by Grant Mccrea
A long fucking week.
Month.
So, he was at this party.
This we knew.
They were playing games.
With knitting needles.
Among other things.
Such as?
Silicone.
Silicone?
Yeah .
Okay …
Yeah, apparently there’s this thing that some guys do. They get the silicone. They inject it. Sometimes in their dicks, make them bigger. It’s called a pumping party.
Ouch.
Yeah. It only lasts a while. Then the body absorbs it, excretes it, whatever. I don’t know all the science about it.
And?
And sometimes they put it in their pecs. Whole bunch of it. Makes for fun temporary tits.
Jesus Christ. These guys really know how to have a party.
Yeah. And the thing is, after a while it kind of seeps around, drains out of you or whatever. Goes away. And it’s not supposed to hurt you.
Not supposed to.
Except sometimes it does.
Oh shit.
Yeah. So that’s what happened.
Brendan.
Yeah .
I can’t fucking believe it.
Yeah .
All he was doing was having some fun.
Yu p.
And it killed him.
Just like that.
I mean, how? There’s all these women with implants, sometimes they bust open, there’s claims it causes some autoimmune reactions, not that I ever believed that shit. I mean, they’ve disproved it, last I heard.
I wouldn’t know. But no, that’s not it.
It couldn’t be. Even if it’s true, and even if the reaction could kill you, it would take years.
Yeah. This is different. What happens is, and this is why it took so long for them to figure it out, it’s very rare. There was a reason to look for it. The silicone can get in your lungs. Basically, you drown.
Aw, come on. That’s just fucking, I don’t know, ridiculous. Drowning in fake tits.
Yeah. Stupid.
Stupid.
There was nothing more to say. What the fuck. He died having fun. I guess it wasn’t so bad. Worse ways to go, and all that.
We sat in silence. Polished off the bourbon.
But, I said at last.
But what?
It doesn’t work for me.
I’ll see if they have some Maker’s Mark.
Not the bourbon, you moron. The story.
What story? Butch asked.
We were pretty far gone into the corn mash nighttime.
Brendan, I said. This just-having-fun story.
Rick, they did the autopsy. These guys are professionals. I talked to them. I looked at the report. It’s pretty damn clear.
There’s a problem with it. And it wouldn’t show up in an autopsy.
All right, Mr. Investigator. Show me.
I can’t show you anything. I just have a feeling.
Oh shit. Not feelings again.
Hey, have some respect. Even guys have feelings, you know.
Specially drunk guys.
Yeah, specially those. But seriously, man, Brendan was like a brother to me.
Yeah. Sorry, man.
I knew him pretty damn well.
Yeah .
And I’m telling you, he didn’t play those kinds of games.
What do you mean?
He was all into the being-a-manly-man thing. You know, there are queens, there are transvestites—most of those guys are straight, by the way—
Yes, Rick. I’ve been around a few blocks a few times.
—transsexuals. There’s as many types of gay guy as straight guys. More, probably. And Brendan was one of those guys whose goal in life was to marry a straight guy. A lawyer in a suit and tie. And his way to do it was to be even manlier than the men he wanted, in a strange kind of way. The voice lessons. The gym. He worked really hard on expunging any trace of obvious gay mannerisms. Totally had me fooled, back when he was pretending to be straight.
And your point is?
That’s not the kind of guy who wants tits. Temporary or not.
Aw, c’mon, Rick. He’s drunk, doing whatever else they’re passing around on silver trays with tiny spoons. It’s a total scene. He could easily just have done it once, for fun.
You don’t know Brendan like I do. This was a really powerful thing in him. This wanting to be just like a straight guy. I don’t mean he wanted to be straight. He wasn’t a self-loathing gay man. He was fine with it. But anything that was queeny in any way, no fucking way. He wouldn’t have anything to do with it.
Okay, let’s say we buy that. What does it buy us?
I don’t know yet, man. But I know I’m right. And I know, if I’m right, we don’t have the whole story yet.
All right, maestro, Butch said. I’ll go get a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Sharpens the thinking process.
Good plan.
Butch got the bourbon. It was too good to slug down. I sipped it neat. It did that spectacular glowing slide-down-the-throat thing that it did. The slow warm suffusion outward, to the extremities, the very fingertips.
It was some fine shit.
I leaned back. I stared at the glorious pineapple overhead. I let my eyes unfocus to the middle distance. I let my mind wander in the spaces between the molecules that science told us made up the world as we knew it. I contemplated the nature of quarks. Spin. Spin. Spin.
I sat up.
Butch was asleep in his chair.
I kicked his shin.
What the fuck? he started out of his slumber.
And the knitting needle, I said.
We’ve been through all that.
No we haven’t. Not all of it.
Butch sighed. Poured us another round.
All right, he said. Next stunning revelation, please.
Somebody’s DNA is on that thing.
Yes.
We don’t know whose it is.
Correct.
And we’ve been assuming—I’ve been assuming anyway, I bet you have, too, since I found out about what they do with those things—that Brendan must have been … using it … on somebody. Right?
Kind of fits the evidence.
I don’t believe it.
More you don’t believe.
That wasn’t like him either.
Enlighten me.
Brendan was incredibly fastidious, Butch.
Yeah .
Clothes always pressed. He got his hair cut every week, for Christ’s sake. Took two hours in the bathroom every morning to get himself just right for public consumption.
And your point is …
And he was incredibly squeamish.
Yeah?
I cut myself in the kitchen once. Slicing garlic. Just a little nick. A little blood. He ran to the bathroom. I think he might even have puked.
Ahhh. I see where you’re going.
There’s no fucking way he was sticking pointy objects up someone’s dick, Butch. He’d rather die.
Good metaphor.
Fuck. Yeah. But I’m right.
Which means?
Something else happened.
And what might that have been?
I leaned back. I drifted upward. Became one with the pineapple.
I sat up.
I don’t have a fucking clue, I said.
Butch finished his bourbon. Poured another one.
Okay, he said. I don’t know if I buy all this. But I got to take your word for Brendan. You knew him a hell of a lot better than I did.
I did.
So I’ll go downtown. Ask some questions. Turn over some rocks. See if I can find some slime.
Okay, man. Good. Trust me. There’s something there.
We’ll see.
88.
BUTCH WENT DOWNTOWN. I went back to the Executive Suite. I had nothing to do but wait. Everything was slowing down. The world in the beige room
s seemed oddly relaxed. People were dead. Others were gone. There was nothing I could do about it. I started packing my things, slowly, deliberately. I thought about going over to the Bellagio. One last valedictory poker session. But I didn’t have the energy. I filled a glass with ice. Rummaged around in the wet bar. Found a bottle of Macallan eighteen-year-old I’d forgotten we had. An unexpected delight. I took it over to the sofa. Poured myself a big one. Turned on the TV. Lay back. Lit a smoke. Drank myself back into a pleasant haze.
The intercom rang. What the fuck. Couldn’t a guy get a little rest around here?
I dragged myself over to the door. Pressed the talk button.
Who is it? I said.
A Madeleine for you, sir.
Ah. Send her up.
Kelley and Peter had already left. Back to school. Real life. Something that was fast receding from my grasp. Madeleine had stayed behind. I took that as a good sign. I’d been trying to get up the nerve to ask her to come to New York with me for a while. But I didn’t want to interfere with her home life. I still hadn’t asked about her adoptive parents. She hadn’t volunteered. I figured she’d tell me when she was ready.
She knocked. I opened the door. She looked gorgeous. She made me proud.
I gave her a hug. She pulled away, a bit. That was okay. I was still new to her. I understood.
Come in, come in, I said. It’s so great you could come by. I was just packing, but we’re staying another day. Taking care of some loose ends. Maybe get a little poker in. Try to feel normal for a day.
She laughed.
It was a nervous laugh.
I sat on the sectional. She sat in the chair, knees pressed together. Purse in her lap.
Something was different.
Everything okay? I asked.
Sure. Everything’s fine. Dad?
Yes?
I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving today.
Okay. I was hoping maybe you could come visit us. In New York. But it doesn’t have to be now. I know you probably have school and stuff coming up.
Yes, she said.
Silence.
So, I said. Do you want to make a plan? I can fly you out. Show you the neighborhood. We could get Kelley and Peter to come, too. Have a big family reunion. Just let me know when you can come.
That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about, she said, looking at her lap.
What do you mean? I asked.
The phone rang. I ignored it.
Those tiny claws were scrambling about in my gut again.
I don’t really know how to say this, she said.
Then just say it.
Well, Dad, it was really, really nice to … to meet you. You know. I always wanted to know who my father was and all.
I’m so thrilled to get to know you, too, I said, mustering up some false cheer.
I knew what was coming.
The phone rang again. I ignored it some more. I poured myself another mammoth Macallan. I could feel her eyes on me. I could feel her disapproval.
Dad, maybe someday I’ll come and visit. And I really, really appreciate the offer. But right now …
I waited.
Right now I just have to figure some stuff out.
I see.
Get back home. Think about things.
I see.
I hope you understand.
I understand, I said.
I didn’t want to understand. I wanted to scream. For God’s sake, I wanted to shout. Haven’t I lost enough people yet?
Okay, she said. I’m glad you understand. I’m … It’s hard.
I know. It’s not an easy situation.
Okay, then, she said, getting up.
That was it.
I walked her to the door. I gave her the biggest hug in my repertoire.
Her arms stayed at her side.
She left. I closed the door quietly.
I went into the bedroom.
And cried.
The phone rang again. I ignored it. I wanted the world to go away. Leave me the fuck alone.
But it kept on ringing. Goddamn it. On the third ring back, I gave in. I picked it up.
I think you better get down here, said Butch.
Down where?
Downtown. The station.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah. You were right.
Now there’s a shock.
Just get down here.
Everything got fast again. I grabbed a cab. It smelled of rancid butter, and irresolution.
When I got downtown, they were waiting for me. The mottle-faced guy at the desk said, You that Redman guy? I said yes, and he nodded at a freckly red-haired kid with enormous hands and a uniform two sizes too large. The kid motioned me to follow him through a thick steel door, down a narrow corridor. Another well-secured door opened into the control room. The room behind the one-way glass.
Crammed into the ten-by-twelve room were Rod, Butch, three technicians and two uniforms. Through the one-way window I could see my favorite police-issue gunmetal chair, occupied by a mammoth gentle man with a buzz cut and a sour demeanor. Across from him a detective was taking notes. On either side of the window were video monitors, on each of which appeared a similar scene: beefy guy, gun-metal chair, wooden table, badly dressed detective. Why did they all have to wear those ties? The ones that were two inches too wide and five inches too short?
Butch motioned me over to the counter at which he and Rod had been huddled together, wearing headphones and flicking switches, evidently tuning from one audio feed to another, keeping track of the simultaneous interrogations.
The guys from the video? I asked.
Yup, said Butch.
I looked at the left-hand monitor. The guy in the chair had a lumpy dumpling face, brush cut, shaved high in the back.
I know that guy, I said.
You do, said Butch.
I know I do. Who the fuck is he?
Vitaly, said Butch. From Vinnie’s game.
You’re shitting me. Damn. You’re right.
I know I’m right. And the guy in the window is none other than our main man.
Don’t tell me. Vladimir?
The only one. The one and only.
Wow. And the third guy?
Him we don’t know. Or didn’t before tonight. Some guy named Arthur. Artie. Artie Schwarz.
You’re shitting me.
Believe it or not.
Sounds like a bandleader from the forties.
Yeah, well, that was some band he was playing in.
Okay. I take your word for it.
Jesus Christ on a stick, I said.
I was looking at the fourth monitor.
What? said Butch and Rod together.
That’s fucking Jerry.
Who? said Rod. Who’s Jerry?
That guy on the monitor on the left, I said.
What’s this? said Rod, your fucking high school reunion?
I saw him at Yugo’s, I said, ignoring the gibe. No doubt about it. That’s the guy who was serving the drinks.
Yugo? said Rod, laughing.
Yeah, I said. What’s so funny?
Isador Yuganovich?
Isador? I said. Shit, that rings a bell.
Yuganovich is a pimp, Ricky boy, said Rod. Supplies big boys all over town. Fun and games boys.
Shit, I said. I thought they were for him.
He look like he was in shape for boning muscleboys? Rod laughed.
I guess not, I said.
Butch gave me a look.
I ignored him.
So what’ve we got? I asked. Sounds like there’s some confessing going on.
We got everything, Rick. They’re just wrapping up. Let’s get a coffee and give you the lowdown.
Download.
Down load.
We found some plastic chairs and an empty office. The red-haired kid brought in something wan and scalding in flimsy plastic cups. Rod came in after him. Pulled up a plastic milk carton to sit on.
The DNA from the needle, Rod said, matched this Artie guy. Only that wasn’t the name we had for him. Oleg Kuryashin, we had him down for. Check kiting. Small-time fraud artist. One arrest for assault. Here, anyway. Haven’t got the stuff back yet from other states. Then we got lucky, I guess. Got a report about some gunshots, a parking lot on Industrial. These four jokers were playing shoot ’em up down there. We got Artie, but the other three got away. The guy was tighter than a flea’s asshole when we got him here. But that didn’t last long. He didn’t like the tapes as much as you did, Redman.
No accounting for taste, I said.
Yeah. Anyway, he gave up the other three clowns easy enough, once he saw the position he was in. So we rounded up the goons, and when we got them all down here we did the four-way. Like you saw. Our guys have transmitters in their ears. So we can feed each of them stuff we’re getting from the other two. Keep the whole circus rolling nice and smooth.
Nice, I said.
We like to think we know what we’re doing. Anyway, your buddy Butch here told me he’d given you the lowdown on our original read. That it was an accident. The fun and games got out of hand, whatever. That you had some doubts. And I got to tell you, what he told us really helped us out. We owe you some thanks.
And an apology, maybe?
No fucking way. So, like you thought, turned out it wasn’t so simple. This Brendan kid comes off a little better once you know the whole story.
I could see Rod liked to meander around to the point in his own way, so I just kept quiet and listened.
So after we got the word from Butch here, we’re going back over the tapes, Rod continued. Frame by frame, like. Make sure we didn’t miss anything. Another perp maybe. A witness we can use. Whatever. And then we got this. Butch, you got that thing?
Here, said Butch, pulling an eight-by-ten black-and-white from a brown envelope and handing it to me.
Look at the upper right, said Rod.
The image was dark, out of focus. But I recognized it. It was a still shot from the same video surveillance camera footage Rod had been so kind as to show me earlier. You could see the red door on the left. It was half open. People going through the door. It wasn’t as clear as what I’d seen on the film, but I didn’t have any doubt it was part of the same sequence.
Upper right, Rod repeated. Here.
He drew a circle with a black felt pen.
I brought the photo up close to my face. The blacks and grays formed sworls and protrusions, blanks and waves. At first it seemed totally abstract. Like an Ansel Adams black-and-white of a canyon at sunset. But slowly the shadows and shades resolved themselves into a figure. A man, probably. In the midst of turning towards the red door.