Nowhere by Thomas Berger Read Free Book Online Page B

more or less agreeing with him, after years of residence in New York, where generally speaking the only citizen whose life is without hazard is the ruthless felon. But by the same token, viz., being a New Yorker, I was culturally constrained to bring into use the word “fascist,” which is literally meaningless except in a use peculiar to Mussolini, but which in Manhattan is regularly applied to any projected inconvenience.
    The Sebastiani cops snorted in indifference, and the smaller said, “So why should we care what name be given the practice? The point is, there are crimes and criminals here as elsewhere, for roguery is natural to mankind, but there are no habitual criminals.”
    “We should surely see eye to eye on this subject,” I said, “were I not unjustly accused, arrested, and restrained. There’s the flaw in your practice!”
    “And this is to demonstrate your flaw,” the shorter policeman replied, and struck me across the kidneys with his truncheon. “You are helpless.”
    He had made his painful point, and I sensed that it would be politic for me to stay silent, but I could not accept the unfairness of it. “Won’t you at least get medical help for my friend McCoy? There might still be hope for him.”
    “Aha,” said the larger man. “You are the sort of pervert whose pleasure is bringing some poor devil to the threshold of death and then reviving him so that you can do it all over again?”
    It seemed hopeless, and they were about to conduct me to the police station (by walking me in my bonds between them on their bikes, I assumed), where I would be given the aforementioned pistol and sent out as prey for the Hunt, when the little lift came down to the lobby and who should emerge but McCoy, not good as new, which would probably not have characterized him even as a child, I suspect, but certainly better than when last seen.
    He lurched up to my captors and asked, “What are you scum-heads doing to my friend? Get him out of those bracelets or I’ll drive those billy clubs up your fat rumps.”
    Both officers blanched, and each contested with the other to be first to comply with the abusive demands.
    While with twenty blundering thumbs they undid my various restraints McCoy asked, “Why did you let them do this to you, Wren?”
    “They’re armed, for God’s sake.”
    “Why,” said he, “that doesn’t mean anything. Look.” He booted the larger officer in the behind. The victim looked only more miserable. He had hung the strap of his stick over his holster, and he failed to make a move towards either of his weapons.
    “But they represent the law,” I pointed out.
    He gave me his bleary eyes. His breath stank of shaving lotion. “Only if you agree to let them.”
    “You mean what’s legal or not is arguable in Saint Sebastian? That if I actually had murdered you I could righteously refuse to be arrested?”
    “Murdered me?”
    “I thought you were dying after drinking that stuff. I was looking for a doctor.”
    McCoy snorted. “It’s that disease I told you I had. I didn’t get the booze down quickly enough, so I passed out. But I came to when the alcohol had had time to take hold. By the way, somebody put the wrong label on that bottle. It’s not Scotch but rye, and not a bad one. Decent booze is hard to get here unless you visit the prince. Schnapps is the local firewater.”
    Could there be such a malady? Perhaps I had misjudged him. But apart from that, he obviously had a stainless-steel gastrointestinal system.
    My back ached. I was tempted to take a kick at the policemen myself, but I was still far from certain as to the rules or lack thereof in this situation. It would take me a while to lose my inhibitions against assaulting officers armed with guns and clubs, though that sort of thing was routine enough back home.
    But complaining to the manager of the place one is currently living in is always permissible if not obligatory. I stepped up to the obese person back of the