoon in the garage when nobody else was around, we were sitting by the coffee table shelling and eating sunflower seeds. I asked him, “Can I tell you something?”
“What is it?”
“I’m not getting along with you anymore.”
He winced with exasperation, trying to control his temper. “Doojie, you’re a schmuck. But this doesn’t come as a surprise.”
“How’s that?”
“You wear your dislike for me like a shirt you don’t take off—it stinks, you know?”
“Then why don’t you do something about it and make things better between us?”
Eichmann looked remarkably similar to a homeless man I used to know, a guy who’d been on the streets for years until we found him stuffed dead into a garbage Dumpster on Albion. My business partner’s hair was matted and shot through with bits of tawny-colored lint. His hands were shaking lightly.
Eichmann took me in with his feline eyes and said with a smarmy grin, “I’m a dope dealer, a connoisseur of fine marijuana. I’m not a rabbi. You want me to be nicer to you? Get Flaherty off our backs.”
A tidal wave of cynicism washed over me. I bit my lip. If this piece of advice was Eichmann’s idea of friendship, then I had to work magic to keep it going. Somehow, I had to banish Flaherty from our lives.
The investigation into the Folsom Street shooting was moving slowly. The newspapers reported Flaherty had testified in an open hearing. The results were less than satisfactory. He was asked whether he’d tried to reason with the deceased before using his OC spray on him. Flaherty said yes with such vehemence everyone knew he was lying, but no one could prove it. When I read what he said in the paper, the patent falsehood of his testimony left a stinging aftertaste in my mouth. The newspaper also said the investigation was going upstairs to the Police Commission.
The Police Commission was composed of a bunch of cream-puffs. What were five civilians going to do faced with Flaherty and his lawyer? They wouldn’t do anything—Flaherty was free to roam the streets, persecuting me in the circle of hell I shared with Eichmann. Also, the landlord had paid us an unexpected visit at noon, letting us know our days in the garage were numbered.
The landlord was wearing silk slippers with two-inch lifts built into the heels, bringing him up to five feet. “You must give me money,” he said. I looked around the carport and saw my life written into its tatty walls. Pay the rent? The man was a comedian, the kind that made you laugh hysterically on the inside where no one could see you.