Plainclothes Naked (34 page)

Zank rubbed splooge off his leg with the back of his gun hand. Then he grabbed the towel from the top of the hamper. He wiped off, and Manny felt his heart skid sideways. Beneath the towel was the original Mister Biobrain and a stack of Polaroids. Beside them was Tina’s straight razor.

But Zank was too distracted to notice. “You hear me?
This never

happens!
Tell ’em, Mac. I can fuck. I’m a
good
fuck. Remember that redhead from Hooter’s, the one with the twitch? She said I was an artist. A goddamn fuck-artist! That’s what she said. Tell ’em, Mac!”

McCardle spoke up. “That’s right, Tony. You’re a stud. All the strawberries say so.”

“Damn straight. And not just strawberries, either. I fucked some normal chicks, too. Plenty.”

Mac fired another rock in the pipe. He took a courtesy suck, then handed it to Zank, who pulled in a king-hell hit, exhaled fast, and whipped his head toward the window behind him. “Oh SHIT! You hear the helicopters? You hear ’em?”

His eyes darted wildly around the bathroom. Tina pretended to sneeze, knocking the original photo behind the hamper.

“What was that?” Tony cried. “I saw that! What was it?”

He spotted the blade and, stiff-arming Tina, lunged for it. But Tina grabbed it as she fell sideways. She flipped the razor open back-hand and swung. A high shriek escaped Tony’s lips. He fired the gun, which blasted the bathtub, shattering one side to dust and blowing a hole the size of a bicycle seat through the wall opposite. A cloud of plaster dust floated past the shattered tiles.

“Jesus fuck, I’m
cut!
” Tony let go of the gun and spun around on the throw rug, clutching his penis. Blood leaked through his fist. He wailed in disbelief,
“You cut me! You bitch, you cut me down there!”

Tony rechecked his organ, saw that only his finger was bleeding— the tip of his pinkie—and clamped his hands together at his chest.
“Oh thank you, God!”
He raised his eyes and threw back his head.
“Thank you thank you thank you thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Moving fast, Manny took advantage of Zank’s gratitude to scoop the Python off the bathroom rug. Surprised at the heft of it, he checked the clip and pointed it at Zank and McCardle. “Police, freeze!”

“Police? Are you
kidding
me?” Zank hopped up and down and shouted at McCardle. Blood spritzed out of his mouth when he yelled. “Grab the other gat, man. Come on! Shoot the mother fucker!”

McCardle didn’t move. “It’s in the car,Tony. My bad.”

“Thanks a lot, Soul Brother!”

Zank took Tina by the hair and swung her in front of him. Then he tried pinning her arms at her sides, but she managed to jerk one hand free. Still clutching the straight razor, she jammed the blade straight up, slicing the lobe off his good ear, the one Mac hadn’t shot half off in the Pawnee Lodge. The pad of flesh plopped onto the toilet seat, where Tony regarded it. “Doesn’t hurt,” he said quietly, as if having a mystical experience.

Manny prepared to squeeze the trigger, but Zank kept himself behind Tina. When he noticed the Polaroids, a sickening grin split his face.

Manny followed Zank’s eyes to the pictures scattered on the floor.

Close-ups of Manny’s own shaved balls, freshly happy-faced.

“Ka-ching,” Zank warbled, back to tugging his shiny-wet penis. By now it looked like a rubber dog toy. “You sex-freaks were holdin’ out on me!” He tugged faster, examining the first Polaroid. “Look at this, Mac. The fucking sicko
likes
puffing his nuts out. Fuckin’ Georgie-boy’s a
kink!”
His tone was commiserating. “Rich kids! They can do this shit, right? Nothin’ better to do than play with their peters and count their ducats. Pop’s got them CIA connects, a billion in the bank. Hey, he can buy Junior the party jobs, like ownin’ a base ball team or bein’ President. Ever notice that little nut-puffer’s eyes? Nobody can tell me Daddy’s boy ain’t sucked the glass dick. That fucker’s eyes are
glittery.
”

Still grinning around his tooth-hole, Zank turned to Manny. His ear poured blood, and his whole face seemed stained by gummy wine. He was enjoying himself.

“Thought you could get over on Tony Zank, huh? You thought Tony Z wouldn’t find these? Well, I guess you blew it, moose-cock.” He fingered a scab over his eye. “You know what you see when you look at me?”

“A dead crackhead,” said Manny. But Tony let it pass. “What you see here is a professional criminal, my friend.” Manny faked a yawn. “I’m impressed.”

“You fucking oughta be.” Zank waved the Polaroids over Tina’s shoulder. “Winner take all, copper. Y’hear me? I’m taking all of ’em!”

It was all Tina could do to keep from laughing. So she pretended to cry. Zank hadn’t bothered to tuck himself in his pants. He backed toward the door with Tina still shielding him, his boiled shrimp mushed against her spine. When he got alongside McCardle, he shoved her into Manny and shouted. “Come on, Mac Daddy, I’ll start the car!”

Zank tore out of the bathroom. But McCardle froze. Manny met his eyes and pulled the trigger. The sink blew off the wall. A gusher streamed out of the shattered pipe. Through the spray, Manny nodded toward McCardle, who nodded back and dropped to the puddled floor, screaming. “Tony, he’s gonna kill me, man!”

They could hear Zank crunching across the living room. He stopped and yelled from the front door. “I
told
you you didn’t know shit about crime. You fucked yourself, Dino!”

Then the door slammed and, seconds later,Tina found the valve and turned the water off. They heard a car start and Tony Zank roar off with a peal of rubber.

“I didn’t hit you, did I?” Manny asked McCardle. “No, no... I’m fine.”

“That’s more than I can say about my bathroom,” Tina said. “It looks like fucking Bosnia in here.”

“You think we could have this discussion later?” “Suit yourself, Kojak.”

“Thank you.” Manny turned his back to McCardle. The shaken mini-lifter put his hands up, though nobody’d asked him to. Manny fished around in his jacket, now a soaking heap on the floor, and dug out his badge. This was the first arrest he’d made with no pants on. He flashed the shield and announced, in a flat voice, “You’re under arrest. You know the drill, right?”

“I guess so.”

“You heard of plainclothes cops?” Tina asked him. “Manny’s no-clothes. It’s a whole new branch.”

Manny eyed her balefully. “Do you mind?”

“You just destroyed my house. You want a thankyou note?” “Let’s just do this, okay?”

Manny put the badge back and gathered up his pants and under

wear. He tried to wring them out, gave up, and dug a pair of plastic cuffs out of the pocket. McCardle held out his wrists, looking grateful. “Okay, then. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney,
et cetera,
et cetera
.... Fuck with me and I’ll shoot

you in the head and get rich.”

Fayton hunkered over his desk, examining fabric sam ples. He’d thought, once the
America’s Most Wanted
money came in, that he would just repaint his office, maybe lay in one of those aircraft-carrier-size CEO desks, the kind the big boys always posed behind with their arms crossed in
Fortune
photos. The chief had tried out the CEO pose, but it blocked out the medals on his chest. Fabric walls, though, that was a bold move. The kind of move that said
innovator
. That said
vision ary
. That said
Leader of Men.
‌

Well, maybe he was getting carried away. But not completely. His wife had introduced him to fabric walls when they’d decided to redo the den. Even with those beefy shoulders, Florence could give Martha Stewart a run for her money. She got into decorating in her per

sonal assistant days. Apparently, Dr. Laura liked to unwind reading wall paper catalogues, and Florence picked up the habit.

Fayton had set the missus up in business, when he first made chief. But, no doubt fearing an aesthetic clash with the spouse of a police leg end, clients were few and far between. In fact, there were no clients at all. Poor Flo. She just didn’t have the spunk. The pizzazz. Not like Mayor Marge—that power-mad tease! He couldn’t wait to tell Her Honor that he’d captured McCardle. Which reminded him—how could he forget?—he had to line up a photographer before Manny got back with the prize. Chatlak used to take pictures of the chief making major arrests. Or, if you wanted to split hairs, of him standing next to major guys who’d been arrested. Often as not by Manny Rubert. That arrogant...
hot dog!

Fayton smiled to himself. Wouldn’t Manny be surprised that he even
knew
he was bringing in “the Black Menace?” (“The Black Men ace” is what the chief had decided to call McCardle in the screenplay of his memoirs. He loved the sound of it, and had already worked it into a dramatic voiceover: “Evil comes in all colors, but in this case it came in black . . . the Black Menace.” Now
that
was the kind of line that spelled Oscar!)

But back to Manny. God forbid he should keep his superior officer informed! No, Fayton had to tap Officers Merch and Krantz’s phones to get the skinny. Not that Krantz ever had anything worth hearing, beyond spats with club owners who refused to pay him because he sucked. Of course, it might not be strictly legal. It might upset your ACL-
JEW
types. But he’d be willing to bet his pension he wasn’t the only chief who indulged in a bit of not-quite-constitutional telephonic surveillance.

Fayton checked his imitation Rolex. It had been ten minutes since he’d “overheard” the call. Manny had told Merch to ready the interro gation room. Which meant moving out the stacks of paper towels and toilet paper, and moving in table and chairs. It wasn’t like they did a whole lot of interrogating in Upper Marilyn. When they did, it was an event.

Manny Rubert had a rep as some hot-shit interrogator. Well, we’ll see about
that
, Fayton huffed to himself. We’ll just see who wrestled a confession out of “the Menace.” It would feel so good to call that

patronizing gob at
America’s Most Wanted
and let him know that Lyn Fayton, police chief of Upper by God Marilyn, had captured one of the most wanted
Wanteds
. Or so Fayton fancied. Doubtless the crumb who’d mocked him on the 800-line was lolling around some swanky office, cackling on his network-padded behind about the rube down in Hicksville, Pennsylvania, who thought he could reel in a big one. Well
hah!
Fayton said out loud.
Hah
and
Hah
and
Hah!

Returning to his chief ’s chair—which squeaked, now that Chatlak wasn’t around to oil it—Fayton spun around a few times then buzzed Merch. “Oh, Officer,” he said, “would you please tell me the second Ruby gets back here with McCardle? I want to be there for the inter rogation.”

There was a beat at the other end. He heard crumpling paper, then a loud crunch—Merch unwrapping and chomping a candy bar before bothering to respond. “Guess you heard it on the tap, huh Chief ?”

“Never mind how I heard about it. It’s my business to hear what goes on around here!” Fayton pounded his desk, imagining that James Woods, in
Lawman,
would pound the desk exactly the same way. “My business, understand? That’s why I’m chief and you’re, um.. .” Fayton fumbled for words. It was tough, without the cue cards. “And you’re—”

“A real cop?” Merch offered helpfully between crunches.

“That’s just about enough,” Fayton snarled. But he hadn’t mastered the snarling thing, and it just sounded like he had a bone in his throat. “Whatever you say,” said Merch. “You want me to alert the press?”

“Just do what you’re supposed to do. Think you can handle that?” “Maybe.”

“Well, then—”

Fayton was still trying to come up with a really mean, really power ful response when Merch hung up. For a second the chief glared at his new cordless. (After the mishap with his last telephone, he decided to trade up. He’d selected a white Panasonic that picked up the Weather Channel.) Fayton was still glaring, as if it were the phone’s fault he couldn’t think of an insult, when inspiration struck. “Charles Durn ing,” he said out loud.
Charles Fucking Durning
.

Fayton swelled with manly ire and fantasized the conversation he’d have with his bloated subordinate. “You wanna mess with me, Merch?

Fine. I’ve got two words for you.
Charles Durning
. That’s who’s gonna play
you,
Tubby. I bet
that
will impress your friends, if you have any. I won’t even change your name. I’ll hire an old, fat actor and I’ll call him
Merch
.”

The chief was still tittering when the actual Merch rang back to tell him Elvis was in the building.

After planting the docile McCardle on the living room couch, Manny decided to check his messages. Tina was busy hauling in dry clothes from Marvin’s closet, since Manny’s own shirt and pants had been soaked in the sink explosion.
‌

“Pick something you like,” she said, holding aloft an armful of Marv-wear. Everything the dead man owned pretty much fell into the saffron category. Riffling through his options, Manny settled on an orangey-saffron turtleneck and matching drawstring pants with Sanskrit symbols on each leg.

“Any idea what this says?”

“Marvin told me it meant
Yin and Yang
.” said Tina. “But for all I know it means
White Shmuck With Scrib

ble on His Thighs
. Your Third World sweatshop worker has to have a laugh, too, don’t you think?”

Manny started to say something, then noticed that McCardle was going into spasms on the sofa. Manny bent over him cautiously and shook his shoulder. “Hey Mac, you feeling okay?”

“Just crashing,” McCardle replied, his voice far away. “Been up for a week. Maybe three, I don’t know. I can’t close my eyes ’cause I see bats.”