Slim

Eddie Pritz did not like his job. He liked the uniform, enjoyed the morning routine, neatly pressed trousers and starched collar snug and secure around his skin, belt wrapped tightly in place with room to hook his thumbs, shoes and hat providing the bookend touches, shiny black and carefully maintained. He savored the badge, the pin, the number, the epaulettes. He especially loved the gun, locked in its molded nylon and suede holster, cool and heavy in his hand, hot and light on the range. He touched it now, feeling the cold metal under his palm. He liked being a cop. He just didn't like being a cop here, in this town, in front of this door.

He looked over at his partner, who was relieving his feet of their arduous task by leaning his considerable bulk against the wall. Eddie felt the familiar mix of amusement and disdain as he examined Don, buttons straining against his round, massive, fleshy belly; pant zipper making its slow journey southward, too weak to fight the lifestyle of its owner. Small narrowed eyes, double black marbles sunk in a huge round red oyster, stared back at him. Eddie sighed, a tired and practiced exhortation of all his frustrations.

They were on opposite sides of this apartment door, listening to power chords and cymbals crash through at headache-inducing levels, the sort of volume that tightened Eddie's facial muscles. This unrelenting assault on the eardrum was the reason for their presence, some disgruntled fellow tenant of the building having called the station and complained an hour ago. Eddie raised his eyebrows in question, and got a beefy nod in return. His knocks were entirely swallowed by the music; Eddie watched and felt his knuckles rap mutely on the wooden door. He abandoned that and banged with his fist. "Police. Open the door, please," he intoned. His asynchronous pounding echoed down the hall, joining the punk rock madness.

A few heads popped out from their respective sanctuaries and popped back in when they saw Eddie at the end of the floor, hammering away. He stopped. Listened. And realized that the only sound coming from the apartment was the music. No laughing, no shouting, no sounds save the clipped, blasting distorted electric guitar and the hoarse scream-singing of the vocalist. He ground his jaws together, sawing the two uneven rows of teeth back and forth slightly, an involuntary reaction to trouble he had developed as a child that had earned the wildly divergent disciplinary approaches of his mother and his dentist. On the other side of the door lay the simple explanation, but even so he felt his heartbeat quicken and his slim muscles twitch. He twisted the silver knob, which responded easily, and swung the door open with the flat part of his hand.

In addition to the wall of auditory bricks that hit him, an equally powerful and devastating smell hit Eddie's nose, forcing him to whip out his handkerchief as a substitute mask. The scene before him was mundane and unsurprising, but unpleasant nevertheless. A generic boombox, Japanese import, pumped away right beside the door frame. Two twin-size mattresses, poached from long-expired bunk beds, were shoved against the far corner of the room, flat on the floor. The rest of the studio apartment seemed to be an aftermath of shirts, shorts, pizza boxes, crushed soda cans, dirty underwear, empty brown paper bags, garbage-filled brown paper bags, more dirty underwear, half-eaten collections of potato chips, cookies and cereals, soiled socks stuffed in shoes, disposable knives, forks, spoons, plates and bowls, all radiating from this unadorned nexus of slumber and sex. Hanging off one mattress, completely naked, completely tanned, and completely unconscious, was a young woman, fake blonde locks dangling in a stagnant pool of vomit. Propped between the closet and a wall, his arms permanently wrapped around the wastepaper basket, sat the paying occupant of the premises, organizer of the party, and partner to the lady, mostly clothed but also unconscious. A cigarette peeked from behind his ear, appraising the damage along with Eddie.

Eddie stood there, in the entranceway, one hand on the door, the other on his hip, staring, long after his partner turned and walked away, grunting something about the car. He continued to scan the room, a human security camera, until he was sure he had seen everything. He saw the tiny fort of beer bottles that grew into a full military complex by the chest of drawers. He saw the punctured ping-pong ball that indicated any number of drinking games. He saw the box of condoms, seemingly unused. He recognized several signs of bachelor living from his own apartment. And then he had seen enough.

By state law, police officers were not allowed to enter a residence without permission, but Eddie didn't think these particular occupants would mind. He crossed the room efficiently, pristine boots neatly sidestepping the accumulated haphazard objects of filth, and removed the cigarette from the guy's ear. Crouching by the stereo, the navy blue pant fabric pulled tight against his buttocks, he arrested the frenetic progress of the rock track and pulled the door shut as he left. He spun the nasty little nicotine stick in his handkerchief. A gift for his partner.

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