Who Killed the Fonz? by James Boice

Author:James Boice
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

FRIDAY

THE CHEESEHEAD LODGE HAD SEEN better days. Most of them were right around the first Super Bowl.

In the parking lot the orange sodium lights were on. Night had fallen. They found their rooms—room 15 and room 66, which were next door to each other, connected by a door. The rooms at the Cheesehead Lodge, which was laid out like a motel, were numbered after the jersey numbers of famous Green Bay Packers players. The office had rented them Bart Starr and Ray Nitschke.

They opened the door to Bart Starr. They smelled the room before they saw it—a moldy musk hit them like a bear hug. Richard flipped on the light, revealing walls covered in wood paneling on which hung portraits, action photos, oil paintings, and framed, signed jerseys of the legendary quarterback. The closet was made to look like a locker, nameplate included. The carpet was Packer yellow. The archaic television was Packer green. The lamps in the corner and on the bedside tables had Packer helmets for a base, wedges of cheese for the shade. Packer ashtrays sat overflowing with cold, smoked butts.

“Hey,” Ralph said, carrying a box of recording equipment, “this place is nice.”

He went through the connecting door to Ray Nitschke and began setting up the microphone and tape recorder. A taped confession was their only hope for proving Sealock had Fonzie murdered. Richard would meet with him in Bart Starr while Potsie and Ralph hid in Ray Nitschke, secretly recording the conversation through the wall. Richard watched Ralph. He examined the microphone. “Are you sure this thing is strong enough to work?”

“That’s a Neumann,” Ralph told him. “Top of the line. That thing’s so sensitive it could make a mouse’s fart sound like a cymbal crash.”

Richard knocked on the wall between the two rooms. “About as thin as they get. Just don’t sneeze or anything. He’ll hear you.”

“What do you think we are, idiots?” Ralph was trying to untangle a cord.

Potsie was looking through the blinds out at the parking lot. He turned around. “Man, this is cool. It’s just like Miami Vice.”

“It’s on tonight,” Ralph said. “Think we’ll be done in time to watch it?”

Potsie said, “We better be. You know, people tell me I remind them of Crockett.”

“No way,” Ralph said. “If anyone’s Crockett, it’s me.”

Potsie said, “I’m Crockett. You’re Tubbs.”

“You’re Crockett’s pet alligator.”

“No way are you Crockett. You’re not cool enough to be Crockett. Richard, tell Potsie he’s not cool enough to be Crockett.”

Potsie said, “He doesn’t care about Miami Vice, he probably watches Falcon Crest.”

“Enough goofing around,” Richard said, “we’ve only got a few minutes.”

Ralph set the mixer and tape recorder on the table—crusted with old spilled beer—and sat down in one of the chairs, slipped on the headphones, and hit the switch on the tape recorder. “Okay,” he said to Potsie, giving him a thumbs-up, “let’s check the levels.”

Potsie nodded, a competent assistant. He leaned down into the microphone and shouted into it, “TESTING TESTING!”

Ralph winced, tore off the headphones. “Ah!” he said.

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