Plainclothes Naked (37 page)

“I don’t take drugs.”

“Maybe you should start,” said Manny, laying on another support ive back-pat before ducking into Interrogation.

McCardle sat at the small wooden table, his large head in his hands in front of a sandwich-size Radio Shack tape recorder. Krantz lingered behind him, holding the door as Manny swept in.

“Coffee, Sir?”

“Coffee? Somebody oughta bring this piece of shit a jug of dog piss! You read his jacket?”

Krantz patted his hair-pad. “Uh, no, I—”

“Don’t bother,” said Manny. “It’s bullshit.
Candy-ass
this,
candy-ass
that.” He swung around and slapped his palm on the table in front of McCardle’s face. “Two-time loser? Full-time loser’s more like it. This clown gives criminals a bad name. Then he ups and brains some butt-rustler in a goddamn boy bar.” Manny hoped he sounded convincing. “It’s
disgusting!
”

“I want a lawyer,” McCardle squeaked.

“You’re not under arrest. You’re here as our guest.”

Manny dropped into a folding chair across from Mac and clamped his hands in prayer at his chest. He took a deep, dramatic breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he went into his best Jimmy Swaggart. Jimmy when he’s apologizing for impure deeds, for mastur bating in motel rooms with overweight prostitutes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCardle. I got carried away. I’m a little upset, that’s all. You see, that’s my boss you’re slandering. That’s my
friend
.A man I
admire
. Can you understand that? You have people you admire, don’t you, Mac? You don’t mind if I call you Mac, do you?”

Manny didn’t wait for an answer. He crooked his finger for Krantz. “Officer, maybe you had a good idea there. Bring this fellow a cup

of coffee. Bring cream, sugar, half-and-half. No! What am I thinking? Our man’s a weight lifter, Krantz. Body like a baby Schwarzenegger. Bring him some skim. I’ll take mine white and creamy. Who cares if
I
get a spare tire?
I’m
not the Hercules at this clambake. And close the door on the way out.”

Krantz balked. “I don’t know, Manny. Maybe I ought to stay, get your back. I mean, he killed a guy.”

“Hey,” said Manny, “do your job. I lost my temper, and I apolo gized. He’ll be fine. Right, Mac? The butt-rustler crack, I didn’t mean it, okay? That was crude. It was ignorant. I was upset. That wasn’t
me
talking. Some of my best friends are gay. Maybe
I’m
gay. Who knows? I’m all fucked up here. It’s a bad day. This thing on?” Manny tapped the recorder. “Krantz, before you go, can you help me out here? I’m the worst with machines.” He raised his hands, miming helplessness, and shook his head to McCardle. “I know, I know. I’m a virile guy, I should be handy. But that’s me. I need a week of night school to plug in a fucking hot plate.”

Krantz pressed record and Manny waved him off again. “Coffee.

Go!”

When they were alone, Manny dragged his chair around the table, until he was almost rubbing knees with McCardle. He spoke very softly, with what sounded like affection.

“Let’s just kind of wade in here, okay? Full name?” “Mac Donald McCardle.”

“Old MacDonald, huh? Nice touch. Mom into drugs?” “I don’t have to talk about my momma.”

“Of course you don’t. God knows I hate talking about mine. That lying
cunt!
”

McCardle winced, and Manny held up his hands.

“Sorry, thought I was alone....I know your mom’s doing time. Gets out in 2039, right? I know everything. But we have to start with this stuff. Police policy. It’s a formality. How about place of employ ment?”

McCardle straightened in his chair. “Self-employed.”

“I’m sniffing an entrepreneur,” said Manny. “Home address?” “I’ve been stayin’ with friends.”

“Friends? How nice. I guess that’s where they send your tax state ments, huh? You being self-employed and all. They just send stuff to your
friends’
house.”

Manny rubbed his stomach and groaned. “
Mmmff
.... I’d strangle a nun for a Bromo right now. I got one of those bellyaches, feels like I’m about to give birth to a piece of
pig iron
. Now you wanna tell me what really went down? Start at the Parakeet.”

McCardle lowered his eyes and shook his outsize, immaculate head. They’d rehearsed on the way over.
Make it look like I’m goading you,
Manny’d told him.
Like I’m pushing your buttons
.

McCardle began to pant, his mammoth trapezoids heaving beneath his shirt.

“I...I
can’t.
”

Manny wasn’t sure if he was acting or not. He’d done beautifully so far, but you never knew....

“Listen to me, Mac, you’re looking at a world of shit. You give us something we can use, maybe we can work with you. I know you weren’t out there alone. And I know your little shovel party isn’t the only thing on the menu. You’ve been a busy little bee. Nobody likes a snitch, but come on—you think Tony Z would think twice about sell ing
your
pert behind down the river?”

McCardle sniffled, and Manny backed off.

“Now, the Parakeet. If that’s too personal to kick off with, fine. Give us something on the Pawnee Lodge. Or Seventh Heaven. Or Dee-Dee Walker. Or maybe that holy man you guys banged up, huh? I gotta say, you and your road dog, Zank, you fellas were on a real spree. Old ladies, middle-aged nurses, a priest ...I mean, step aside John Dillinger! I’m surprised you didn’t knock off any schoolkids. Oh wait—my mistake!—
you did!
Though technically, I don’t know if L’il Pepe was enrolled at the time of his demise.”

Manny gave McCardle’s shoulders a friendly rub.

“Thing is, Mr. McCardle, I don’t see you as the heavy in this stuff. Call me a cockeyed optimist, I’m thinkin’, y’know, maybe you hooked up with Zank in the joint.You both did jolts upstate. Maybe when you

got out you decided to team up. Butch and Sundance on crack. But it didn’t play. Guy may be King Shit inside, out on the street he’s just another psycho with artillery. But you can’t shake him,’cause after you pull a couple jobs, you know too much. You try to split, he’ll ice you, right? Plus which, all that ridin’ around, lookin’ for people to fuck up, you two do a lot of talking. Almost like being cellies. He knows where you hang, where your girlfriends live, where your grandma goes to church, every little thing. You try to bail—
huh-uh
—a crackhead like Tony’s gonna get paranoid. Gonna think you’re gamin’ him, maybe cuttin’ a deal. Next thing you know he tracks down Granny and makes her deep-throat his chicken bone. Or beats her with the phone book. Who knows what a freak like that is capable of ? The bottom line, you don’t have a choice. You gotta hang in. So what happens? ’Cause you’re tryin’ to do the right thing, to protect your loved ones from this maniac, you end up an accomplice to all kinds of shit you never wanted any part of. I mean,
come on,
we both know the score. Tony’s not the kind of guy takes no for an answer.”

Manny crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back.

“But, fuck me! I been doing all the talking. It’s your face, I gotta admit. You’re so damn elegant, the way you work that whole Dino thing. Makes me a real chatterbox. But just between us girls, that’s not exactly an asset on Death Row. You’ve been down, Mac. You know how it is. Pretty as you are, those fellas ain’t gonna be after you for beauty tips. . . . It’s lonely in there!”

Tears welled in McCardle’s eyes. He bit down hard on his lip, his fine-honed nostrils beginning to quiver.

“Krantz,” Manny yelled, “where’s that fucking coffee!”

On cue, the young officer popped back in, setting Styrofoam cups on the table, along with a quart of skim milk and a fistful of Sweet’n Lows.

Manny grabbed a cup. He poked a hole in the plastic lid and slurped. A few drops of coffee splashed onto his yoga pants and he slapped himself. “Oh
perfect!
Now it’s gonna look like I dribbled. I hate that! It’s like, you see some hot chick, then she notices your pants are wet and gives you that
look
. You know the look I’m talking about. You want to say, ‘Hey, it’s not what you think. It’s coffee. Really!’ But you

can’t. You have to stand there while she makes you for your some loser who
drips
. Or worse, she’s gonna think you just pulled your pud. I’m telling you, sometimes life is a fucking nightmare... .”

McCardle regarded him with confusion, and Manny waved his hands.

“I’m sorry. Ignore me. Bad day, I told you. Let’s get back to the Parakeet. You give up Tony on the other stuff, we can work with you.” Manny took another slurp, then fixed a coffee for Mac. “Just a splash, right? I made you for a skim man right off. You health nuts! Go

on, I’ll shut up. Lay it out for me, Adonis. Take your time.”

McCardle continued to stare in sullen silence. Until Manny tugged his right earlobe—that was the signal, in honor of the slice Tina took out of Zank—and Mac hurled himself out of his chair as if propelled.

“He messed with my
man!
” the tiny fireplug exploded. “He tried to move in on my sweet policeman. I couldn’t have that, y’hear me? I wouldn’t stand for some toilet-trick tryin’ to get between me and the man I love!”

“Whoa, whoa, back up,” said Manny. “
Who
tried to move in? And who’d they try to move in on? This some kind of love triangle?”

Manny stole a quick glance at the peephole to the left, where he knew Fayton would be watching, and gave a
hell-if-I-know!
shrug.

McCardle banged the table. “That boy at the Parakeet. He be goin’ around sayin’ how him and my sweet chief had a
thang
. He say my man tell him he gonna make
him
his special girl. But that ain’t true. That ain’t
never
gonna be true. ’Cause Poopy love me. I
know
he do! He even tell me ’bout his wife. Lady
Florence
. He say she used to be sexy but now she packin’ on shoulder-fat. He say she pumped so much Botox in her fo’head, she always look surprised. He even ’fraid to kiss her, in case some of that swine hormone leak out, ’cause that stuff be
poison
. Uh-huh. Poopy don’t just buy me presents. He
tell
me stuff.”

Manny threw up his hands. “You lost me on that curve. Who’s Poopy?”

“
Chief Fayton!
Thass his
love
-name.”

The little strong man’s shoulders worked up and down like pistons as he sobbed. “He all the time sayin’ no one know his love-name but me. And I believed him. I
still
believe him. But then that pony boy in the bar be sayin’ Poopy like him better! I knew he had to be lyin’....

Oh God,
” wailed McCardle, his voice visiting the higher registers.

“Poopy please! Poopy, you said we should never be ’shamed of who we are!”

On the other
side of the peephole, Fayton closed his eyes. He saw fab ric, great swaths of it. The lovely, fleur-de-lis pattern danced before him and he knew, in that moment, that he’d never see his office redone in the magisterial style to which he aspired.

The chief had never fired a gun outside the range—and even that was only twice, since the Academy didn’t push marksmanship on fel lows flagged for administration. Coming from his post at the DMV, nobody expected Fayton to actually go out and fight crime. But he had a weapon, a Beretta nine-millimeter—standard issue of the L.A.P.D., according to the brochure that came with it—which he kept in the hand-tooled ankle holster he’d ordered off Cop.com.

Fayton suffered another bad moment trying to figure out the clip, and when he got it in he said the Lord’s Prayer to steady his nerves. Keeping the Nine in front of him, he pressed his eye grimly to the peephole, observing this insane young Negro who harbored some deep-seated delusion that he’d been romantically involved with the chief of police.
Had to happen,
Fayton consoled himself.
Your weak sister types are drawn to powerful men. They can’t help it
....

Meanwhile, Manny forged on, his voice simultaneously incredulous and soothing. “Let me get this straight, you’re saying that you and Chief Fayton were
engaged?
You were going to be married, but then you found out he was seeing this other fellow, this ... Armand Putella? And
that’s
why you cracked Putella’s skull open with a shovel?”

McCardle buried his face in his hands. “It was a crime of
passion
.”

Manny whistled, then picked up the tape recorder to make sure it was still on. He didn’t even see Fayton enter the Interrogation Room until he was already on top of McCardle.

“Chief ? What are you—”

“Interview’s over,” Fayton said. And before Manny could stop him, the chief leveled the L.A.P.D.’s favorite hardware at McCardle’s head, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

. . .

When he realized
he wasn’t dead, McCardle climbed cautiously off the floor. He checked himself like someone stumbling out of a bombed building to see if anything was missing. Discovering he was still in one piece, he stared in stunned horror at his attacker.

Chief Fayton, at point-blank range, had managed to miss his target and blast a hole in the table. The report from the Beretta still echoed in the room. Manny extended his hand and asked the chief for his weapon.
“Nice and easy.”

Krantz, who’d heard the Nine’s report from his post by the coffee machine, had dashed in with his own gun drawn. But Manny waved him away. “Stand down, Krantz!”

The young officer reluctantly holstered his weapon and stalked off. Manny turned back to Fayton. The chief loomed over McCardle, unmoving except for a tic in his cheek, gazing at him with an expres sion that said,
“Why?”

Manny eased Fayton into a folding chair. “Come on, Tiger,” he said, as if speaking to an errant eleven-year-old. “Violence won’t solve anything.” Then he cupped his hand to the chief ’s ear and whispered, “This makes it look like you have something to hide. Why don’t you go back upstairs?”