Plainclothes Naked (28 page)

“If you mean, is that the president of our fine nation and our own Mayor Marge,” said Manny, “the answer’s yes. You’ve made some cash putting up extreme-o stuff, so what do you think?”

Roos rubbed his hands together. “I think it’s way too hot for the Web.” He hesitated, gently massaging himself, and gave Manny a side long glance. “Something like this, you want to stick to major media. I know a guy—well, he’s only a guy for another month or so—but he’s

very connected. Did a lot of Monica work. I can’t tell you his name, but I bet he’d pay pretty heavy. But he’d probably want to shop it him self.”

“How much is pretty heavy?”

“I can’t say without speaking to him. But if you’d like to leave it... .”

“
Leave it?
Did someone stitch
MORON
on my forehead? I’m not going to fucking leave this with you! Talk to your guy and see what he offers.”

“How do I know you’re not going to bust him?” “I didn’t bust you, did I?”

“You need me,” Roos said.

Manny narrowed his eyes. “I
use
you. Don’t confuse the two.” With that he snatched the photo back and slid it in the envelope. “I want an answer by tomorrow or I’ll nail you for Carlos Dendez. After a jury hears what you did between his thighs, you’ll be lucky to operate on queens in the joint for Q-Tips and pruno.”

Roos’s chin began to quiver and Manny clapped him on the back. “Now you’re making me feel bad, Willard. I’ll tell you what, you get me decent bank, I’ll split it eighty-twenty. And I promise I won’t tell the police chief ’s wife you gave her a face-lift without a license.”

Mayor Marge took a nibble of Balance Bar—ginkgo yogurt-berry—and rolled onto her back. She knew Lamb hated when she ate during massages, but she couldn’t help it. She was tense. Bad enough Lipton doesn’t show up for Chatlak’s funeral. Then she spots his car at an intersection on the way to the cemetery. This after he actually had the gall to call and say he had a dentist’s appointment. Nobody owned worse teeth than Lipton. It was part of his British charm. Mayor Marge had been to England, and the one lasting impression she took home was the unbelievably gross state of British dental care. The richer they were, the worse it was. Having crooked, yellow teeth, she concluded, was some kind of badge of honor. If you were a true aristocrat, you could flaunt your status by boasting canines that looked trans
‌

planted from a cocker spaniel. And don’t get her going on British hygiene.... Much as she loved and admired Margaret Thatcher, there was no excusing the sorry truth about Great Britain’s gums. But maybe, to be fair, the dental decline took place after Maggie left office.
“Spleen-verk!”
Lamb barked as she began to knead away at the bot tom left of Mayor Marge’s stomach. The beefy German girl pounded extra hard—or so Marge felt—as punishment for noshing and talking on her cell phone during bodywork. Well, screw her! For $200 an hour, she could damn well send faxes, balance her checkbook, and eat

an entire meatloaf, if she still ate meat.

The problem was, Mayor Marge already felt queasy, and the deep tissue work wasn’t helping. The nausea had started at Chatlak’s serv ice, when Chief Fayton whispered in her ear that she looked “deli cious.”

Lyn Fayton!
That pompous lunatic who got his picture taken every time somebody in Upper Marilyn got a parking ticket. For the funeral, the police chief had pinned on so many medals, badges, and stars he looked like a blue Christmas tree. To make matters worse, as they low ered the casket and the minister intoned the Twenty-third Psalm, Fay-ton leaned over again and told her that he found her “irresistible.”
Yuk!
Not only had he suggested they “reconnoiter” after the ceremony, but, this was the kicker, he even told her that the two of them could be
really good
together: “Like Bill and Hillary, without that whole Lewin sky thing... .”

The really creepy part, beyond the fact that the chief was com pletely delusional, was that, even as he was speaking, it sounded like he was reading the words off cue cards. The man could not be sponta neous if he stubbed his toe and said, “Ouch.”

“Ze eating compromizes ze prozess,”
Lamb complained, doing some thing with her knuckles on Marge’s kidneys that had her writhing. Her Honor crunched another bite of Balance Bar and considered her options. She could call up her ex, that lowlife son of a bitch, and ask him to tail Lipton, to bring him to ground. But how would she explain it? “Well, you see, Manuel”—she could never bring herself to say “Manny,” which sounded so ethnic—“I think my assistant may be going off the deep end, and I need him for a special assignment I can’t really talk about, since it involves a photograph of me and the presi

dent’s privates. Oh, and did I mention the smiley-face? Please don’t ask questions!”

A sudden thought jolted Marge upright. She nearly banged heads with Lamb, who stepped back furiously.

“Vot is the meaning of zis?”

“I have to make a phone call. Take five.”

The masseuse, a large-pored, perpetually scowling bottle-blond who’d come to America to compete in bodybuilding, glowered as if someone had insulted her family. Marge ignored her. Being mayor meant not having to be liked by people who didn’t matter. She didn’t think Lipton would have the nerve to rip her off. But still, he was the one who’d told her that somebody had broken into the mansion and made off with Mister Biobrain. Temptation was temptation. Other stuff was missing, but what did
that
mean? He could have taken the watches and jewels, to make it look like garden-variety burglary. Or he could be in cahoots with some rough trade who did it for him. Nobody looked more elegant than Lipton: perfect hair, male model lips, a glamorous bearing, and confident stride. The man would have come off suave in sackcloth and ashes. Everything about him spelled class, except for those teeth, and on him, even
they
somehow worked. But so what? That didn’t mean he didn’t know people capable of a lit tle light breaking-and-entering. Especially when he had keys to the house.

After the crime was discovered, Lipton assured her he could get the photograph back himself. She could still hear him, sounding almost cocky. “Leave it to me, ma’am. I’m the resourceful type.” How could she let herself fall for that
Upstairs, Downstairs
crap?

The more she kicked it around, the more likely it seemed. Lipton had been with her forever, but who knew what he did on his weekends off ? Or what went on in that dentally challenged head of his. No doubt he harbored his own mammoth ambitions. Ambitions that required money. The payoff potential of something as explosive as her Bush party-picture was pretty much unlimited.

Just to make the scenario more chilling, Lipton had been there every step of the way. Which meant he knew her contacts. Her
Republicans
. He even knew their phone numbers, because
he
dialed

the phone. Damn! Perhaps she
should
have cut him in for some thing....

Marge closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to just get up, to tear back to the mansion and start rifling Lipton’s quarters. But it would take a while to get there, and God knew how long to go through his stuff. She wasn’t sure she even
wanted
to touch anything of Lipton’s. Plus which, what was she really looking for? A check stub? A scribbled fax number? Maybe a business card:
B
&
E
’
S ARE US
.... Not likely.

The problem was, there were too many variables. And time was crucial. Mayor Marge knew she had to make a decision now. If it turned out that she was wrong, that Lipton had some legitimate reason for disappearing, then she could clear her tracks later—come up with a lovely and feasible explanation for doing what she was about to do. What else was politics but fucking people over and making them believe that you did it for them? Or better yet, that they weren’t being fucked at all. That, thanks to you, they were actually being
helped
.

Exactly! No doubt her personal assistant would be less than delighted to hear that she’d sicced a detective on him. But she would explain. She would say that she thought something had happened to him. When he didn’t turn up at the funeral, or answer his phone, she grew
concerned
. She was
afraid
he may have been in some kind of
danger,
and she wanted to
help
. That sounded convincing enough.
I did it because I care
....

Decided. She’d call her ex, the low-end detective. He’d be suspi cious, but that prick was always suspicious. She could live with the ex husbandy snide remarks. As long as he didn’t suspect anything about W.’s genitals—and why would he?—she wouldn’t hesitate to let him think she and Lipton were having an affair. She knew how his mind worked. She’d have the last laugh later. That’s all that counted.

Ignoring Lamb’s furious sighs, Mayor Marge reached for her Star-TAC and poked out Manny’s number. She got his voice mail (“Talk if you have to”) and spoke in as even a manner as she could under the circumstances: “This is the mayor. I’ve got a problem. My assistant, Lipton, is missing and I need you to find him.” She paused a second, then added, “I’m not certain, but I’m afraid something may have hap pened to him. As soon as you know anything, call.” She slammed the

phone shut, then quickly snapped it open again and hit Redial. “And Manuel,” she added, “I do not want this going through Fayton. Report directly to me.”

Mayor Marge tossed the phone in her bag and laid down again, determined to relax if it killed her. Nothing happened. When she opened her eyes Lamb was standing above her, arms crossed, glaring down.

“I vill not be treated like zis! I am pro-vessional.”

Mayor Marge eyed her evenly. She didn’t enjoy the pummelings Lamb gave her, but she always felt better afterward. Without bothering to sit up, the mayor asked about the state of Lamb’s green card applica tion. More than once, Lamb had complained that she couldn’t com pete on the women’s bodybuilding circuit until she got her card. Marge had promised to look into it, though she certainly hadn’t strained herself doing so. Making promises was just another part of being mayor.

“Iz not good,”
Lamb replied, her defiant posture suddenly sagging.

“Iz not good at all.”

“Well,” said Marge, settling herself more comfortably on the mas sage table, “I think I’ve found somebody who can help. Of course, I can’t guarantee anything, but I think we can get your application on the fast track.”

Lamb nodded, a flush of scarlet darkening her extra-large pores.

“Zis iz true, ja?”

“Like I say, I can’t guarantee,” Marge said, closing her eyes and anticipating another forty minutes of therapeutic kneading. “But I’ll put in another call after we finish.”

Lamb grabbed a squeeze bottle of massage oil and squirted a puddle in her meaty hands.

“Very good,”
she announced.
“Now ve attack ze rump!”

It was Zank’s idea to peddle the stolen crack to L’il Pepe, the fourteen-year-old who worked the corner across from Clemente Elementary. Tony copped from L’il Pepe all the time, so he naturally figured the slinger would be bitch-happy one of his best customers had some stuff for him. At a discount. Unfortunately, L’il Pepe took one look at the chunk Tony handed him and threw it back in his face. “Yo, you think I’m a dumb ass, you Anglo motherfucker? You think ’cause I’m part Rican, I’m some retardo punk?”
‌

L’il Pepe was short for his age, with a voice like a little girl and the dead eyes of a con who’d walked the yard for a decade. McCardle was sure Tony was going to kill him. Instead, he just froze, and Mac nearly

scorched his shorts when the boy yanked a sawed-off out of his pant leg and stuck it in the Lincoln’s window.

“Wanna piece of this?” L’il Pepe asked in that little girl voice. It was like being jacked up by Alfalfa, if Alfalfa sold crack and packed a hog-leg. The youngster kept taunting him. “Huh, Zank? You tore-up, loco
maricón.
Come over here and diss
me
with your fuckin’ bone chips? Tryin’ to sell
me
a chopped-up kneecap or some shit? You gotta be out your fucking
mind,
homes!”

Somewhere a boom box blasted Snoop Doggy Dogg.
“You don’t wanna step to me. . . .”
McCardle got worse heebie-jeebies when he saw a boy-gangster even smaller than L’il Pepe mad-dog him. He might have been the crack dwarf ’s brown-skinned cousin. The tiny banger, who was maybe six, seven tops, leaned on a graffitied garbage can smoking a heater. He sported a shaved head and what must have been size five children’s Nikes. Mac heard him brag to the thug-in training beside him that he was making twenty bucks working look out, and that a white lady showed him her tits in the lobby of his building. “Way she hug me, I know she be wantin’ my ass. She wantin’ it
bad.
”

Clemente Elementary, McCardle had read in the
Trumpet,
had just installed a metal detector, and he suspected these boys might have been the reason. They didn’t look like honor roll material. It was as if he and Tony had been air-dropped onto the Planet of Pee-Wee Gang-bangers. Mac felt righteous anger, watching them front. Where were their par ents?
The middle of the goddamn day!
If he had any say, these young men would be chained to their desks, memorizing state capitals. He was a big believer in education and discipline. That’s what made good citi zens! He just wished they could finish the crack deal and get the fuck out of there.

McCardle sighed and glanced at the sky, often a source of solace in high-stress situations. He glanced down again to a gaggle of killer prepubes that had somehow cropped up alongside the Lincoln. They weren’t surrounding the car, but they were definitely within banging distance. He had a twitchy vision of being set upon by an army of shrieking seven-year-olds, ripped apart by dirty fingernails and milk teeth.
Lord of the Flies
with Puerto-billies.