Текст книги "Tongue tied"

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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Plankton said, "Or how about 'Froot Loops'?" Were they testing me, or provoking me, or what? I supposed there was nothing calculated, or even rational, about this routine at all. It was just the way they talked to other men. They didn't know any other way. Or, they were capable of nonhostile, noninflammatory, straightforward conversation, but-with me-only one-on-one. When they were together, they had to lay on a barrage of "guy" talk in order to keep their heterosexual credentials from being questioned, however subtly or obliquely, and this seemed to mean nearly as much to them as life itself.

I said, "If I take you on as a client, every time you say something that irritates me, there's going to be a surcharge on my normal fee of two percent. You work it out. Or, I can walk out the door now and you can take your chances that the New York cops will collar the FFF people before they send you another load of dogshit, or worse."

"Llama," Plankton interrupted.

"Llama?"

"I was just on the phone with that police dick, Lyle Barner. He said the turds they sent us-'excrement for the execrable'-were tested somewhere, and they're llama crap."

"These guys must be Aztecs," Jeris said, his geography off by several thousand miles.

"I loved 'excrement for the execrable,'" Plankton said, and laughed. "I wish I'd thought of that one myself."

"You will," Jeris said, and they both chuckled.

"You should be on the radio too," I told Jeris. "You're almost as funny as Jay is." They both haw-hawed at this; now I was getting into the J-Bird spirit. I asked Plankton,

"What else did you learn from Lyle Barner that's new?"

Plankton drew on his cigar and blew smoke, and I wondered if I was going to be able to keep my Amtrak cherry Danish down. "Nada," he said. "Barner's on his way over here to talk to us about the tear-gas attack, and he says he wants you to stick around so he can talk to you."

"Did the fake cop who lobbed the canister leave a note?" I asked.

"Just the usual wiseass label, in an envelope he dropped on Flonderee's desk. This one said, 'Gas for the gaseous.'"

"I could have written it myself. It's the phrase I thought of when I heard about the teargas incident. I'd just been listening to your show, and it was the first thought that came into my head."

"You're an effing genius," Plankton said. I couldn't see his bloodshot eyes through the shades, but a couple of gray-black brushpiles of eyebrow shot up. "Since you're so smart, why don't you tell us what the H incident is going to be? What do you think, Don? Will it be… what? Hay for the heinous?"

"How about 'Hogs for the hogs-breathed'?" Jeris said. "Or 'Hemorrhoids for the hemorrhoidal'?"

Laughing and coughing up a merry storm, Plankton sputtered out, "What about

'hoors for the hoor-ible'? That wouldn't be too hard to take," he said, and Jeris coughed and cackled too.

They quickly collected themselves when I said, "Maybe it'll be 'homicide for the homophobic'"

Plankton set down his soft drink, removed his shades, and gazed at me through the air pollution with deep-set red eyes that once must have been blue. "You don't think they're really that dangerous, do you? They're out of control, sure. That's why we brought the cops into it, and that's why we called you. But now you're starting to scare the bejesus out of me."

I shrugged. "These people are not without humor, but they're also a bit nuts. How nuts, we don't know. You and the people on your show are out of control too," I said to Plankton, "but you're not homicidal that anybody knows of. So, surly and obnoxious and frightening to some people is sometimes just that and nothing worse."

Jeris said to Plankton, "That's a compliment, J-Bird."

"Oh? I'm not so sure it is," Plankton said, and slid his shades back on.

I said, "So you're bringing on personal security for yourself? That's a useful precaution at this point."

"Two of them are in my office now. It's a service Lyle Barner knew about-ex-cops and, Christ, they look like a couple of World Wrestling Federation bone-crunchers.

What a pain in the effing butt this is," Plankton said, and flicked a cigar ash in his soda can.

"You afraid the Secret Service might crimp your style, J-Bird?" Jeris asked. "Hey, it didn't slow Bubba down."

"Are you single?" I asked Plankton.

"Divorced. Twice. Three kids, all adults-or about as adult as any kids are these days."

I only thought it, but Jeris said it out loud. "That's hard to believe, with a role model like you, Jay." They snickered together companionably.

I asked, "Is there anybody you live with or are close to that the FFF might go after?"

"I live by myself. I have an apartment on Sixty-fourth, off Lex." Plankton said to Jeris, "Jesus, I hope they don't try to do anything to Babette. Cripes."

I was ashamed of myself as soon as it came out. "Who's Babette, J-Bird? Your poodle?"

This was their style of wit, and they both heh-hehed.

"Babette's a bitch," Plankton said, "but…"

Jeris finished his sentence. "… but not nearly the bitches that Gail and Theresa were!"

More happy chortles, more fumes. As my gorge was rising, my heart was sinking. The gay-baiting was bad enough, but this casual misogyny was even worse. They sneered at gay people to their faces, but my guess was that they put their girlfriends down in this contemptible way only behind their backs. Or, worse, they carried on like this in front of their girlfriends, who suffered through it all as part of some awful bargain they believed they had had to make, and maybe they were right. I needed the work at the time-Albany in the past month had apparently experienced an uncharacteristic outbreak of decorum, so my services had been in limited demand. But it seemed likelier by the second that I would not be able to abide any association whatsoever, even for an inflated fee, with the J-Bird and company. I knew I would be seeing Lyle Barner within minutes, and I decided I would break the news first to him that I was soon to be gone.

Chapter 4

"Long time, no see," Barner said. "Looks like you're not twenty-six anymore, Strachey."

"Thank you."

"But you're as sexy as ever. How do you do it?"

"Ingest lots of grease, put off going to the gym, not too much bed rest."

"Funny, I try some of that. But for me it doesn't work so well."

"You can't do slovenliness halfheartedly, Lyle. You've got to give it your all."

He laughed, a little nervously, and glanced at the door to make sure, I guessed, that it was shut tight and no one had overheard this exchange. Jeris had let us use his office for a private confab following Detective Barner's official tour of the tear gas-attack area.

It had been nearly sixteen years since I'd last laid eyes on Barner, and he hadn't aged as badly as apparently he thought he had. Beefy, with powerful shoulders and arms, a broad mug, and big sad brown eyes, Barner had what was once called a "man's man" way about him that still had its potent appeal. I'd had a couple of sexual encounters with Barner in the early eighties, back when Timothy Callahan and I had already gotten serious with each other but the angel of monogamy had not yet appeared before us, at least not to me.

Barner had been interested in me at the time, and for me there was the sinful thrill that came with Barner's vague resemblance to my high-school football coach. But his essentially morose nature, as well as his terror of being outed as an Albany gay cop, was a source of tension between us. And anyway Timmy was arguing for a more conventional straight-and-narrow relationship between us, both out of a well-founded fear of AIDS and because it was his moral ideal; he had always been both selective and definite in what he retained during his early years with the nuns of Poughkeepsie, as well as in his later years at Georgetown, where the free flow of ideas was revered by the Jesuits there and where on every classroom wall hung a crucifix.

In an attempt to integrate his divided selves, and partly at my urging, Barner had headed for San Francisco in the mid-eighties; it was easier out there for cops to be unclos-eted.

But instead I'd heard he'd married a divorcee with six kids. That hadn't worked either, I was not bowled over to learn later. And the rumor I'd picked up in the mid-nineties, that Barner was back east with the NYPD, was now confirmed.

I said, "I thought once you'd cut the cord with Mother Albany and discovered the moist charms of life in the Bay area, I'd never see you again. Or that if I did, you'd have flowers in your hair."

"I had to come back east because my ma's not well,"

Barner said simply.

"Sorry to hear it. Your mother's here in the city?"

"No, Albany."

"But no back-to-your-roots for you?" "It wouldn't work."

"I guess not. Albany city government is no longer stuck in the nineteen-thirties. It hasn't been since the eighties. But the Neanderthals have managed to retain the law-enforcement and criminal-justice portfolios. I can't see an out gay cop fitting in comfortably. Although I'd love to see some ballsy young gay guy break the mold."

Barner said coldly, "That's right, Strachey. You'd like to see somebody else stand up and take a pounding. But you never stood up yourself, did you?" "Become a cop, you mean?" "It's a hell of a lot harder than what you do, and it's more important."

"When it's done right, which it rarely is, that's true. But I don't fit into institutions very well, as is documented in the archives of the Pentagon."

"Then maybe you should keep your fucking mouth shut about cops being out."

I said, "I take it you're not."

He shook his head.

"And it's gnawing at you?"

"No, you're gnawing at me, that's all."

"Lyle, I haven't knowingly been within a couple of thousand miles of you for over fifteen years, for chrissakes." Deja vu was setting in. This sounded like a repeat of half the conversations I'd ever had with Barner.

"That's right, Strachey. You haven't spoken to me for sixteen years. And as soon as you do, you start right in again."

"Are you in a relationship?" I asked.

He hesitated. "Yes. Kind of one."

"A cop?"

"Yeah."

"Ah-ha."

"He's out."

"Oh-ho."

Barner's look softened, and he said, "I'm totally wacko nuts about Dave, and I'm afraid I'm going to lose him. He's in the Gay Officers Action League. He wants me out too, so we can do that political stuff together. But he's treated like crap by three-quarters of the officers in the precinct, and he can hardly do his job. I love my job, I'm good at it, and I don't want to get up every day and have to wade through that shit while I'm just trying to go out and be an effective police officer."

I said, "Dave is a hero. The only people marching in gay-pride parades who get as many cheers from the crowd as P-FLAG does are the out gay cops."

Barner flushed and looked at me hard. "There are other ways of being a hero. Some people might say trying your damnedest twelve hours a day to protect the public from the half a million or so sociopaths and violent nutcases loose on the streets of this city-and instead of being thanked for it getting called racists and out-of-control assholes-is being a hero too. That's how I'm a hero, when I feel like one, and a hell of a lot of other good cops are heroes like that too. So you tell me, Strachey.

What's wrong with that kind of being a hero?"

This was an argument that I knew tripped off the tongues of racist, corrupt and sadistically depraved cops as casually as it did among cops for whom it was essentially true. I was reasonably certain that Barner was one of the latter, and I said, "I respect you and what you do, Lyle. I remember what a fine cop you were in Albany-you bailed my ass out with that maniac who chewed my ear off in the Millpond case and I'll bet you're an even better cop now. I wasn't putting you down. I was only suggesting that you've got a real prize of a boyfriend."

Now Barner looked thoughtful, and said, "Are you still with that Irish kid?"

Timmy would love this. "Timothy Callahan, yes. But if that's who you're thinking of, he was an adult sixteen years ago, and he's even more of one now."

"I figured it would last."

"We've had our ups and downs. But we're in it for the long haul. Our differences drive us both nuts sometimes, but we complete each other in an interestingly asymmetrical way. Plus, we still get each other's pulses racing somewhat more often than you might think. It's definitely a marriage made in purgatory, as all the best ones are. Somebody once accused us of being the Ozzie and Harriet of gay Albany, and Timmy took it as a compliment."

Barner seemed to mull this over; then he said, "I'd like you to meet Dave."

"I'd like to. Is he a detective too?"

"Patrolman."

"I see. How old?"

"Twenty-six. He's mature."

"And has mature tastes, which is even better."

"He's a hunk, Strachey."

"That's no handicap either."

"In some ways I wish I could be more like him. But I can't."

"Does he expect you to become more like him?"

Barner thought this over. "He'd definitely prefer it," he said after a moment. "But he knows I'm set in my ways. He knows it, but he doesn't accept it. That's the problem, if you see what I mean. I don't know how long he's gonna stick around."

"It's as tricky as anything," I said. "A couple can be out, or a couple can be in. But when one person's in and the other person's out, the picture can get a little too abstract-expressionistic for most people to handle. I hope you can figure out a way to make it work, if you both want to."

"It might. Dave likes me. He thinks I'm a good cop, and smart-and hot."

"That was my impression."

Barner said, "The thing that gets to me is, he sees other guys sometimes."

"Oh. And you don't?"

"Nah."

"That is definitely another complication." "Yeah." "Hmm."

"We spend most of our time together when we're off duty. So these other guys mostly they're not an issue."

"What do you like to do together, you and Dave? I mean generally speaking."

"Watch Yankee games, have a beer, go out for a nice meal, get it on. You know."

I said, "I take it you're not out with anybody except your close friends?"

"Correct."

"And not these bozos here at the radio station? I shouldn't address you as

'Detective Mary Mary Quite Contrary' in the presence of the J-Bird?"

"Jesus!"

"How did you end up detective in charge of the FFF case? Luck of the draw?"

Barner allowed himself a sly little grin. "I requested it. I remembered the Blount case in seventy-nine, and that you had FFF connections. I thought I might be able to bring you into it."

"And here I am, although not for long, I think. The J-Bird and his gang of boneheads are not people I want to work for. If this were North Korea and my family were starving, I'd have to think it over. Thankfully, that's not the case. Sorry to crap out on you, but I think I'm about to head back north."

Barner looked puzzled. "You don't want to take money from these people? You think these people's money is dirtier than anybody else's? You're pretty fucking idealistic for somebody your age, Strachey. You need to get out in the big bad world more often.

You must have been stuck up in Albany a little too long."

"Lyle, it's not my ideals I'm afraid of losing, it's my breakfast. And my temper."

"Uh-huh."

"It's been awhile since I've had to restrain myself from decking a client."

Barner laughed. "Jesus, Strachey, I know caterers who put up with more obnoxious clients than Plankton and Jerry Jeris. Why don't you hang in for a few days anyway?

Take the J-Bird's money, and find out what you can about the old FFF. It'll be interesting, and it'll make my life easier. Do it as a favor to me. I don't want to come right out and say that you owe me one. But if you keep this up, I might have to." He looked at me and waited.

I felt my pleasant postlunch train ride back to Albany begin to slip away. Barner had once saved my neck, if not my ear, in a case involving the two elderly lesbians who were now Timmy's and my neighbors on Crow Street. A developer trying to drive them out of their semirural home near Albany had set in motion a plot that led to a violent confrontation with two murderous goons and a vicious dog, and it was Barner who had arrived on the scene accompanied by Timmy with milliseconds to spare.

Was I indebted to Barner? There were those who would say so, yes.

I said, "Lyle, I really don't know how helpful I can be. It's hard to imagine that these neo-FFFers have any connection with the old FFF. The bunch that operated back in the sixties and seventies were ideological, but they were also hardheaded realists with attainable goals. Mostly rescuing the wrongly imprisoned from private mental institutions. This new gang is flaky as hell. Using intimidation to rid the airwaves of homophobia? It's a sweet impulse, but apparently these people are not familiar with the statutes on assault, or on extortion-or with the United States Constitution. Or with the realities of the American marketplace, either."

"They appear to be different people, that's true," Barner said. "But it can't be coincidence that they're calling themselves the Forces of Free Faggotry."

"They could have read about the old FFF. It's written about in some of the histories of the movement. Have you tried tracking down any of the old FFFers on your own? All you have to do is go into a bookstore or public library, find a good history of the modern gay movement, check the index for the FFF, get some names of people, and then locate them through your usual Orwellian technological means."

Barner's face tightened. "Yeah, I could have done that," he said. "I could even have figured out on my own that I could have done that. But I didn't do that."

"I see."

"Why didn't I do it that way? Why have I used the more roundabout method of bringing you into the case to track down the FFF?"

"Right. Why?"

"Because," Barner said, "I thought it would be nice to reconnect with you. That's one reason."

"Uh-huh."

"The other reason is," Barner said, his color rising again, "I don't go into gay bookstores. I don't go anywhere near the gay section in Barnes and Noble. I don't go anywhere near the gay sections in libraries. Get the picture?"

"Lyle, this is worse than I thought."

"I'm fucked up. I know."

"Are you out with Dave? Have you confessed to your boyfriend that you're a homosexual?"

Barner laughed ruefully. "Anyway, he can tell."

"Why didn't you ask Dave to help you find a book with the FFF in it? He sounds like the kind of man who might stride into a bookshop and brazenly make a purchase. Pat Buchanan's worst nightmare for America come true."

"I could have asked Dave for help," Barner said. "But to tell you the truth, I just didn't feel like getting something started."

"Right. So you arranged for me to drag my ass a hundred and fifty miles down the Hudson Valley, at the J-Bird's expense, just because you preferred not to have an argument with your boyfriend?"

"No, it's not just that."

"What else is it?"

"You'll be able to talk to the FFF people. They'll trust you. Even if they aren't the same people as back in the seventies and they don't know you from David Dinkins, you'll know how to get them to talk to you. They won't trust me, and they won't talk to me, because I'm a cop."

"This is possible."

"And like I said, the other reason I wanted to bring you into this was, I wanted to see you again. For one thing, I wanted to find out if you were the same smug pain in the ass you were sixteen years ago."

"And was I?"

"You're worse," Barner said. "I'm almost sorry I even mentioned your name to the J-Bird and his people."

"Almost sorry, but not quite?"

"You got it."

"Jeez, Lyle. What else is new? The more things change with you and me, the more they stay the same."

He watched me, poker-faced. He apparently was taking as much satisfaction from the love-hate-or to put it more precisely, like-dislike-games we were playing as he had when we observed the same awkward rituals sixteen years earlier. He said, "Anyway, Strachey, you're gonna love these FFFers once you smoke them out. They're obviously a bunch of punk anarchists, and deep in your heart, that's you. It wouldn't surprise me if you brought them in and then you joined up with them."

"Lyle, you've nailed me again. I'm both a control freak and an anarchist."

"Think about it," he said.

"And when the J-Bird puts the FFF on his show, I'll be right there on the radio with them, promoting all my inconsistent causes and tendencies. Strachey the radical Presbyterian with J-Bird the broadcast postmodernist."

Barner said, "Don't believe that crap about the J-Bird putting the FFF on the air.

He'll never do it. He wants to get them in here, and then he'll hire some goons to beat the shit out of them. That's how postmodern Plankton is. Anyway, after the tear-gas attack there's no way these people can avoid being charged."

"They can't be charged if they choose to deny doing the tear-gas attack and there's no good forensic or other evidence tying them to it. Is there any?"

"Not yet."

"As for the J-Bird's putting them on the air, listen to his show sometime. What Jeris is telling me is plausible. Plankton respects aggressive, and he respects nasty. He gets these people into his studio, and nobody will change anybody's mind. But they'll all hit it off famously in their twisted way. I think these guys might mean what they say about putting the FFFers on the show. At least in that regard, I think the J-Bird can probably be trusted."

Looking skeptical, Barner was about to reply when the door to Jeris's office opened and the J-Bird stuck his head in. "Hey, you two gumshoes want to meet a real, live FFFer?"

"That's the plan," I said.

"Then get your wide-load butts out here. One just walked in the door."

Chapter 5

A lanky man in his mid-forties with wavy straw-colored hair, china blue eyes and big ears was standing just behind the J-Bird in the corridor. In scuffed work boots, a pale green loose-fitting T-shirt and jeans faded not by fashion technicians but from wear, the man was sunburned across his forehead and nose. My guess for the source of the sunburn was a rare weekend out of the city, maybe waterskiing at Lake Hopatcong.

But as I shook the sizable rough hand of Thad Diefendorfer-Plankton casually mangled the name, and Diefendorfer just as casually corrected him-there was a pleasantly rural aroma about Diefendorfer that suggested not outdoor sport but an outdoor occupation.

Diefendorfer confirmed this when he explained that he was a vegetable grower in central New Jersey. He had hauled a truckload of eggplants into the city, and while he was unloading at his wholesaler's Hunts Point dock he overheard a report on an all-news radio station of the tear-gas attack on the J-Bird and his crew.

"You weren't listening to the show this morning?" J-Bird said. "I find that hard to believe. Are you some kind of NPR elitist fruitcake, or what?"

Apparently uninterested in being provoked by Plankton, Diefendorfer said evenly, "I listen to public radio sometimes. I mostly listen to the all-jazz station in Hobo-ken when I can pick it up. I've never actually tuned into your program, Mr. Plankton. Maybe I should. What's it about?"

"What's it about?" Plankton sniffed. "What kind of a freakin' question is that?"

"Mr. Plankton's show," I told Diefendorfer, "is about Mr. Plankton. Now that you've met him, you can tune in weekday mornings from seven to ten if you want more of him."

We had all moved back into Jeris's office, where Barner said, "Thad, what made you come over here this morning? You're a member of the FFF that did the tear-gas attack?"

"No," Diefendorfer said, "I have no connection with whoever threw the tear gas, and I have no idea who they are. But if they call themselves the Forces of Free Faggotry, I just want to make it plain that they're not the original FFF. I was a member of that organization, and we were totally nonviolent."

"Sounds like a bunch of wimps," Plankton said.

"Why? Because we didn't want anybody to get hurt during one of our operations?"

"Well, no. You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. What do you mean?"

"I mean… I guess to somebody like you I have to stop everything and explain the obvious. I mean, if some mean bastard deserves a fat lip and you don't give him one, then you're a wimp."

Diefendorfer remained serene. He said, "So?"

"Whaddaya mean, 'So'?"

"So we're wimps. So what?"

"What do you mean, so you're wimps, so what? If you're wimps, you're… you're wimps. Do you want to be a wimp?"

"I don't care," Diefendorfer said mildly.

"Are you totally spineless?" Plankton asked, looking incredulous.

"No, not at all," Diefendorfer said. "I'm Amish."

We all looked at Diefendorfer. Apparently this was the last thing anyone in the room expected to hear.

After a moment, Plankton said, "You're shittin' me."

"No, sir."

Barner said, "And you're gay? You're gay, and you're Amish, and you're out of the closet?"

"It's actually more complicated than that," Diefendorfer said. "But basically, yes, I'm Amish, I'm gay, and I'm out. I'm also shunned in Ephrata, Pennsylvania. But I live in New Jersey, which puts up with me pretty well."

Plankton said, "But you're not wearing that black-and-blue getup that the Amish wear."

"No, not anymore," Diefendorfer said.

"Did you drive your horse and buggy up six flights?" Plankton asked. "I hope to hell you didn't ride up on the elevator. Wouldn't that be a heinous sin? Apparently, getting corn-holed is no longer a big deal among the Amish– which is news to me. It's not the Amish of-what was that Harrison Ford movie? Eyewitness News or something? But can you ride elevators, too? I seem to be behind the times."

"My horse and rig are out in the lobby," Diefendorfer told the J-Bird. "I walked up the stairs, but my horse, who's a Methodist, road up ahead of me."

"An Amish wiseass," Plankton sneered. "Now I've seen it all."

"And, homosexuality is still frowned upon among the traditional Amish," Diefendorfer went on. "But personal conscience has always been respected among the brethren, and my conscience has led me farther afield than has been the case with some others.

It's what led me to the Forces of Free Faggotry when I was eighteen, and it's why I came over here before I headed back to the farm. 1 came to tell you that the FFF was as righteous a community of men and women as I've ever known, and no true FFP'er would ever attack anybody with tear gas. Not even anybody as confused and obnoxious as you are, Mr. Plankton."

Over the shades came a discernible movement of Plankton's left eyebrow. "You can call me J-Bird. There's no need to stand on ceremony."

"Okay. No true FFFer would ever attack anybody with tear gas. Not even anybody as confused and obnoxious as you are, J-Bird."

I had known Plankton for less than an hour, but I was not surprised to hear him ask, "Ever done any radio, Thad?"

"No, and don't plan to."

"You've got a smart mouth."

"I've been told that. I'm not proud of it."

"That's too bad."

I said, "The J-Bird wants you on his show, Thad, before the competition-WOR or WABC-discovers you."

"Strachey gets the picture," Plankton said. "ABC-Disney would know just how to market you too. The Sarcastic Anabaptist or some crap like that."

Barner, who unlike the rest of us was at this moment working for a living, said, "Thad, I'd like to hear more about your membership in the FFF. When did you say that was?"

"It was from May 1973 to February 1975. I can tell you about it if you like. Although, since you're law enforcement, you could easily look it up in my FBI file. I wouldn't mind having a look myself, if you get hold of it. When I filed a Freedom of Information Act request several years ago and the FBI finally mailed me a copy of my file, most of it had been blacked out."

Plankton whistled and said, "Christ, this is great stuff!"

I told Barner, "Lyle, you're saved. Why didn't we think of this before? You won't have to be caught entering a bookstore. All you need to know is available electronically."

Barner ignored this and said, "I'll see what the bureau has on the FFF."

"Was J. Edgar Hoover a secret member of the FFF?" Plankton asked. "That's probably the part they blacked out in your files, Thad. The stuff about Hoover and his boyfriend there-what was his name? Clyde Barrow?"

"Clyde Tolson," Diefendorfer said. "Right. J. Edgar and Clyde were both FFF moles in the FBI. His antigay hysteria was cover. Ingenious, wasn't it?"

Plankton laughed and shook his head. "Thad, you're breaking my heart, you know.

You going head-to-head with Leo would be sensational, just sensational." "Who is Leo?" Diefendorfer asked. "He's on my show."

I said, "Leo Moyle is the J-Bird's resident racist-slash-fag-baiter. Next to him, the J-Bird is the show's Arthur Rimbaud."

"I liked those flicks with Sly Stallone gunning down commies," Plankton said. "So I'll take that as a compliment." I said, "Thad, could you hang around in the city long enough for lunch? I'd like to hear your FFF story without a lot of kibbitzing from the J-Bird, whose motives in this investigation are mixed, at best."

"You bet they are," Plankton said. "Though let me remind you, Strachey, that foremost among my motives is preventing any physical harm coming to myself and my staff. If you're going to take my money, it would behoove you to keep that in mind."

"I stand behooved on that point."

"Your employment is conditional anyway. We brought you in because of your so-called contacts with the old FFF, and now along comes this old FFFer who says none of his people are involved in this thing at all."

"I don't guarantee that," Diefendorfer put in, "but I doubt it. Unless one of us has changed an awful lot over the years. There were sixteen people in the organization at one point."

Barner said, "This case has A-one top priority in the department. Although, of course, we want to be able to exploit all possible resources. So your retaining Don would be a real asset to the investigation, Jay."

"Glad to hear it. Maybe NYPD would like to pay him, too."

"Unfortunately, we can't do that."

Plankton found another can of Sprite in Jeris's office refrigerator and popped the tab. He said to me, "We'll bring you on for a week and see what you come up with.