“We rounded up suspects, repeat offenders,” Maureen said, “but first we had to qualify them, if you understand what I mean.”
Sandy’s face brightened. “Yeah, to see who had an infantile one.” She frowned. “How little is infantile?”
“Wait,” Maureen said. “A suspect would be brought in, then one of the guys in the squad would tell him to drop his pants.”
“Didn’t you see any of ’em?”
“Well, a few. But during the investigation I think something like a hundred and fifty-seven penises were inspected.”
“Wow,” Sandy said, with something like awe. “A hundred and fifty-seven. God…” She paused then with a puzzled expression. “Wait a minute. This girl said the guy’s joint was infantile, but compared to what? I mean her old man could’ve had a shlong that hung down to his knees. You know it?”
“We thought of that,” Maureen said. “Compared to what? We never did get the guy.”
“That’s really something,” Sandy said. “At least you get to meet a lot of interesting people.”
“Well, I’m never bored,” Maureen said.
When Sandy was alone again she let the silence and dismal evening sky work on her. It was the best time of the day to be depressed. She was able to cry for a few minutes, shredding another Kleenex, made moaning sounds as she went into the bedroom, stood in front of the full-length mirror and studied her image hiding there puffy-eyed behind Bert Parks’ big grin.
She said out loud, “You poor thing.” She curled her lower lip down and got her chin to quiver and studied the expression. Then parted her lips slightly and opened her eyes wide in a look of surprised innocence. “Well, I didn’t know. God, I thought you’d be glad”-pouty again-“ ‘stead of being an old meany.” Sandy stared at her slumped shoulders, her pitiful expression. She stared for a long silent moment and then said, “Fuck it.” She took off the T-shirt and jeans and tried it again, looking at a bra-less image now, hooked her thumbs into the narrow band of her white panties and cocked a hip… turned sideways and stared past her shoulder, letting her eyelids become heavy… turned full front again and stared with her bare feet apart, hands moving to her narrow hips.
She said, “Hey, are you Sandy Stanton?” and cocked her head slightly. “Yeah, I thought you were. You’ve got a dynamite body, you know it? I mean anybody can see you’ve got it together. Look at you. You are a fucking groovy chick, you know it? Yeah, I know it. Then what’s the problem? What problem? I don’t have a problem, you have a problem?…”
When Clement came in he said, “Where you think you’re at, a nudist camp?” Without a bit of fun in his voice. “Jesus, turn that boresome music off-”
“We a little irritable this evening?”
With a foot-dragging funky step and two whole joints working in her, Sandy got over to the hi-fi just ahead of Clement and saved the Bee Gees from being scratched to death. She said, “What on earth is the matter with you?”
He walked over to the windows and stood looking out at the downtown lights.
Sandy tried again. “This your thinking time?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ve been worried about you-sitting here all day. There’s such a thing as telephones, you know.” Yeah, get a little pissed at him.
Early this morning Sandy had let the EMS attendants into Skender’s apartment building, told them “Down the basement” and got out of there fast. They drove over to Woodward Ave-nue, pulled up alongside Blessed Sacrament Cathedral and Clement told her to get out, take a cab home. She’d said, “What am I suppose to do, stand out on the street like a hooker?” He gave her a shove. She asked him where he was going to stay and he said, “Don’t worry about it.” In one of his moods.
Evidently still in it. Good. She could think about standing on that Woodward Avenue street corner with all the colored guys slowing up to look her over and get really pissed at him.
She said, “Don’t worry about me, just think about yourself.”
Still looking out the window Clement said, “I was thinking about you. Come on over here. You ever been up the top of the RenCen?”
“Course I have. I used to work there.”
He put his arm around her bare waist, pulling her in close. “Seven-hundred feet up in the air. You sit there with your cocktail and it turns. It turns reeeeeal slow. You look at Canada a while. You look downriver at the Ambassador Bridge. You look over De-troit then as you turn real real slow, giving yourself time to wonder and think about things.”
“I didn’t throw the gun in the river,” Sandy said. “I gave it to Mr. Sweety.”
“I know you did.”
“You want to know why?”
“I know why.”
“How do you know?”
“I talked to him.”
“Are you mad?”
“No…” He didn’t sound too sure about it. “See, when I was up there thinking about you?…”
“Yeah?”
“I called you up and the line was busy.”
Sandy held on, not making a sound.
“I thought, who could she be talking to? Not the Albanian.”
“Uh-unh…” Sandy said, thinking, Please, God-
“And then it come to me. You were talking to Sweety.”
“God, are you smart.” She felt herself shaking a little and slipped her arm around Clement. “I know you don’t like me to smoke weed, but it’s sure good when I’m nervous.”
“Tell me what you’re nervous about.”
“Well, I thought you’d be mad that I didn’t, you know, throw the gun away. But I really thought Mr. Sweety would know how better.”
“I understand that,” Clement said. “But see, then another person knows my business.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t really know anything. I mean, it’s just a gun.”
“Well, how come he’s nervous and wants me to come get it then? I told him, chuck it in the river you don’t want it. He goes, ‘I ain’t fooling with no hot gun. It’s yours, you take care of it.’ See, why would he think the gun’s hot?”
“Well, maybe the police talked to him.” Right away, Sandy knew she had made a mistake, said too much.
“That’s a thought,” Clement said, giving her a squeeze. “Like they talked to you, huh?”
Even with miles of nighttime lights outside reaching way way off, Sandy felt walls around her, no more room than inside a box, a coffin. It was a terrible feeling. She said, “I was so worried about you today, I didn’t know where you were or if anything happened to you or anything.”
“They come see you today?”
“Well, this lady cop stopped by. Asked if I knew anything about a gun. But she was real nice about it.”
“Tricking you,” Clement said.
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell her nothing. I didn’t.”
Clement patted her. He said, “I know you didn’t, hon. It’s just their chicken-fat ways… You been smoking a little?”
“Few tokes is all, now and then.” She was surprised, he was making it sound so simple.
“When’d you get it?”
“The other day.”
“When you give Sweety the gun?”
“Uh-huh. I just got a little bit.”
“Oh my,” Clement said with a sigh. “Life can sure play a tune on you you let it.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know you didn’t, hon. But see what’s happened? They got to Sweety and I ‘magine made a deal with him. He sets me up or they shut him down, put him on the trailer. I come get the gun, walk out of there and twenty squad cars converge on my ass out of nowhere. ‘Throw up your hands, motherfucker!’ They’d have to empty their weapons,” Clement said, “cause I sure ain’t doing hard time. Never have and never will.”
“Let’s go to Tampa, Florida,” Sandy said, “right now.”
“I’d like to, hon, but we got some problems. Those goddamn Albanian undertakers shot your Montego all to hell-no, that’s something I’ll tell you about after,” Clement said, Sandy frowning up at him. “First thing, we got to get shuck of the gun.”