Plainclothes Naked

by Jerry Stahl

  “Unlike most guys,” she said. “Get out much?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tony Zank was crawling on all fours, nose close to the carpet, squinting for crumbs. His throat still stung from the chunk of wall plaster he’d just fired up, sucking the tainted smoke in deeply, even though he knew, right away, it wasn’t actually crack he was smoking. Still, there might have been some crack on it. Maybe a molecule. He didn’t want to not inhale in case he missed anything.

  “Oh man,” said McCardle, combing through the shag fibers beside him. “I think you just smoked a paint chip or somethin’.”

  “I know what I smoked,” croaked Zank. “If you wouldn’t have dropped the baggie we wouldn’t be down here.”

  “I told you, Tony, it was empty.”

  Zank ignored him, having just found a reasonably cracklike white chunk under the couch. He held it to the light, grunted, and shoved it in the tiny pipe. “Bic me,” he commanded his partner. “My thumb’s too sore to flick.”

  “Mine, too,” cried McCardle. Holding up his own shredded thumb tips, he suddenly remembered. “You seen Puppy?”

  Tony slapped him. “Forget Puppy. Just fucking do it!” He leaned in close, clenching the now jagged glass stub between his teeth. By now the oven mitt was missing in action.

  “I’m still worried about Puppy,” Mac said, but Tony ignored him. Wincing, he flicked the lighter a few times, catching a weak flame, and held it unsteadily while Zank aimed the end of the stem into it.

  “Uccch, shit!” he gagged, dropping the pipe as a waxy feather of black smoke trailed toward the ceiling. The carpet began to smolder, where the hot glass lay tangled in fiber.

  “Smells like cheese,” said McCardle, covering his tiny nose with his hand. “Must be parmesan, from when we had the Chef Boyardee.”

  “I don’t care what it’s from,” Zank shouted. “We’re out of stuff, and we need some. Now!”

  “But Tony, man, I thought we was gonna go after the girl? To get that picture.”

  “We’ll stop on the way there,” said Zank, still combing the carpet lint. “I know a corner. Get the kit.”

  “You’re taking your kit?”

  “What are you, my mother? Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am takin’ it. Soon as I can remember where the fuck it is.”

  “It’s where you left it, man, in the fridge. You said you put it there so you wouldn’t forget it.”

  “Well I didn’t, so get it, ass-fucker. I’m busy here.”

  McCardle pouted and got to his feet. “That’s really uncool, man. Ain’t no need for that kind of talk.”

  “Read a grammar book or shut up,” Zank carped. “I thought your dad was a dentist.”

  “He jus’ say he was a dentist. What he was was a con man. Went roun’ to all the different hoods with a chisel and string, pullin’ out peoples’ molars ’n shit. Lotta folks in them days couldn’t afford nobody else. Still can’t. So Daddy did ’em a service.”

  “That why your mama killed him?”

  “Not exactly. Some of the ladies, his fingers wasn’t all Daddy was puttin’ in their mouf.”

  “Mouf? See that’s what I mean. When you’re straight you sound like Colin fucking Powell. Then you stick your lips on that glass dick and—Yo!—Mike Tyson’s in the house. What is wrong with you?”

  McCardle shuddered and backed toward the kitchen. “Look who’s talkin’! Every time you smoke this shit, you go Aryan Nation on me. You get scary.”

  “I am scary, you fucking homo. Now get the kit. We’re wasting time.”

  McCardle got five feet before he had to stop and look behind him. There it was again! The grinning midget. As soon as he turned his head, no matter how fast, it flitted out of sight. Around a corner, under a couch…. The thing was watching him now. He could hear it talking, too. He was sure. Not just talking, either. It was laughing at him. Making fun. That’s what it was! A vicious pygmy in the shadows, calling him an asshole.

  “Oh man, I am never doing this again! Tony, you hear me! I’m done! I never wanna see another chunk of cocaine….”

  He thought he was yelling, then realized his voice was barely over a peep. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. He felt like he’d swallowed a ringing alarm clock. The crack dwarf was back, tee-heeing in every corner.

  Suddenly dizzy, McCardle clung to the door of the refrigerator as if clinging to the side of a ship, trying not to get carried off by waves. His own weight swung the appliance open. Inside, among the Iron Cities and Slim Jims—Tony liked them chilled, to bring out the bite—was a canvas plumber’s bag. He made a grab for it, peeking over his shoulder for the angry munchkin, and accidentally tipped the contents onto the sticky floor.

  Mac dropped to his knees, cursing. “Shit SHIT SHIT!” Why was it, whenever he did crack, he always ended up on hands and knees, picking at things? Carpet-mining. Fighting back panic, he tried to shove everything back in the bag: the two tubes of superglue, the grapefruit spoon, the thick roll of silver gaffer’s tape, the eyebrow tweezers, the three pairs of pliers, the nipple clamps, the two Colt-Python .357s, the Ex-Lax, the fur-lined handcuffs, the little jug of Arm & Hammer bleach, the baling wire, the dozen packets of black pepper and hot sauce from Taco Bell, the skinny jar of plastic cocktail toothpicks, the power stapler and the rolled-up copy of Guns & Ammo with the “New Slim Glock .45” on the cover. He swept his fingers beneath the fridge, in case he’d missed anything, and wiped his hand on his pants as he closed the bag and dragged himself back up. Then he ran screaming into the living room.

  “Tony, I just remembered something! They can find where you live, man! I saw it on Cops. They can check the rent computers. Everybody who rents anything, anywhere, they got ’em in a big computer!”

  But Tony wasn’t there. He was…somewhere. Mac could hear him coughing. When he called him again—“Tony? C’mon, man, this is a bad time for hide-and-seek!”—his partner replied in a harsh whisper. “Keep your voice down! I’m behind the TV.”

  McCardle tiptoed carefully across the room. After being awake for a week, the ground started to feel…soft. Like the whole world was getting as mushy as his brain. He found Tony flat on his belly, wedged in the narrow space between the television and the wall.

  “Get down, you simp! They got the infrared.”

  “Fuck the infrared, we gotta split,” cried McCardle. “Right now! I’m tellin’ you, they check the rent computer, we’re cooked. All’s they gotta do is type in your name, then shoot over here with one of them battering rams. I seen it on Cops, man. They can knock down steel!”

  Zank lurched forward and grabbed McCardle by the belt. Mac kneeled to keep from falling. Tony switched his grip to his shirt collar and tugged him the rest of the way down. “You think I’m stupid? Is that it? You violate my manhood and then you come in my house, and you call me stupid?”

  “No, Tony, no. I wasn’t—”

  “Oh no? Then why you think I’d sign a lease under my own name? Huh? I’m not stupid. I’m De Niro. Okay? I’m fucking De Niro.”

  “Robert De Niro?”

  Their faces were now inches apart. Both whispered, not sure who was listening—maybe the CIA, maybe NASA—but sure someone was. McCardle had caught Tony’s paranoia and sploshed it on top of his own.

  “Robert De Niro?” Zank repeated disgustedly. “Robert fucking De Niro?” He looked incredulous. “Only a complete moron would say they were Robert De Niro. Robert De Niro’s Robert De Niro. Everybody knows that. Mother fuck! I’m Ed, man. I’m not some dickhead like you. I went with Ed.”

  “You’re Ed De Niro? On the lease, that’s who you are?”

  “Smart, right? The landlord sees Robert De Niro he’s gonna know I’m bullshitting. But Ed De Niro, hey, he don’t know. It could be we’re related. I mean, we look alike, right?

  “Uh, well, yeah. Sorta. I mean, you’re both white.”

  McCardle stopped talking and tried to swallow. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk anything besides Iron City. Or the
last time he’d urinated. His whole body felt seized up. Brittle. As though somebody’d shellacked him when he wasn’t looking. Then a wedge of light through the blinds caught Tony’s face and Mac had to gasp. Dried blood blotched Zank’s nose and forehead, and his left ear looked like it had a bite taken out of it. His eyes glowed an unwholesome yellow-red, like a Rottweiler with distemper Mac had once seen at a bus stop.

  Zoned-out, Tony raked idly at the scabs on his face, clamping and unclamping his jaw as though cracking invisible walnuts. Then the TV sparked on and they both flinched. A velvety Australian intoned: “The ocelot is neither cruel nor kind. It is an animal, doing what animals do. When we return, we’ll visit a pair of cubs abandoned at birth….”

  “Sorry,” said Mac. “Sat on the remote.”

  “No wait!” Tony whispered urgently, “he’s talking to us! It’s code. We are those cubs! Oh man, we gotta move. You got the torture kit?”

  McCardle lifted the canvas bag, desperate to avoid looking at his friend. The blood seeping from Zank’s wounds seemed to have worms in it. Tiny white worms, all swaying to the music from the Chevrolet commercial now blaring from the tube. Little worm Rockettes. McCardle could not stop staring. “Like a rock,” sang the TV people.

  “Thanks, I would like a rock,” Tony answered them, grabbing McCardle’s arm. “What are you staring at?”

  “Nothing, man. It’s just…you’re bleeding. You gotta stop picking. You always pick at yourself when you smoke too much.”

  “Who am I, your bitch? You fucking worried about my skin? You think my looks are goin’, honey?”

  “No, hey, Tony, it’s not like that.”

  “Oh no? I think it is. You think I’m gonna put on the red dress for you, right? You think you’re my daddy, huh Mac? You my jocker now, you piece of shit? I oughta chop your joint off and feed it to the dog, you fuckin’ homoloid.”

  “Tony,” pleaded McCardle. “We talked about this. She had a gun.”

  “Yeah, and you had a boner.”

  “You’re just tweaking is all,” McCardle protested weakly. “That’s what’s goin’ on.”

  “Tweaking? I’m tweaking?” Tony twitch-hopped to his feet, pressing his palms over his ears. “Oh FUCK! Now see what you did? They’re sendin’ out brain rays, man! They catch you, they’re gonna know what you are.” He let go of himself and raised a hand for quiet, then broke out in a rasping whisper. “Hear that? Now they’re gonna send the choppers! I can hear ’em, man! They’re coming for the black Dino. Everybody seen you on America’s Most Wanted. Shit!” Zank peered wildly around the apartment. “Grab the kit. Quick! We’ll make a run for the car. Leave the TV on, so they think we’re home. You remember her address, this Tina chick?”

  “I know how to get there,” said McCardle, careful to keep his distance.

  Zank pointed a finger at him. “You better. We make one stop, load up on kibble-and-bits, then we haul ass to the bitch’s house and get the picture.”

  “You sure she has it?”

  “She either has it, or we staple her tits to her shoulders, and she tells us who does.”

  “Jesus, Tony.”

  “If Jesus smoked crack, we’d wear little pipes around our neck. Think about that. He wouldn’t have touched a bite of the Last Supper.”

  “What?”

  “Nothin’. If the tit-staples don’t work, we feed her Ex-Lax, then superglue her bunghole. Saw a guy they did that to in juvey. Fucker swelled up like one of them boas with a gopher in it.”

  “A gopher?” McCardle ran a tongue over his lips. He had to drink something besides beer. His kidneys were killing him. The dwarf leered from behind the couch, and a thought ran through him like a shock. “How come you hate women so much, Tony?”

  “Who me? What I hate,” Zank snorted, “is we’re out of rock. I take another hit of cheese, I’m gonna upchuck. Let’s get the fuck over there, and I’ll show you how much I like the ladies.”

  Before leaving, Tony had one of his feelings—“they’re waitin’ for us out front, I can feel it!”—so they decided to sneak out the back way and down the rusted fire escape. They made it all the way to the sidewalk before they remembered: They didn’t have a car. Somehow, in the midst of all their crack-fun, this fact had escaped them. The Gremlin was toast. The priest’s cherry Mustang, too hot to drive, was already dumped in the Allegheny. And Tony’s regular ride, a Chrysler minivan pinched from a Wal-Mart lot, was still plunked outside Seventh Heaven, where’d they’d left it to transport Carmella in the now dead Gremlin to the Pawnee Lodge.

  “I can’t believe you forgot,” Tony seethed, popping his fist in his palm and craning his skull left and right, as if trying to wring it off his neck.

  “So did you!” Mac whined. “And stop twistin’ around. It looks like you’re doin’ some kinda Linda Blair shit. It’s creepy.”

  Tony didn’t bother to respond. Instead, for another minute or two, he and McCardle paced in small circles in front of the Bundthouse Arms, scanning the sky for choppers and trying not to inhale dead meat fumes. (Strangely, Zank could handle them inside—he could live in them—but once outside, in the open air, the stink sometimes got to him.) They both noticed the spanking new Town Car across the street at the same time.

  There was no reason for such a swanky vehicle in that neighborhood. But when they’d strolled around the Lincoln a couple of times—McCardle touched the hood to see if it was still warm, and it was—no one ran out waving a hand-cannon, so Tony gave the high sign. Meaning it was probably okay to steal.

  “Mac,” he whispered, as if agents were posted behind every phone pole, “go back to the pad. Grab my slim jim.”

  McCardle balked. “You hungry, after all that rock?”

  “Jesus H. Piss! Not that kind of slim jim, you pinhead. Don’t you know anything about crime? I’m talking about the slim jim slim jim, like you buy at Pep Boys, to get into your nice-ass car when you forget your keys. You’re dumber than dog food, you know that?”

  “You don’t have to abuse me, man!” Mac sulked a few seconds, then decided he had a better idea. He ambled casually behind the shiny Town Car, pretended to kneel down and tie his shoe, and began feeling around under the back bumper. His mammoth hamstrings strained against his pants as he groped, but a second later he hopped up clutching a small black box with a magnet on the bottom and HIDE-A-KEY in white letters across the top.

  “Gotcha!” he cried, sliding the top of the box sideways and plucking out the spare key. “Don’t know why they call this a Hide-A-Key,” he chuckled. “They oughta call it the Ride-For-Free. ’Cause that’s what I’m gonna do anytime some fool be dumb enough to stick his car keys under his damn bumper. Motherfuckers might as well have a little flag on their antenna sayin’ STEAL MY RIDE! I swear, the richer the White Folks, the dumber their ass. I guarantee, no brother I know’s gonna leave the key to his Lincoln under the bumper. Huh-uh. Nossir. Never happen.”

  Zank eyed the ride suspiciously. “I don’t know, man. I’m thinkin’ car bomb. Get in and start ’er up.”

  McCardle unlocked the car door grudgingly. “I get my shit blown up, at least I’m dead,” he said. “Standin’ where you at, you’ll probably just get maimed, have to live out your days one of them stumps they got to wheel around and feed through a mush-tube. I’ll be up in heaven laughin’, watchin’ you tryin’ to change your shit-bag with your teef.”

  “Teef,” said Tony, “there you go again. Now get in and hit the ignition. But wait till I get across the street.”

  Car go boom, Tony heard himself think, trying to block out the stress-fueled baby talk in his brain. But McCardle didn’t wait for him to cross the street. He just got in and turned the key. Tony threw himself to the ground as the Lincoln purred to life.

  “Asshole,” he hollered, picking himself off the sidewalk. “Shove over and let a man drive.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Chief Fayton, dissatisfied with the knot in his Windsor, undid his tie and tried not to think about his w
ife’s shoulders. Lately, whenever he looked in the mirror he thought about them. He’d married Florence, way back when, because he admired her verve, her social connections, and her behind-the-scenes celeb stories. (Who knew Dr. Laura had back hair?) Mostly, though, it was because of her money. Personal assistants, it turned out, pulled down a lot more than senior DMV execs. But the years, as they say, had not been kind. Beyond the inevitable grayness, the chin sag, and the Samsonite eyelids—all, happily, repairable conditions, which Flo, just as happily, had gone to Upper Marilyn’s own Dr. Roos and repaired—a yolk of suet seemed to have descended from heaven and landed on her shoulders. The yolk, he was loathe to admit, lent her upper body the approximate heft and girth of a retired nose tackle.

  South of the waist, Florence remained the svelte ex-celebrity helper he’d wed. But those shoulders…. He sighed to think of them now while regarding his own chiseled features. (He liked the sound of this, chiseled features, and imagined how, once the movie of his life came out, scribes for Vanity Fair and Us would pepper their profiles with that very phrase when describing his still strong chin and prominent Roman nose.)

  By and large, Fayton was happy with his wife. Flo’s charity work kept her occupied. And, as top man at a police department—even a teeny one—he was understandably too busy to spend a lot of time with her. They rarely went out. When they did, it was to attend the odd political dinner, the biannual Police Department dance and fund-raiser, or, the very reason he was fiddling with his tie this very morning, a policeman’s funeral.

  Fayton sighed heavily as he slid the knot north on his reconfigured Windsor. Florence could hardly be expected to understand why he wouldn’t want her by his side at Chatlak’s burial. He’d have to think of something.