Plainclothes Naked

by Jerry Stahl

  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 thank-you note?”

  “Let’s just do this, okay?”

  Manny put the badge back and gathered up his pants and underwear. 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.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Fayton hunkered over his desk, examining fabric samples. 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 visionary. 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 personal assistant days. Apparently, Dr. Laura liked to unwind reading wallpaper 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 legend, 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 Menace” 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 interrogation 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 interrogation.”

  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 powerful 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 Durning,” 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.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  After planting the docile McCardle on the living room couch, Manny decided to check his me
ssages. 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 Scribble 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.”

  Manny nodded and backed away. “Well, think happy thoughts. I have to make some calls, then we go down to the station. You don’t think your partner’s gonna stage some Steven Seagal rescue thing, do you?”

  “Tony? Help somebody else?” McCardle laughed sourly, and Manny was struck all over again by how much his insouciant grin evoked the prime-of-life Martin, Dino in his Celebrity Roast days. “Not fucking likely.”

  “Just making sure.”

  Unless he was driving, Manny could not stay seated and talk on the telephone. He was a terminal pacer. As he dialed his answering machine, he crunched back and forth over the broken glass in a pair of Marvin’s open-toe sandals. Tina marched by with an armful of broken sink, shaking her head, and Manny gave her an apologetic shrug. She stopped on the way back, listening to the shouts coming out of the receiver.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “Mayor Marge.”

  “Doesn’t she sound happy.”

  “Very. She called eleven times.”

  “Wow.” Tina stooped to tie the drawstrings dangling around his waist. “She must miss you huh?” She pulled the drawstring extra tight.

  “Ooof….”

  “Too snug?”

  “Kind of.”

  Manny found it oddly arousing, but decided not to broadcast it.

  For her part, Tina had to smile, taking in the vision of Manny Rubert, cockmonster and sensitive detective, decked out in orange yoga-wear. “You know,” she said, “you shave your head, grow a pigtail, I’m guessing you could mop up at airports. There aren’t a whole lot of badass Hare Krishnas.”

  Not sure how to take this, Manny held up the cell phone to show he was busy. “You don’t mind, I’ve got some stuff to deal with. You can insult me later. Why don’t you go off and cry a little? Get your eyes red.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You should at least look like a grieving widow. Now please….”

  But Tina didn’t move. “Oh, gosh, am I in the way? You can come over and destroy my home, but don’t let me bother you when you’re making a phone call. For your information, fucker, I’m grieving on the inside.”

  Even as Tina spoke, part of her was thinking: I must love this guy, it’s so much fun giving him shit. Still, she saw the strained expression on Manny’s face and lightened up. “I’m not as cold-blooded as you think, okay? This is how I do sadness, I get sarcastic.” She thought about giving him a hug, but decided against it. Not with McCardle on the couch. “So Mayor Marge has some problems, huh?”

  “Two, as a matter of fact.” By now Manny was fighting for breath, and clawed at the knotted drawstrings. It felt like he was trapped in a napkin ring. “Her personal assistant, Lipton,” he gasped, “the guy she called about earlier, he’s still missing. Only now she’s—man, I can hardly breathe!—she’s frantic. She’s called, like, nine times.”

  Tina pushed his hands away and had a go at the drawstring. The knot untied instantly. “What’s her other problem?”

  Manny took a gulp of air. “I never call her back.”

  They both turned when McCardle, who’d been more or less dozing, jumped to his feet and began swatting the air in front of him. “Bats…Yeesh!…SHOO! SHOO!!” Then he fell back on the couch in a tense hunch, exhausted. In another second he was snoring.

  Tina beamed. “It’s so cute, the way his little feet don’t even touch the floor. Anything else happening in cop-land?”

  “Well, that’s the bizarre part.” Manny stuffed the cell phone in his jacket pocket. “I actually got another call from Lipton.”

  “The missing link. What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know, but he sounds hysterical. We have to split. We should be getting down to the station. Wake up mini-Dean.”

  “I’m not asleep,” McCardle called from the couch. “I’m restin’ my nerves.”

  “My mistake.”

  Tina grabbed Manny’s arm. “Wait a second. You want me to come? To the police station?”

  “As my guest. You think I’d let you stay here alone? You saw Zank. He’s psychotic and he’s hyper. That’s a bad combo.”

  “He’s more stupid than anything. Did you catch the way he jumped on those Polaroids?”

  Manny held a finger to his lips. He nodded toward McCardle, who was now drooling. He didn’t appear to be listening, but you never knew.

  “That’s the thing about making plans,” said Manny, keeping his voice low. “A guy as wrong as Zank comes along and fucks ’em up, and they end up working out even better. It’s almost cosmic.”

  “It is,” said Tina. “God’s probably just a bored five-year-old with A.D.D.”

  “That explains everything. Anyway, this saves us having to run back to Roos to develop the disposable. Tony probably won’t come back here, but you never know. What he’s probably doing is running around tryin’ to sell pictures of my nuts.”

  “I’d buy one, if you signed it.”

  “Nasty is as nasty does,” said Manny

  “You make that up?”

  “No, my grandfather used to say it.”

  “Huh. My granddaddy was a little different. He used to say, ‘Lift up your dress, Candy-pants. Show Pap-Pap some of that pink sugar.’”

  “Jesus….”

  Tina sighed, and Manny wondered if he was supposed to share some monstrous confidence of his own. He’d have said anything to make her feel better. “My mother made me cuddle nude till I was twelve…. In seventh grade, I let a priest slap himself in the face with my penis for twenty dollars….” But when he finally got the gumption to meet her eyes, she seemed fine, apparently free of fallout from her remembered trauma. Which made him wonder: Did it mean anything that the first woman he felt he could actually love was some kind of serious sexual abuse victim? No doubt this accounted for the alternating currents of tenderness and anger that seemed to sizzle through her, so you never knew if she was going to snuggle up or say something that made you feel like an idiot. And yet…. The truth was, he felt more comfortable knowing Tina’d survived some supremely horrific shit. It meant he would not have to hide the supremely horrific shit he’d been through himself. Penile priest-slapping was the least of it….

  Beyond all that, Manny could not stop obsessing on the word candy-pants. Just thinking it set off little pleasure bombs in his head, and he fought a guilty urge to make her say it again.

  Get a grip, he told himself, and pointed at McCardle. “Be careful waking up His Nibs. Guy coming off a monstro crack binge, he’s bound to be a tad cranky.”

  Tina ripped the filter off a fresh Viceroy and nodded. “Gotcha.”

  Taking no chances, she went into the kitchen and returned with a vacuum cleaner. Planting herself halfway across the living room, she poked him in chest with the lint attachment.

  “Hey Mr. Universe, up and at ’em.”

  McCardle blinked, as if he wasn’t sure where he was but knew he didn’t want to be there. Tina held him at vacuum length while Manny yelled into his phone. “I said
, WHERE ARE YOU, LIPTON? You sound like you’re in a closet…You are in a closet? Fine, that helps, but I need an address. There are a lot of closets in this town, that’s the crazy thing about it.”

  Manny covered the mouthpiece and rolled his eyes. “The poor guy’s in shock.” Then he went back to shouting. “Lipton? LIPTON! You still there? Good. Listen to me, I need a street where the car was stolen. Gimme a store, an apartment building, anything…. The what? The Bundthouse Arms? That’s where you are? What? Calm down. I said calm down, damn it! I’ll be there.” Manny began to yell even louder. “What? I don’t know. As soon as I can…. Lipton? LIPTON! Shit.”

  Manny snapped the phone shut. Tina raised an eyebrow. “So?”

  “So he’s out of his mind, in the Stink District, where the slaughterhouses used to be. Great part of town if you own a gas mask.”

  “If it’s such a shithole, why would the mayor’s assistant be there?”

  “I have no idea, but I hope he’s comfy, ’cause it’s gonna be a while till the cavalry arrives. We gotta get to the station.” He turned to their de facto prisoner. “Ready, Mac? The cuffs okay?”

  Shocked out of his stupor, McCardle simply stared, his mouth making abortive attempts at speech. His tongue skidded over his lower lip, as if struggling for traction.

  “For Christ’s sake, Mac….”

  Manny and Tina ran to the sofa and helped him up. Wedged between them, the addled weight lifter moved in a dazed, splay-footed shuffle toward the door and continued sputtering.

  “Spit it out,” Manny told him. “We don’t have much time.”

  But McCardle only gaped, his eyes darting and frantic. “Zank’s,” he finally managed.

  “What’s Zank’s?” Tina asked, but Manny was losing patience.

  “Forget it, he’s tweaking.”

  Manny handed her the keys. “Unlock the car. I’ll bring Crack-man in a second.”

  “Does this mean I’ve been deputized?”

  “I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it,” Manny replied. Then McCardle started babbling again and Tina stayed to watch.