Plainclothes Naked

by Jerry Stahl

  After the blast, Mac’s eardrums felt like they’d been poked with knitting needles. L’il Pepe, impervious, saw his chance and snatched the crack back out of Zank’s lap, then slammed the still-smoking muzzle across his jaw. Tony crumbled and spit out a tooth. L’il Pepe laughed. He and his little pals thought this was hysterical. To cap the fun, the boy worked up a hock, grinned, and spit a goober the size of a chicken head onto Tony’s cheek.

  “Teach you to come ’round my turf tryin’ to sell me bones ’n shit.”

  Tony didn’t bother to wipe his face. Instead he grinned back, lips peeled to show the fresh gap on the lower left. Then he waved to L’il Pepe and his sneering crew, and started the car. Now all of them were spitting. Tony gunned the engine for a few more seconds. Then he blew Pepe a kiss, slammed into Drive, and threw open the door at the exact instant the Lincoln launched from zero to forty. The black metal slab caught the dealer and a taller boy in a bandanna. Bandanna hit the sidewalk. But L’il Pepe got dragged, his ankle caught between car door and concrete. He screamed horribly, his high voice going even higher. Tony smirked and pressed his shoulder to the door, wedging the kid’s leg to the curb as the Lincoln churned forward.

  “Tony, NO!” McCardle shouted. But Zank just chuckled. Pepe’s shrieks seemed to tickle him. “Teach that banger to diss Tony Z!” he hooted, slapping his free hand on the steering wheel. “That’s the trouble with this damn country. Kids got no respect for their elders!”

  Pepe’s Hilfigers tore away, and the sight of the stick-thin brown calf underneath made McCardle shiver. He screamed “Stop!” and Tony cackled louder, keeping the gas pedal jammed to the floor. L’il Pepe bumped along the curb for another few feet, then the car gave a lurch and, as if shaking its anchor, veered off and clattered up to speed. McCardle craned around to see the crowd. A dozen people hunched over the boy’s body, and a dozen more were tearing up the street after the Lincoln. “Hoo-wee, looky,” Zank chortled. “A parade!”

  As they rounded the corner, Zank’s laughter grew manic. Which is when McCardle saw the little foot wedged in the door. The bottom of the boy’s Nike was remarkably clean. It occurred to Mac, in the middle of everything, that L’il Pepe had probably just taken the shoe out of the box that day.

  When he saw McCardle gawking, Tony giggled. He reached down and grabbed the shoe. The ankle stump protruded from the top, ragged muscle and skin around shattered bone, trailing blood on the upholstery. The laces were still neatly tied.

  “Footloose,” Tony hooted, waving the stuffed tennis shoe in McCardle’s face.

  Mac slapped him away, and the Nike landed in the seat between them. He snatched it up without thinking, surprised how heavy it was. Same thing with Cornish hens, he thought, idiotically, until he felt the worm-warmth of blood wriggling down his wrist and tossed the thing. The foot plopped onto Tony’s crotch, and the Lincoln swerved across the double line and screeched to a stop on the wrong side of the road. A green Jeep honked as it swerved to miss them and Zank waggled Pepe’s foot out the window. “Honk on this, asshole!”

  Tony swung back across the double line without looking and parked. “I’m fucked,” he shouted, working a grubby finger in the hole where his tooth had been. He mumbled furiously around the digit, “Mac, slide over. Take the goddamn wheel!”

  “You know I can’t drive,” McCardle protested. “I got a phobia.”

  Tony foot-whopped him in the chest, then pointed the toe of the shoe at his own bloody mouth. “You see what that little prick did to me? You think my tooth is gonna grow back? Shut up and fucking drive!”

  McCardle sulked, trying not to look directly at Tony’s smeary face. “Okay. But we go into a ditch, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  There followed an awkward moment when, to get by, Mac had to kind of shimmy over Tony’s lap—“I ain’t no tail gunner, Dark Meat, so keep movin’!”—but after that Tony just slumped in the corner, wiping his wounds with his sleeve. The air seemed to have gone out of him. The instant McCardle saw him close his eyes, he snatched Pepe’s foot by the toe and tossed it out the window. There was probably some dog out there who would have a happy dinner. It was important to be kind to animals. Plus which, he didn’t know much about search and seizure, but he figured if the cops peeked in and saw a torn-off foot in your car, they probably had the right to rifle it without a warrant. Which could not lead to anything good.

  Half blind with terror, McCardle twice steered the Lincoln over a curb, upending a mailbox and a bus bench advertising some funeral home. Driving on four wheels was hard enough. Trying to steer on three and an axle was making him sweat. The Lincoln kept listing left, and the shotgunned tire made an obscene flapping noise, a sort of thwoppeta-thwoppeta as McCardle alternately lurched forward and slammed on the brakes.

  Mac stressed out loud about getting pulled over. But Tony, nursing his newest wound, insisted the cops wouldn’t be stopping anybody—they were too busy getting shitfaced on account of planting one of their own. “It’s a union thing,” he explained, still probing the fresh hole in his gums, “police funerals and Christmas they’re allowed to booze all day. You wanna knock over a pharmacy? Rob a bank? Wait till they’re sinkin’ a cop, you get a guaranteed Pasadena.”

  For another five minutes, McCardle clattered through sleepy side streets, gradually getting the hang of the whole steering and stopping thing. If he’d been driving on four tires, he might even have enjoyed himself. But when he saw a red light up ahead, feeding into Liberty Boulevard, he started to worry.

  “Hey, T, I gotta know where we’re goin’, man! People are startin’ to stare…. We gotta make a decision.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like either we kick it at your place. Or we double back, check for the photo again at that chick Tina’s.”

  Mention of Tina got Zank fired up all over again. “Bitch tricked us, you know that?” The missing tooth didn’t impede his speech, but it made him spray when he spoke, forcing Mac to shrink back in his seat. “She planted the fake rock just to cluster-fuck us. Same with those dead bunnies, and that goddamn bloodsicle on a string. You know why she’s even alive?”

  “I don’t,” said McCardle.

  “To fuck us, that’s why.” Zank gave a meaningful nod. “Somebody in hell paid Satan to send her up here to fuck us.”

  “So,” said Mac, after what he thought was a pause appropriate to Zank’s last pronouncement, “you wanna go back and get the picture?”

  “What the fuck you think? I’m a cunthair away from pulling a Steubenville.”

  McCardle did not bother asking what that meant. He didn’t want to know. When Zank was amping out like this, it was better not to.

  Tony angled into the rearview, tugging back his bloody lip to get a better view inside his mouth. “Least it’s not my front teeth,” he sprayed. “The little spic knocks out one of my front teeth, I’m not just ripping his foot off, I’m goin’ for the burrito platter.”

  “He was only a kid,” McCardle ventured. “He could bleed to death, man. That’s not right. That’s just…wrong!”

  “Fuck him,” Tony spat. “He was old enough to diss me, wasn’t he? And what about my tooth? Think they grow on trees? I don’t think so. I’m gonna have to pay for a new one. Only place they give you free teeth is in jail. And I ain’t goin’ back to County for that.”

  Just then, they noticed the car full of punk types watching them from a blue Saab parked across the street.

  “Wave to ’em,” Tony ordered, slinking down in the seat.

  “What?”

  “Wave to ’em. My face is too fucked-up. It’ll freak ’em out. Pull over, then walk over and ask what they’re lookin’ for.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?” Zank spritzed red when he yelled. “We got four bags full of dick-knuckle sittin’ here. Tell ’em we’re havin’ the sale of the century.”

  After a minute, Mac returned to the Lincoln and leaned in the window.

  “They say they’
re in a band. Told me they wanted fish-scales. It took me a minute to figure out that meant crack.”

  “They got money?”

  “I told ’em five hundred a bag.”

  “They went for that?”

  “Not really. I’m gettin’ seventy-five for two. You wanna keep two for us, right?”

  Tony shifted in his seat. “Whatever.” When Mac reached in for the crack bags, Tony grabbed his hand. “I’m going to count to fifty, then I’m gonna roll up on you.” Tony eased the .357 from under a thigh.

  McCardle jerked back. “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t fucking worry about it. Just give ’em the shit and get the money. When you hear me say Limp Bizkit get outta the way.”

  “Limp Bizkit?”

  “Wake up and smell the MTV. They love that shit. Get going.”

  McCardle went, wondering if Tony had meant to point the gun at him, or if he’d only imagined it. When he got a foot or two from the blue Saab, he flashed the baggies and said, “Show me the dough. Real slow like.”

  The kid behind the wheel, a sweating, sucked-up tweaker with bushy muttonchops spilling out under his FUCT cap, nodded like he understood. He looked at the pimply girl beside him and another skinny kid with a shaved head and—unless Mac was hallucinating—the Incredible Hulk tattooed on his scalp.

  The sweating driver reached for the bag and Mac pulled it away. “Huh-uh. Show me the money.”

  “How do we know it’s good?”

  Mac caught the wad of twenties in the driver’s fist. “How do you know it’s good?” He was about to drop some jive when he heard the footsteps behind him.

  “Limp Bizkit!” Tony hollered, rushing the car, and Mac jerked out of the way

  “Limp Bizkit?” came the girl’s voice. “Are you lame or what?”

  Tony bent down to let all three enjoy his face. By now, it looked like he’d scrubbed it with a cheese grater. There wasn’t a square inch that wasn’t swollen, scabbed-up, black and blue, or still bleeding. Tony’s face was all FUCT Hat needed to see. He went for the ignition and Tony jammed the gun in his muttonchop.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, as pleasant as Mac had ever heard him. “You’re thinking, ‘Oh, here’s another badass with a .357. BFD—Big Fucking Deal.’ One on every corner, right?”

  The trio gaped in silence. Tony rubbed the muzzle around the boy’s temple, then snatched off his FUCT cap and tried it on. “Well, guess what, Young America. This is not just another .357. For your information, this happens to be a Colt Python .357 Magnum with a modified four-inch barrel. What’s special about that? Well, I’m glad you asked. What’s special is, it takes a heavy bullet. Am I pitching over your head here? I drop a heavy bullet in this death-dog, it’s gonna generate six hundred foot pounds with every—fuck, maybe I am going too fast….”

  Tony thrust himself half in the car and grabbed the shaved-skull boy by his nose ring, twisting until he curled in the seat and squealed. A siren sounded somewhere behind them. “The Incredible Hulk,” Tony cried, when he made out his scalp ink. “I bet that drives the girls crazy, huh? Bet they just cream up when they see Lou Ferrigno on your head.” He wrenched the nose ring some more and the Hulk-head began to cry.

  “Maybe,” Zank continued, keeping the tone conversational, “being musicians and all, you didn’t take physics. That’s cool. I’ll make it real simple.” He held up the .357, checked the load, and wrist-snapped the cylinder back in place. “A bullet from this motherfucker can punch through a truck. I mean it. Right through the engine block. Like it was made of paper towels. You wanna think about what that could do to your dangerous haircuts, or you wanna gimme your fucking money?”

  Quickly, the rock ’n’ rollers began thrashing around for cash.

  “Right on,” said Tony. “Now take off your fucking clothes and throw ’em out the window. Start at the bottom and work up. Do it!”

  Boots, socks, and pants came flying out of the Saab. Followed by jackets, T-shirts, and a black lace bra. Zank elbowed McCardle and leered. “Panties, too, Ellie May. Hand ’em over. And you studs peel off your undies. Hurry up, I’m clothin’ the homeless.”

  When he was holding three sets of underwear and three wallets with chains attached, Zank tried to open the door, but it was locked. He sniffed the girl’s leopard-skin panties and made a face.

  “Somebody’s bakin’ brownies.” He balled up the panties and shoved them in the driver’s mouth. “You wanna play games, Iggy Pop? I’ll play fuckin’ games. You must be a real brainiac, lockin’ the door and leavin’ the window open.”

  Tony inscribed a tight circle on the driver’s cheek with the gun barrel. The kid nodded frantically, still biting the leopard-skin, and the autolock made a satisfying crunch as the doors unlocked.

  “That’s better.” Tony made his voice coplike. “Now step away from the vehicle.”

  During this performance, McCardle kept glancing up and down the street. Citizens driving by either didn’t see them or didn’t want to. Zank had that effect on people. Still, Mac was worried. “Tony, man, somebody’s gonna call the police.” He knew it would piss Tony off, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Sure enough, Zank glared. “Be a black man, McCardle. Fuck the police!”

  Mac stopped talking after that. He wrung his hands while Tony marched up and down beside the Saab, smiling and bleeding like a depraved valet as the naked driver slid out of the car and handed him the keys. The naked girl followed, her arms over her breasts and a giant red squid tattooed over her ass. Wavy blue tentacles extended downward, embracing the word PRODUCT in Gothic script. Tony leered at her, tongue poking through the hole where his tooth had been. “How’d you know I love seafood, beautiful? If we didn’t have business, I’d take you with. I don’t care what anybody says, I like little tits. How ’bout it?”

  Zank puckered up, and even McCardle had to cringe. The girl shuddered and crouched behind the driver as Hulk-skull, cupping his bleeding nose, joined them on the street.

  “You’re right,” Tony sighed, “business before torture. But tell you what, just to show I’m a stand-up guy, you can keep the crack. Fuck it, I’ll even throw in the keys to the Lincoln. All she needs is some axle work. And a new tire. But hey, you can’t argue with the price.”

  Two blocks later, Mac couldn’t hold his mud anymore. “Man, we can’t just drive around. We gotta go somewhere.”

  “Who’s drivin’ around,” Tony said. “I’m just getting the feel of this cage. I never rode Swede before.”

  “I just want to know what we’re doing.”

  Tony grumbled. “Back to Plan A, okay? We swing back and torment the bitch ’til she tells us where the photo’s at. She has it, we grab it. She doesn’t, we rip off whatever she’s got, then find out where it is.”

  “What if she gave the picture to somebody? You know, to help unload it.” If it were him stuck with Mister Biobrain, Mac figured he’d hook up with a fence who knew what to do with the thing and split it fifty-fifty.

  “If she gave it to somebody, then we got no choice.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning we fuck her ’till she goes bald, then sell her for parts. Anybody dumb enough to give somethin’ worth a million bucks to somebody else deserves a dirt nap. We’d be doing her a favor.”

  Tony produced a Slim Jim and belched as he shoved it in his mouth. His jerky burps blended with the scented pine tree dangling from the rearview, perfuming the Saab with a peculiar, woody halitosis odor, a pungent, piney-beef combo that nearly burned the skin.

  McCardle, blinking tears from his eyes, realized they were driving right by Tina’s front yard. “Tony, pull up. This is it!”

  “This is shit,” Tony hollered back, without slowing down. “We go in there and do her, I wanna be smoked up.”

  “Where we gonna get it?”

  “Fucking Pepe can’t run too fast on one foot. We head on over and take off his corner, then we come back and party with the pretty thief.”


  Tony gunned the Swedish engine. McCardle closed his eyes and prayed.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Mustard or dry?”

  “Mustard. Lots.”

  Stuey the Hunchback plucked a pretzel out of his oven and went to work. He’d parked his cart in the minimall parking lot between Dr. Roos’s office and the Ross Dress for Less next door. Tina and Manny ran into him after leaving the squirrelly plastic surgeon, and Manny insisted on stopping. The pretzel vendor, an Upper Marilyn institution, was a surprisingly vigorous eighty. His claim to fame was having been an extra in On the Waterfront. By way of nostalgia—and proof—he kept a photo of Brando taped to the side of his cart, signed “To Mike, from your friend Marlon Brando.” When anybody asked why the actor signed the picture to somebody else, the hunchback would tug up the collar of the pea coat he wore year-round—in the manner of a fifties stevedore—and explain defensively, “If Marlon liked you, he called you Mike.”

  Stuey slathered French’s like a cake artist on the jumbo pretzel, and winked at Tina. “I know you ladies like ’em wet.”

  “Aren’t you cute?” Tina accepted the the hot bow of salted dough and aimed a smile at Manny. “Pretzels, plastic flowers, boy-boy pictures—I’ve said it before, Detective, you know how to make a girl feel special.”

  “Nut-cruncher,” said Stuey, slamming the lid on his oven. “Eva Marie Saint was the same way. Used to tease Marlon somethin’ awful. Kept tellin’ ’im Mickey Rooney was better in the sack. Give ’im credit, though, Marlon never popped her. Strangled a pigeon once, during the rooftop scene, but he never smacked Eva Marie, even when she was beggin’ for it.”

  Stuey rolled off, still muttering, and Manny pulled out his cell phone. Tina grabbed his arm. “Hang on. You want to tell me what that was all about? Starting with Pretzel-man?”

  Manny lowered the phone. “Stuey’s got ears. Sometimes he tells me stuff.”

  “He’s a snitch?”