22 August 2011

"Mystery of the Untucked Shirttail"

            Binks and I are sitting in at the downtown kinoplex, slurping down two rather large doctored rye Pepsi’s in an attempt to escape the rainy Thursday afternoon.  We’re watching Rise of the Apes, or maybe Final Destination Something.  I’m mostly watching the screen through the darkened lenses of my 3D gimmicks, neither here nor there bogged down by plot.  Just flashes of violence and bursts of sound, ambrosia to the senses.
            Actually, I’m thinking to myself that I’ve gone and stiffened the pop a bit too strongly and am contriving a way to somehow reseparate the two liquids, when there’s a stultifying shout from the back of the theater.  One of those flat “Oh no, they’re dead!” kind of things that really just don’t do for me anymore.  But anyway, there was a shout (“Oh no, they’re deeeaaad!”) and a general uproar as people begin leaving or milling about or venturing towards the three motionless patrons at the back.  After what seems like ages the lights finally kick on and the vest-and-tie-festooned staffers are congregating around the bodies.
            “Yeah, they’re pretty dead looking,” Binks is saying between sips as we slowly rubberneck by.  Very tongue-in-cheek, is Mr. Binks.  But he has a point; three stringy chaps at the back, side by side, grotesque expressions frozen on their faces, heads all lilted to one side or another.  Pretty dead looking.
            “Do you suspect foul play?” I’m asking the fattest, most senior looking staffer.  He just gives me a fuck-off sort of look, and begins sniffing at my drink.  “Someone ought to call the police,” I say to Binks as we shuffle-foot on out into the lobby.  I start to grab at my pockets for the mobile when I realize it’s in the shop.  “Maybe you should call on yours.”
            Binks shakes his head.  “Not on my phone.  I’ve got an interview with the D-H-S coming up and I don’t need to be mixed up with any police.  Anyway, what’s wrong with yours?”
            I’m thinking up a way to explain the shop when some vesty pimply punk touches my arm.  “I’m afraid you guys will have to hold back until the police arrive,” and I’m about to ditch the jumbo gulp and hoof it.  Of course, with murder afoot and all, I suppose it’d be a rash move on my part.  So I stand easily.
            “What, for questioning like?”
            “Yehman.  Would you stand over by the others for a bit?  Until they arrive?”  And he gingerly shoves us over to a corral of irritated, perplexed looking movie patrons standing by the popcorn machine.  What a bunch of whiners, what with their places to go and things to do.  Very me-me-me, missing the forest for the lone pine.  Yet larger things were happening.  For one, the ‘police’ show up almost immediately, suspiciously so.  There are four of them, with three gurneys that they wheel straight off into the theater.  I think ‘police,’ because though they’re all more-or-less lumpy enough and have the blue apparel, there isn’t a badge to be seen between them.  And – yes! – one has his shirttail out, a sign of a rush if there ever was!
            “Do you see that, Binks?”
            “Yeah I told you, they’re dead.”
            “No, not that you half-wit!  I think-” and I lower my voice a bit, aware now that we may be in a dangerous position.  “I think those men are the murderers… did you see the one’s shirttail?  Clearly, they’ve only just put on their disguisesThey’re actually making off with the bodies!”
            I must say, Binks’ face was an irritating pinch throughout the whole explanation, seemingly unable to see the situation for what it is.  “Naw, but-” and he at least lowers his voice a bit as well, “But those are the paramedics.
            “Paramedics!?” I shout, nearly laughing.  “Paramedics, but they’re dead, Binks.  They’re dead!”  And I may have blown our cover completely, as now the small crowd we find ourselves in is beginning to forget their schedules and alibis and are instead watching us intently.  I pull Binks to one side and resume the whisper, “I think some of them might be in on it.  The mafia has a very wide net to cast.
            “Mafia?  Where are you getting all of this?”  And I dare say I see the glimmer of doubt in his eye, perhaps even suspicion.  His game is up.
            “I always knew you were a rat,” I sneer as I take a step back.  “Never getting into trouble, now I begin to see the strings that work the marionette.”
            “But,” and I must have riled him because Binks is starting to stammer, to go on the defensive.  “But you’ve always been the one getting into trouble!”  He’s looking back to his cronies now, possibly for support; nobody steps forward and his guard is down.
            “You’re goddamn right,” I say, seizing the opportunity and taking him roughly by his collar.  My drink may have gotten a bit spilt in the scuffle, but I’m sure I had the murderers' inside man.  I might’ve beaten it out of him, too, if the cock-up police hadn’t arrived to shake things up.  “Confess, damn you!” I'm shouting at him, and one of the officers has me going to ground despite my best struggles.  Being a bit bigger than I am Binks is putting up a more solid fight, despite being a mafioso thug (or maybe because of it).  Even gets a proper punch in before the cowards triple-team him into submission.
            “Thattaboy, Binksie,” I mumble into the shoddy theater lobby carpet as the cuffs come on behind me.  “Work those strings…”

No comments: