Текст книги "Tongue tied"

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Plankton was pondering something. "Jerry wasn't in on this, was he?"

"What do you think?"

"Just answer my question before I shoot your black heart across your backyard and across the sound to Norwalk!"

"No, no, Jerry didn't know! He was sick about the whole thing. He even got me to raise the reward money to six-five. I just used Jerry, picking up information on the police investigation, and on some PI from Albany that was involved, and some Amish queen from the FFF that we tried to make it look like he was involved in the snatch.

I'm sure Jerry would've gone along with it if he knew, but the way I did it was even better. Don't you get it, J-Bird? It would only really work perfectly if you all were sincerely distraught and ripshit."

Plankton considered carefully what he had heard. Then he said to Thad and me,

"Tie him down. I want him stretched over the table, butt end up, and tied tight.

Find some rope, or some neckties in his bedroom."

"Hey, wait a minute…!"

Blam! Blam! Blam! The gun went off again, smashing a shelf full of what looked like Venetian fruit bowls. The far side of the kitchen was a rainbow of flying Murano.

I said, "I'll go look in the garage for something to tie him up with."

"No, you won't," Plankton said. "I don't trust you for shit, Strachey. I didn't trust you from the second I laid eyes on you, you being some limp-wristed Albany fairy. Use those electrical cords," Plankton said, waving his gun at some extension cords, one leading to a lamp on a phone table, another to a television set mounted on a metal wall shelf. "Those'll work. Tie him down with those cords."

Glodt, on whom the automatic was trained, looked frantic. "Jay, what are you going to do?"

"You'll see."

"You're not going to rape me, are you, Jay?"

"Not exactly."

"Jay, I think you're losing it. You're not the J-Bird I thought I knew."

"Do it!" Plankton snapped at Thad and me.

It took four extension cords, including two Thad retrieved from the pantry, for us to tightly secure Glodt's feet to the legs of one side of the table and his wrists to the other. Glodt had begun to whimper. He had no idea what he was in for, though by now I was beginning to think I did.

"Get the case," Plankton said calmly.

I picked up the aluminum case Thad had brought in from the car and placed it on a nearby chair.

"Open it," Plankton said.

I unsnapped the latches and lifted the lid.

"Pull his pants down," Plankton said, and Glodt let out a scream.

Thad said, "What is that thing, an electric nose-hair trimmer, or what? Are you going to shave his butt-hole or something, J-Bird? Look, I have to tell you, this is getting to be a bit more than I can stomach. Honestly."

"What you're looking at," Plankton said, motioning toward the contents of the case,

"is a tattoo gun along with its inks and accessories. I was blindfolded at the time, so I can't say for sure. But my guess is, this is the tattoo gun that that fruitcake in Oyster Bay used to desecrate the holy temple of my crumbling, pathetic, middle-aged body.

And now, Steve, your holy temple is about to be desecrated, too."

Glodt screamed again and began to struggle violently. Plankton stepped closer to Glodt and shoved the barrel of the automatic against Glodt's right temple. Glodt froze in place but almost immediately began to shake all over.

"Strachey, you can do the honors. If you refuse, I'll blow Steve's brains out. If you think I'm bluffing, go ahead and test me."

"I've never used one of these things," I said.

"You can experiment. On Steve."

"I took your basic Introduction to Art History in college, but I have no artistic talent myself."

"You won't need any. This doesn't have to be perfect. Anyway, it's pretty much all text."

"I thought it might be."

"Plug it in."

"I might need another extension cord."

"Thad, find another cord." Thad glanced at me again, and I nodded. I was beginning to understand that everyone in the room would almost certainly survive the day unin-jured and largely intact.

Plankton confirmed this by saying, "Tattoo what I tell you to write on Steve's butt.

Then I'll put the gun down and you can call the cops. But if you don't do it, I'll kill Steve.

Deal?"

"Deal," I said.

Glodt mewed softly as I loosened his belt and tugged his jeans and undershorts down in the back.

Thad returned with another extension cord and plugged one end into a wall socket near the coffeemaker. The other end I attached to the tattoo gun. The device resembled a large hypodermic syringe with a needle in the end. When I flicked a switch, the needle vibrated.

I said, "These little jars appear to contain ink. What color would you like, J-Bird?

Or should I ask Steve?"

"Blue would be good," Plankton said. "It was good enough for me, and it will be good enough for Steve."

I removed the lid from a jar of dark blue ink. With the tattoo gun poised above Glodt's buttocks-which were remarkably firm and well-preserved for a man who was probably in his early fifties-I said to Plankton, "What is it, J-Bird, that you would like me to write?"

He told me, and Glodt began to sob.

Thad said, "That's cruel, J-Bird. That's sick."

"Do it, or I'll kill him. It's not as cruel and sick as murder."

I thought he was probably bluffing, but he spoke with such cold rage that I wasn't sure. In any case, I figured Glodt could have the tattoos removed-slowly, painfully– before they could bring him any greater harm.

"I should sketch this out first," I said, "so that I do the job as neatly as possible. Is there a marker or something?"

Thad brought a felt-tipped pen from the telephone table. He wasn't trembling, nor did he have goose bumps. But his face was taut and pale, and I could see in his eyes that he was suffering. Thad's early days as a daring FFF rescuer must have seemed so innocent and larky next to this, and I didn't doubt that he would soon head back to his eggplants and moody lover and orderly extended gay-and-lesbian family and never again head off on some midlife adventure that the likes of people like me had lured him into.

I took the pen and carefully wrote on Glodt's perspiring left buttock: "Queen of the New York State Correctional System." Then on his left cheek I drew an arrow pointing to Glodt's anus, and the words "Enter Here."

It took me a few minutes to develop a feel for using the gun and when and how to dip the needle in the ink jars. So I made a few blotchy mistakes. But when I finished the job an hour or so later, it wasn't bad overall, and the J-Bird complimented me on my work.

Then I made some phone calls, and soon after that two ambulances arrived, along with a Center Island police cruiser. At almost the same moment, Lyle Barner and Dave Welch glided up the Glodt driveway.

Glodt was still draped over the kitchen table when Lyle and Welch came in, Lyle's police special drawn. The J-Bird had laid down his automatic by then, and Lyle soon lowered his.

Welch said, "Hey, nice butt."

Taking note of the J-Bird, Lyle said to Welch, "What are you, queer or something?

Now, what the hell is going on here, Strachey? It looks to me as if you have a lot of explaining to do."

Welch shook his head, Thad raised an eyebrow, the J-Bird snorted, and Steve Glodt said, "Are you police officers? Thank God you're here! I've been attacked and held prisoner by these radical homosexual activists! Apparently they are the same deranged perverts who kidnapped my friend and full business partner, Jay Plankton here, who luckily was able to escape from his sadistic captors!"

There was a pause while we all looked over at the J-Bird, who suddenly let loose with a ferocious cackle.

Chapter 25

Midnight Sunday in Albany. The rain had moved out but not the heat and humidity, and when I stepped off the train I felt as though I was breathing peanut butter. I had picked up the Times at Penn Station and thought the Sunday crossword puzzle would represent a wholesome change of mental pace. But I dozed off before the train had cleared the tunnel heading north from midtown, and if the conductor hadn't wakened me-"Hey, young fella, Albany's your stop, isn't it?"-I might have remained unconscious right through to Cleveland.

Timothy Gallahan was there at the Rensselaer Amtrak station to bring me home, and a happy sight was Timmy.

"Donald, you're not looking your freshest."

"No, but you are, by and large. Lucky me."

"You did a fine job, and all your exertions paid off nicely. And even though Lyle Barner was involved, you didn't get your ear chewed off this time, or apparently anything else, cither."

"Nope, I'm in one piece."

"And with the vast wealth of these media heavies at your disposal, I take it you've been-or soon will be– amply rewarded."

We found Timmy's car in the Amtrak lot and climbed into it. I rolled the window down and said, "Yeah, I'll get paid. I think."

"There's doubt? Donald, not again."

"Oh, I'll squeeze it out of them. I know too much."

"Too much of what? I saw on CNN that Jay Plankton was rescued, and this Glodt guy who owns the radio network was behind it all, and that you were involved in finding Plankton, and Glodt is in custody. There's more?"

We pulled out onto the street leading to the bridge across the Hudson. I said,

"Glodt briefly talked Plankton into saying the whole thing was a gag, and that I was in on it from the beginning, and if I said otherwise publicly, they would label me some humorless PC asshole and sue me for defamation of character."

"What rot. And spectacularly unbelievable."

"It was. Plankton loved the sound of it, and there were ratings and big bucks in it for him and Steve Glodt, but Plankton soon saw that it could never work. Lyle and this other New York cop had seen and heard way too much, and anyway there were too many people involved in the conspiracy-two of them shot in the leg by Plankton-and these people were sure to turn against the masterminds of the plot in return for a better deal from the prosecutors. Glodt was going down, and the J-Bird soon saw that.

He had no interest in going down, too."

"What a scuzzy bunch of people."

"They're bad, all right."

"Well, now you've paid off your debt to Lyle, Don. If he ever asks you again to get mixed up with reprobates like the J-Bird, you can say, 'Sorry, old pal,' with a clear conscience." "That's my plan. Though I 'm not sure Lyle will be calling on me again.

I'm still an embarrassment to him. After all these years."

"What, your being out?"

"It has to be hard for gay cops."

"It is. Whether they're in or out, it's no picnic. The out cops get beat up on, and the nonout cops beat up on themselves. I admire all of them, but I don't envy them. Not one bit."

As we cruised across the Dunn Bridge, the Albany skyline spread out against the murk ahead of us, Timmy said, "They said on the news that Glodt had asked for both a lawyer and a dermatologist. What was that about?"

"Oh my. Was he allowed access to a dermatologist?"

"A judge was considering the request, CNN said. What's the problem? Did Glodt have some kind of violent skin reaction to his arrest? Hysterical acne or something?"

I thought, should I tell him? Timmy wasn't going to appreciate my role in this. But this was important-or would have been considered important, I knew, by the everlasting Jesuit Callahan. He would need to parse the moral complexities before eliciting statements from me into which he could read a degree of contrition, prior to conferring conditional absolution on me in the recesses of his mind.

Anyway, as I described it all to Timmy, I made it plain that I had no choice in the matter. It was either carry out the tattoo job or Plankton just might blow Glodt's head apart.

Timmy accepted my explanation with unexpected equanimity. He just said, "Wow.

You spent an hour writing on this guy's naked butt."

"I did. I fantasized about you, of course."

"Did he have a nice one?"

"It wasn't bad at all."

"What did Thad Diefendorfer make of all this?"

"He was revolted."

"What a sweet guy he is. I hope we see him again."

"We will. He and his partner and their lesbian housemates are coming for a visit with their little kid in August. Thad thinks they'd all like to visit the Berkshire llamas, if not suck the cheese."

As we turned onto Crow Street, Timmy said, "If you wanted to, you could pay your respects to Jay Plankton again, too. On CNN about an hour ago the J-Bird said he planned on setting up a camp, probably in the Berkshires, where the victims of kidnappings could go for counseling and rest and rehabilitation. On his radio show tomorrow he's going to ask listeners for contributions to establish the carnp. And he's arranging to have at least twelve of the Iran U.S. Embassy hostages on the show this month. And then he's going to broadcast future shows from Colombia and the Philippines, where there are lots of what he called 'cruel and tragic kidnappings similar to my own and Leo Moyle's.' Americans will be able to see all this on television too, the J-Bird said, when simulcasting begins in the fall on the Gonzo Sports Network."

But of course. "I'll say this much for Plankton," I told Timmy. "He's a vile sham, but he's nimble."

"The kidnap victims' rehab camp," Timmy added, "is going to be called Camp Babette, after Plankton's fiancee. Oh, and the Bush campaign is going to make a cash contribution to the camp, and if Bush is elected, they said he'll be there for the grand opening."

"At least we don't have to sweat that," I said. "Gore's got it nailed."

Timmy parked the car and said, "Come on in the house, and maybe if I work at it I can talk you into writing messages on me for a change."

I said it wouldn't take much.

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