The Glitter Dome Read Free

held each other upright and pushed through the madding crowd, much to the sorrow of Wing, who hated to see rummies get away with a few bucks left in their kick.
    Perhaps the second saddest moment of the evening for Al Mackey was the snatch of conversation he heard at the far end of the long bar as he swayed past poor old Cal Greenberg, a thirty-five-year detective from his own division, who was desperately trying to make his point over the din of snaky hard rock to a lethargic young cop from Newton Street Station who couldn’t care less.
    â€œI wouldn’t mind,” poor old Cal Greenberg shouted. “If it was music, I wouldn’t mind. You call this music?”
    â€œYou know that record clerk works the Badcat Detail,” the young cop answered. “Maggie something? Tits from here to San Diego? That one?”
    â€œWell, do you? Do you call it music?”
    â€œTits from here to Texas? Maggie I think it is?”
    â€œTits! That’s all you want out of life? Would you rather have brains or tits?” poor old Cal Greenberg demanded.
    â€œShit,” the young cop said drily. “If I had brains I could buy the tits.”
    â€œBut you call this music?” poor old Cal Greenberg insisted. “This is not music. You ever heard of Glenn Miller? He made music. Glenn Miller. You ever heard of him?”
    Wing ended poor old Cal Greenberg’s imminent crying jag by pouring him a double. He let his furtive emerald sleeve slither across the pile of bills in front of the old detective. Wing managed to steal two bucks along with the price of the double to add to the box of mad money.
    â€œTell him, Wing,” poor old Cal Greenberg pleaded. “Tell this kid. Glenn Miller was a hero!”
    â€˜Hero, my tush,” Wing giggled, turning the hard rock two decibels louder. “He couldn’t even fly .”
    Wing dropped the booty in the box made of monkeypod, gave the abacus a sprightly fingering, and hopped down the bar toward a bombed-out kiddy cop from Hollenbeck who had at least thirty bucks in front of him.
    Perhaps Al Mackey’s misfire at the Chinatown motel was inevitable. Her flesh collapsed when she took off the bra and panty girdle. She fell out in sections: gelatinous thighs, varicosed greenish calves, stomach crisscrossed by a network of wrinkles and stretch marks. The gray belly of an aged seal.
    â€œWell, goddamn!” she said finally, sweat-drenched and panting, not from lust but exhaustion. “You a fag or what? I suck my goddamn teeth loose! For what?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he belched. The combination of booze and tension had him incredibly flatulent.
    â€œIt takes a stiff rod to catch the big fish, boy!”
    â€œI know. I know! ”
    â€œJust my goddamn luck! A bar full a real men and I get some kind a fag .”
    â€œMaybe we should leave.” He tried to sit up but the ceiling spun. Not in the same direction that it had when he lay down. It was the first time he could remember the ceiling ever spinning in different directions. Amazing Grace. He needed a Saving Grace!
    â€œOkay, okay,” she said soothingly. “I didn’t mean that. That was wrong for me to say. Lord, what’s the matter with me? You’re havin a little trouble and I call you a fag? Lord, what’s wrong with me? I should be helpin you.”
    â€œIt’s my fault. It’s not you.”
    â€œNo, no, sweetie. Here, come to Mama.” She pulled the skinny detective to her soft sagging breasts and shoved one in his mouth. “There, there. You’ll be okay in a minute. It was wrong of Mama to scold and call nasty names. There, there.”
    Spittle was drooling from the corner of Al Mackey’s mouth. His right eye was closed, the left nearly so. He was unaware of her fondling his flaccid whanger. He was unaware that he had fallen asleep. She was unaware that he had fallen asleep. Then she noticed.
    Al Mackey’s elbow