Fat Tony -- Section Three

    “How’d it go last night?” asked Malcolm.  Fat Tony’s business partner didn’t even look up from the game he was playing, thrashing a half-dozen poor sods in rapid succession, each with a head shot.  Malcolm couldn’t store much magic, but what he did went straight into extra cones, rods, and nerve endings.  The connection between his eyes and hands seemed to bypass the brain entirely, clearly an asset for online shooters.
    “Grandma’s fine,” said Tony.  “Cleaned up her basement.”
    Malcolm stopped twitching, turned in his chair, and faced Fat Tony.  “Now why would I care about your grandmother’s basement?”
    “What else were you asking about?”
    “Calling the big-hair girl!  What else is there?”
    “Grandma’s important, too, and I think you just got killed.  You still at the top of the rankings?”
    Malcolm turned back to the screen.  “Always have been, always will.  Twenty-six-years-old and at the top of my game.  TwitchKiller7311 keeps trying, but he’ll never get the real Twitch.”
    “You do answer the phone when I’m gone, right?”
    Malcolm didn’t say anything.
    “You’re rolling your eyes at me, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, I answer the phone.  Have I ever missed any calls when you were out?”
    “I’m not sure.  How would I know?”
    “Boom!  Headshot.”
    “Actually, there’s something real I could use your help with, Twitch.”
    “Computer oriented?”
    “You have a friend I need,” said Fat Tony.
    “Five seconds…four…three…two…BOOM.  That’s it, game set, match.”
    “So if you don’t kill anyone, is that ‘Love?’”
    “No, that’s called bad aim.”  Malcolm spun to face Tony.  “Which friend and for what?”
    “You know someone at the zoo, right?”
    “Yeah.  TeenyBopperXL is a vet down there.  We chat all the time, quest together and stuff.  She’s an awesome tank and a decent wizard.”
    “A tank?”
    “A tank.”
    “Do I need to understand what that means?”
    “No.”
    “And she’s a real wizard, right?”
    “Handles all the odd animals down at the zoo, yes, a real wizard.  I can get in touch with Teeny.  What for?”
    “These,” said Fat Tony, pulling out his handkerchief.
    “I’m assuming there’s something in there,” said Malcolm.
    “Good assumption.”
    “And you’re not going to open it?”
    “Also correct.”
    “And you want me to show it to Teeny.”
    “It’s like you’re reading my mind!”
    “It’s poop, isn’t it?”
    “ Well sealed poop, so don’t stress about it, but tell Teeny to wear gloves.”
    “I’m sure she always does,” said Malcolm, taking the packet and tossing it into the lid of a paper box sitting on his desk.  “What’s she looking for?”
    “Just need to know what it is.”
    “Duh,” said Malcolm, “it’s—”
    “Yes, I know what it is, but I need to know what kind of animal it came from.”
    “Did this have anything to do with the cleaning in your grandma’s basement?”
    “Maybe,” said Fat Tony.
    “Got it.  I’ll ask for an order of discreet to go with the magical droppings.  I guess asking Grandma is out?”
    Fat Tony sagged into his own, well-shaped chair.  “You’ve met my grandma, right?”
    “Sure,” said Malcolm, stretching.  “Funny lady.  Spunky for her age.”
    “You ever seen her do anything besides funny?”
    “What, like serious or contemplative?”
    “Exactly like contemplative.”
    “I only met her twice, Tony.”
    “Then you’ve seen almost exactly as much serious from her as I’ve seen.  Asking Grandma a straight question is like trying to force dental floss through a damp twisty-straw.”
    “Wow,” said Malcolm.  “That was a convoluted metaphor.”
    “Too much?” asked Tony.  “I thought of it yesterday and practiced saying it, but it seemed a little long.”
    “It did lack the zing those kinds of things need.”
    “You get the point though?”
    “Sure,” said Malcolm.  “I take your handkerchief to Teeny.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Speaking of phone calls,” said Malcolm.
    “Were we?”
    “We are now.  Two phone calls.  The first was from a new client.”  Malcolm clicked a few times on his computer.  “A Mr. Robinson, called about a monthly contract, wanted you by today.”
    “Today’s packed,” said Tony.  “Consult out at the base.”
    “Which is what I told him, so I scheduled our Mr. Robinson for first thing tomorrow.  I also told him that Jesus loves him more than he can know.”
    “Woah-woah-woah,” said Fat Tony.  “Did he tell you where Joe DiMaggio went?”
    “Didn’t ask.”
    “Nine tomorrow?”
    “That’s what I put.”
    Fat Tony paused.  “You didn’t really tell him that, did you?”
    “About nine?  Of course I did.”
    “No, the lyrics from the Simon and Garfunkel song.”
    “I’ll make you a deal,” said Malcolm.  “Which brings us to the second phone call.  I’ll tell you what I actually said if you’ll call big-hair girl.  Right now.”
    “Forget it.”
    “Then you’ll just have to find out tomorrow whether he’s expecting you to be his bridge over troubled waters.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “You going to call?”
    “Fine,” said Tony.  “I’ll call.”
    “Good,” said Malcolm, turning back to his computer.  “Then I’ll tell you: no Simon and Garfunkel lyrics were used in the making of tomorrow’s appointment.  Now get on the phone, big guy.”
    Fat Tony stared at the back of his friend’s head.  “I had to be sure, didn’t I?”
    “Sure about what?”
    “That you hadn’t said any of that stuff.”
    “You keep your cell phone in your pocket, if you’d forgotten.  Do you need privacy?”
    “I wouldn’t mind,” said Tony.
    “The bathroom is available,” said Malcolm.
    Fat Tony rocked forward and up onto his feet.  “Remind me why I went into business with you?”
    “I know people.”
    “Flap Jack knows more people.”
    “I talk less than Flap Jack.”
    “Everyone talks less than Flap Jack.”
    “Just think of me as a good compromise.  Now go call.  Bathroom’s that way.”
    Fat Tony shook his head and walked out the front door.