Page 128 of Cold, Cold Bones
Kramden, all angles and scowls, sat motionless in a scarred wooden chair at a gray metal table, booted feet spread, knees splayed, arms crossed on his chest. An athletic cap rested low on his forehead. I put his height at somewhere around six feet. His attitude at two exits past hostile.
Kramden was staring at the floor. Or his genitals. Hard to tell. He glanced up when Slidell entered. The logo above his bill looked like a red circle with a cross in the center. I couldn’t make out the lettering.
Piccitelli told us the man’s face was damaged. Still, I wasn’t prepared.
A scar snaked south from Kramden’s right temple, then cut east toward his chin. Puckered and permanently discolored, the stitching had not been done by a skilled plastic surgeon. Perhaps not by a doctor at all.
Ditto the eye lost to the IED. The upper lid, drawn down and sewn to the lower, was a translucent violet spiderwebbed with veins.Over time, the rearranged tissue had collapsed into the empty orbit behind it. The scraggly half-brow topping the repair diagonaled upward sharply, creating a look of perpetual surprise.
Slidell tossed a thick folder and a yellow legal pad onto the table. Through the speaker their landing sounded like a thunderclap.
Kramden shot to his feet, good eye bombing the room, every fiber ready for a fight. Or flight.
Slidell’s face flushed and his body coiled.
Kramden raised a hand palm outward. It was shaking. “Sorry, man. Loud noises mess with my head. I’m cool now.”
“Sit your sad ass down, you fuckwit.” Slidell was still shaken but trying to hide it.
Kramden sat.
“You’ve got problems, Bobby Karl.”
“Who don’t?” Embarrassed by his overreaction, Kramden was quickly moving back to belligerent.
“That’s hilarious. I make a comment, you come up with a one-liner quick as a wink.”
“I don’t need no permit for my buses.”
“You sure about that?”
“Check it out. You’re a cop.”
“Another sidesplitter. You ever think of doing stand-up? Maybe use a stage name, like Smith?”
If Slidell’s knowledge of the alias surprised Kramden, he didn’t let it show. The wonky eyebrow helped.
Slidell dropped into the remaining chair, slipped a pencil from his shirt pocket, and poised it over the tablet. “Tell me about Frank Boldonado.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about Frank Boldonado.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Only one I got.”
“Talk about Cougar Piccitelli.”
“What about him?”
“He claims you and Boldonado hung tight as tits on a goat.”
“Look, I may have met the guy. We aren’t buds. We’re both just planning for the day.”
“What day is that, Bobby Karl? The one the Piggly Wiggly don’t get its beer delivery?”
“Go ahead. Laugh. But when the sky’s on fire and the air ain’t fit to breathe, I’ll be warm and my belly will be full. Don’t come begging for shelter.”
Slidell used an old interview tactic. Throw your subject off guard by attacking from multiple directions.
