Plainclothes Naked

by Jerry Stahl

“I prefer ‘information facilitator.’ He fences, too. You want a Game Boy, a CD player, some videos, he’s got a regular small appliance store in that oven. Kids rip the radio out of a Beamer, they know Stuey’s good for a dime bag.”

  “He deals, too?”

  “It’s called multitasking. C’mon, I have to check my messages.”

  He lifted the phone, and Tina stopped him again.

  “If he’s an informant, why didn’t you ask him about Zank and McCardle? And how did he know you’d be here?”

  Manny sighed. “Stuey moves around. He probably saw my car. There aren’t a lot of mayo Impalas on the streets these days.”

  “So ask him if knows anything about those freaks.”

  The look Manny gave her was almost sad. “I ask him about somebody, I know he’s gonna tell whoever I asked about that I was asking. Sometimes that’s okay. Sometimes that’s the idea. But right now, the best thing we got going is that Zank and McCardle don’t know we’re onto them. I mention them to Stuey, that could change. You never know.”

  Tina nibbled the hot pretzel, slow-licking mustard off the top while Manny tried to concentrate on calling his answering machine. Since he’d never read the manual, he hadn’t put himself on speed dial. But the buttons on his cell phone were so tiny, he felt stump-fingered. He looked up and Tina was still licking. “Must be fun,” she said, “being a dick.”

  “Not now, okay?”

  Manny aimed his eyes somewhere else. How could anybody make eating a jumbo pretzel nasty? His machine sounded like it was in Greenland, and he had to cover his free ear to hear. When he was done he snatched the pretzel from Tina, took a bite, and said, “Strange.”

  “What’s strange?”

  He handed the pretzel back. “I got two calls. One from my exwife’s assistant, this Brit named Lipton. Gay guy. Very cool. He tells me his car’s been stolen, but not to say anything to my ex-wife. Then I get a call from my ex, telling me Lipton’s missing, would I please find him, and by the way don’t say anything to Chief Fayton.”

  “It’s nice you two keep in touch.”

  “Me and Fayton?”

  “You and the ex. It’s heartwarming.”

  Manny ignored the sarcasm. “Actually, this is the first time she’s called since we were divorced. She didn’t even call before we were divorced. I’m telling you, if Mayor Marge is picking up the phone and calling me, she must be sweating. And our mayor doesn’t sweat easy.”

  “I guess you’d know. So what are you going to do?”

  “Let her sweat, what else?”

  “That’s what I like,” said Tina, “a man of action. What about this Lipton guy?”

  “DWIL.”

  “What?”

  “Deal-With-It-Later. Right now you and I have some business.”

  Manny took her roughly by the arm and led her toward the car.

  “Ooh, police brutality. Maybe later you can show me your cuffs.”

  “Please, if anyone’s watching, I want ’em to think I’m arresting you.”

  “Oh wow. Most guys just say, ‘C’mon baby, you know you want it.’”

  “So you’re not a virgin?”

  “No, but I’m sure your pal Roos could make me one. I’d probably end up shitting out of my armpit, but what the hell, it’d be worth it to feel nine again.”

  “You,” said Manny, “are a very unique girl.”

  “You want unique? We had a virgin once at Seventh Heaven. Seventy-seven and never been kissed. Her name was Phoebe. One time I asked her why she never tried it and she said, ‘Darlin’, I just didn’t want none of them female problems.’ The old men used to give her ten bucks to show them her hymen. It looked like a big pink fang.”

  “Oh, man….”

  “No wait. You’ll like this. There were six old goats who paid for a peek every Sunday. You should’ve seen them, bulging their diapers and dragging their IVs back to their rooms before they lost their inspiration. Dignity in the Twilight Years. That’s what it says in the brochure.”

  “This is really fascinating,” said Manny, “but we better get back to your house. See if the psycho-twins have been to visit. I have a plan.”

  “You wanna make God laugh, make a plan,” said Tina.

  “Guys like Zank running around, He could probably use a laugh.”

  Manny held open the Impala’s dented passenger door. “But even if it just pisses God off, you’re gonna like it. It’s a little sick.” With this he pushed her into the car and leaned in to sneak a bite of her mouth.

  Tina returned his kiss, then pulled back. “Smooth.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Lipton scuttled on hands and knees beneath the window, trying to hold his breath and not sneeze. The whole neighborhood smelled as if it had been built on top of rotting carcasses. In his near delirium, Lipton imagined that some giant muskrat, Three Mile Islanded, had spawned a Buick-sized brood who scooted south to this corner of Upper Marilyn, then slunk underground and died. The sour must off Zank’s shag did battle with the dead animal fumes. This close to the magenta fibers, breathing Zank’s personal odor, Lipton felt weirdly intimate with the man who’d ripped him off. I’m sick in the head, that odor said. I never change my clothes. I smoke crack and stay up for months. It was horrifying.

  “I am such a dunce,” Lipton thought bitterly. Of course a crook like Tony Zank would double-cross him! He’d been dumb enough to hire him to burgle his own home—the mayor’s mansion, in which Lipton occupied a room on the top floor—so why wouldn’t Zank think he could get away with screwing him? Who was he going to call, the police? “Why not just wear a sign around my neck,” Lipton muttered, in a tizzy of self-recrimination, “I’m a complete boob, please steal from me!”

  He pounded the floor, then peeked under the sofa to see if maybe the photos were under there. His Armani jacket was already stained from the garbage-and-beer-soiled carpet, so he stopped worrying about it.

  Demoralized, Lipton recalled the neat little map he’d made for Tony, all those ruler-straight arrows to the jewelry drawers and the nightstand where Mayor Marge kept her twin Cartier watches. He jammed a fist in his mouth to keep from screaming.

  If they show that map in court, I’m dead….

  DON’T THINK ABOUT IT!

  Oh God, please help me….

  Lipton felt the panic attack coming on. What was he thinking when he trusted Tony Zank? Well, he knew what he was thinking…. It was his eighth day on Wellbutrin, and he’d had a sudden burst of world-changing confidence. Everything was going to be okay! He had energy. He felt charged-up, capable of great things. So he went to the Parakeet Lounge, the only gay bar in Upper Marilyn, to celebrate. And got arrested.

  Look where you met him, he derided himself, in the holding tank!

  This was after the unfortunate morning he’d found himself swooped up in the backroom of the Parakeet. It happened during the Church Hour. Sunday morning at ten, when Tiny the bartender gave you every third drink free. Nobody was there but Lipton and a couple of regulars, along with Tiny himself, watching Siegfried & Roy. Tiny had a major Siegfried thing. Somebody in Vegas shipped him show-tapes twice a month.

  Anyway, Lipton was happily sipping banana daiquiris, watching Roy kiss a tiger on the lips, when, out of nowhere, there’s this fat cop, Officer Merch, smirking behind him. “Hands on the bar, ladies.”

  Next thing you know, Lipton, still cashmere elegant, is in the slam. And Tony Zank is asking him to trade shoes. Well, not asking exactly…. Lipton handed over his square-toed Prada loafers, and Tony tossed him his own pair of damp, filthy, hole-in-the-bottom generic tennis shoes with the laces missing in return. After that they were friends.

  Riding his daiquiri-laced Wellbutrin buzz, just bursting with fellow feeling, Lipton chattered away to his cellmate about his job: how much he adored living at the mansion, and how much stress was involved, like you wouldn’t believe, trying to keep Mayor Marge stocked with L’eggs panty hose, her absolute fave, or running to the airport to pick
up visiting venture capitalists.

  Somehow, by the time he was sprung—Merch wanted $300 for tearing up the arrest report and driving him back to his car in the Parakeet lot—Lipton had drawn Zank a map of the mansion’s treasures, told him where he could find a key, and given him special instructions on how to find A Certain Photograph. Hating himself, he remembered Tony’s grin when he’d explained his one condition: “I keep the photograph, Tony, you can keep everything else.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tony had said, running his fingers through Lipton’s pompadour. “You have real power hair. I’d rather have hair like that than all the money in the world.”

  Lipton found himself running his own fingers through his pomp when he thought about it. No doubt Zank, in his criminal fashion, was toying with him. Only he’d been too naïve to see it.

  Ricocheting between panic and despair, Lipton plucked a fist-size dust-kitten off his nostril and swept his arm under the couch. “Oh please,” he pleaded, appealing to the Divine Being he imagined ruled the universe, a sympathetic, slightly crazed diva, like Judy Garland in her tranq-plagued later years, “I deserve it!” The problem was, he didn’t just want money, he needed it. And the person he needed to give it to needed it as much as he did.

  Lipton’s thoughts whirled in frantic circles. If he could only find it, he had no doubt he could parlay the close-up of those puffed-out, illustrated presidential testicles into boatloads of cash. For days, after the mansion was burgled, he’d plotted his Biobrain moves: whom to contact first for possible purchase, where to set up his offshore accounts, even what new items to add to his wardrobe—starting with some replacement Prada loafers, since the first had taken three months to save up for—once the payoff came in. All the while, what he was really doing was trying not to go crazy while waiting for Tony to phone. And waiting some more. And a little more. Until, in a heap of 4:00 A.M. Wellbutrin sweat, he had to face the fact that his brand-new friend had fucked him.

  Now here I am, thought Lipton, trying to block out the reek of molting dishes and buried muskrat fumes. He dragged a magazine called Labe Happy from under the couch and peeked at a photo spread. The glurping vulva made him think of open-heart surgery and he had to close it. How did straight men keep their lunch down?

  Every time he moved, he heard the crackle of glass vials, discarded jerky wrappers, and God knows what else. The horror! In a sudden fit of sense memory, he reexperienced the greasy slide of Zank’s hand on his blond pompadour and began to shake. That awful, brutal, cold-eyed man!

  Mmmmmm…

  STOP IT!

  Giving up, he crouched behind the sofa and punched out Manny Rubert’s number. He remembered it, because it spelled HUNKY 11. Dreamy! He’d heard rumors—

  Never mind! Manny would know what to do. That’s what mattered. He would tell the detective everything.

  “Come on,” Lipton chanted. “Pick up pick up pick up pick up!”

  His shaking had progressed to a full-body quiver. He had to hold the cell phone with both hands. Knee-walking back to the window while Manny’s phone rang, Lipton perched his chin on the sill and peeked outside.

  “Jesus, Mother and Mary!”

  Forgetting his sanitation concerns, he pressed his face against the filthy glass. As if that would give him a better view of the street…the sidewalk…the now empty patch of asphalt where he’d parked the Lincoln.

  Just then Manny’s machine picked up.

  “Someone stole my car!” Lipton screeched, jumping up to see further down the street, as if maybe the Town Car had decided to move, on its own, to a better spot. Catching himself, he skittered away from the window. He was in Tony Zank’s apartment. What was he thinking?

  “Can you hear me, Manny? They stole my car, and I’m trapped,” he whispered hoarsely. How many Wellbutrin had he taken? If you took more antidepressant, why didn’t you get more antidepressed?

  He squealed into the phone, “Please, please, call back!” Then he crawled on his belly across the malodorous carpet, counting inches until he got to a closet. He just wanted to hide. To curl up in the dark. He needed safety. Wombness. He made it to Tony’s bedroom, which somehow smelled even worse than the rest of the apartment, and found a closet there.

  “Oh Judy, help!” The second he scurried inside the bedroom closet the odor was staggering. He had to slide the door open to let in some air. When he did, a shaft of light landed on a shoe box. His heart leaped. Maybe this was it! Where Tony hid the photo! Yes!

  Spirits soaring, Lipton opened the box, saw the cute little face, the maggots teeming in the hollows of Puppy’s eye-sockets, and crumpled to the floor.

  THIRTY-THREE

  They’d been inside Tina’s house two minutes when Manny heard the scream from the kitchen. He was still in the doorway, checking the knob. Someone had rubbed off a swath of shoe polish.

  “What is it?” he called, catching his foot on the trip wire and tumbling knee-first onto broken bulb-shards. The glass ripped his pants. He cursed himself for not unmanning the booby trap, then fumbled for his gun and ran into the kitchen.

  Tina stood beside the fridge, holding what looked like a brass cookie jar over the Formica counter. She wore an expression somewhere between shock and hilarity. Manny recognized that look. People got it when they came home and found the hamster microwaved, or walked in on their spouse kneeling in front of the UPS man. It was the look that said, “If this weren’t the worst thing that ever happened to me, it would be fucking hysterical.”

  Manny stepped closer. He saw the two lines of grayish white powder and crumbs beside a broken crack pipe on the Formica. “Okay, so they were here. We knew that was gonna happen.”

  “It’s not that,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “It’s Marvin. I think they snorted him.”

  “What?”

  Tina lifted the urn and Manny spotted the embossed logo: MARTINO AND SONS. She turned it over and a few chunks of what looked like kitty litter hit the counter. Tina picked one up, then picked up the pipe and showed Manny. An identical grayish-white nugget was jammed in the tip.

  “See? They probably tried to smoke him, and after that, they said ‘Hey, let’s smash him up a little, see how he snorts.’ One way or the other, they figured he was drugs.” She paused, and Manny couldn’t decipher the expression on her face. “Talk about bad karma. My husband died and came back as crack.”

  Manny was careful not to react. Some jokes it was better not to laugh at. “Well,” he said evenly, “my guess is, they’ll be back.”

  “Why?”

  “Well….” Manny struggled for a way to word it delicately. There wasn’t one. “If Marv got ’em high, they’ll wanna head back and scarf around for more. If they think he’s bunk—no knock on your husband, I’m sure he was a great guy—they’ll wanna head back here and get you. By pipehead logic, you ripped them off. Either way, they’re coming.”

  Manny tramped out of the kitchen, moving quickly through the house and calling behind him. He ducked into the tiny bathroom and popped five more codeine, washed down with a slurp from the sink.

  After he swallowed his bad vitamins, Manny studied himself in the mirror, then said what he always said to his own face. “Don’t look at me that way, it’s still better than heroin….” After that, he dashed back into the bedroom and yelled. “They didn’t do anything else that I can see.” He walked face-first into a dangling string and yelled again. “Check that. They took the tampon down. God knows what they did with it.”

  “What?” came a return yell from the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” Manny answered. “They must’ve just found the shit—I’m sorry, the ashes—and forgotten about the photo. A guy like Zank would figure it’s easier to move primo rock than a hot scrote-shot. I’ll tell you what, though. They realize how much money they’re not gonna get for Marv’s ashes, they’re gonna want the picture twice as bad.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Tina stepped in from the kitchen. She seemed composed, b
ut you never knew. Manny tried to keep things matter-of-fact.

  “I’m saying, when they come back, they’re going to come back mad.”

  “This is insane. So what do we do?”

  “You got a camera?”

  “Marv had a Polaroid. And a couple of disposables.”

  “How about one of those fax-copier deals?”

  “We have one, but—”

  “Magic Marker?”

  “Yeah. All that stuff.”

  “Perfect.” Manny unbuckled his belt and took Tina’s arm. “Get the camera and marker and bring ’em to the bathroom. The light’ll be better there. We gotta work fast.”

  Tina glanced at that blood-scrawled WELCOME TONY on the wall and looked away. That’s when she noticed Manny’s condition. “What’s up with your pants? You trying to get me hot?”

  “That’s optional,” Manny said, unsnapping his trousers as he headed for the bathroom. Once there, he closed the door, reached in his underpants, and squeezed. He wanted to work up some heft before she came back. This may have been work, but a man still wanted to look his best….

  When Tina returned, Manny was down to socks and jockeys. He’d propped the original photo on top of the hamper. George Junior, he now realized, had cupped himself in such a way that the main event was hidden. All eggs and no sausage. Which was easy enough. The tricky part was attaining Biobrain. To get that full-on Mister B. bulge, you had to really swell your testicles. This, he discovered, involved making an O with thumb and forefinger, and squeezing at the root. He tried a couple of practice squeezes, until he pretty much mastered the technique. But he didn’t want to just whip himself out and go Bio before telling Tina what was up. She might get the wrong idea.

  Tina set down the Magic Marker and two cameras—an old Polaroid and a Thrifty disposable—on the furry toilet seat. The seat cover was the same saffron shade as Marvin’s loincloth. What a special man, she thought, at the exact moment she took in the photo on the hamper and the sight of Manny in his skivvies. And here’s another one….