“Tell me Ullman’s address,” I said for their sake. Man-Salad-Dress went my brain. I swallowed hard to keep it from crossing the threshold.
“Yeah, I got it,” said the Garbage Cop sarcastically. “Whose else would you want?”
“Ullman?” said Chunky, not to me but to Pimples. “He’s talking about Ullman?”
“Whose! A! Dress!” I shrieked.
“Aw, quit,” said Loomis, jaded by now. My other audience wasn’t so blasé. Pimples ripped the cell phone out of my hand, and Chunky wrestled my arm behind my back so I was wrenched forward nearly against the back of the driver’s seat, and down. It was like he wanted me draped in his lap for a spanking. Meanwhile, up front, Pinched and Indistinct began arguing fiercely about parking, about whether they’d fit in some spot.
Pimples put the phone to his own ear and listened, but Loomis hung up, or maybe just got quiet and listened back, so they were silent together. Pinched managed to park, or double-park-I couldn’t tell which from my strained vantage. The two up front were still muttering at one another, but Chunky was quiet, just turning my arm another degree or two, experimenting with actually hurting me, trying it on for size.
“You don’t like hearing the name Ullman,” I said, wincing.
“Ullman was a friend,” said Chunky.
“Don’t let him talk about Ullman,” said Pinched.
“This is stupid,” said Indistinct, with consummate disgust.
“You’re stupid,” said Chunky. “We’re supposed to scare a guy, let’s do it.”
“I’m not so scared,” I said. “You guys seem more scared to me. Scared of talking about Ullman.”
“Yeah, well, if we’re scared you don’t know why,” said Chunky. “And don’t guess either. Don’t open your trap.”
“You’re scared of a big Polish guy,” I said.
“This is stupid,” said Indistinct again. He sounded like he might cry. He got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.
Pimples finally quit listening to the silence Loomis had left behind on the cell phone, shut it down, and put it on the seat between us.
“What if we are scared of him?” said Chunky. “We ought to be, take it from us. We wouldn’t be working for him if we weren’t.” He loosened his grip on my arm, so I was able to straighten up and look around. We were parked outside a popular coffee shop on Second. The window was full of sullen kids flirting by working on tiny computers and reading magazines. They didn’t notice us, carful of lugs, and why should they?
Indistinct was nowhere to be seen.
“I sympathize,” I said, to keep them talking. “I’m scared of the big guy, too. It’s just you can’t throw a scare so good when you’re scared.”
I thought of Tony. If he’d come to the Zendo last night shouldn’t he have triggered the same alarm I had? Shouldn’t he have drawn these would-be toughs, this clown car loaded with fresh graduates from Clown College?
“What’s so not scary about us?” said Pinched. He said to Chunky, “Hurt him already.”
“You can hurt me but you still won’t scare me,” I said distractedly. One part of my brain was thinking, Handle with scare, scandal with hair, and so on. Another part was puzzling over the Tony question.
“Who was that on the phone?” said Pimples, still working on the problem he’d selected as his own.
“You wouldn’t believe me,” I said.
“Try us,” said Chunky, twisting my arm.
“Just a guy doing research for me, that’s all. I wanted Ullman’s address. My partner got arrested for the murder.”
“See, you shouldn’t have a guy doing research,” said Chunky. “That’s the whole problem. Getting involved, visiting Ullman’s apartment, that’s the kind of thing we’re supposed to scare you about.x201D;
Scare me, skullman, sang my disease. Skullamum Bailey. Skinnyman Brainy.
“Hurt him and scare him and let’s get out of here,” said Pinched. “I don’t like this. Larry was right, it is stupid. I don’t care about who’s doing research.”
“I still want to know who was on the phone,” said Pimples.
“Listen,” said Chunky, now trying to reason with me, as his gang’s morale and focus-and actual numbers-were dwindling. “We’re here on behalf of the big guy you’re talking about, see? That’s who sent us.” He offered the morphic resonance theory: “So if he scares you you ought to be scared by us, without us having to hurt you.”
“Guys like you could kill me and you still wouldn’t scare me,” I said.
“This was a bad idea,” concluded Pinched, and he, too, got out of the car. The front seats were empty now, the steering wheel unmanned. “This isn’t us,” he said, leaning back in, addressing Pimples and Chunky. “We’re no good at this.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “You’ll have to forgive us. This isn’t what we do. We’re men of peace.” He shut the door. I turned my head enough to see him scooting down the block, his walk like a hectic bird’s.
“Scaredycop!” I shouted.
“Where?” said Chunky, immediately releasing my arm. They both swiveled their heads in a panic, eyes wild behind the dark glasses, orange price tags dancing like fishing lures. Freed at last, I turned my head too, not searching for anything, of course, instead for the pleasure of aping their movements.
“Screw this,” muttered Pimples.
He and Chunky both fled the rental car, hot on Pinched’s heels, leaving me alone there.
Pinched had taken the car keys, but Indistinct’s cell phone sat abandoned on the seat beside me. I put it in my pocket. Then I leaned over the seat, popped the glove compartment, and found the rental agency’s registration card and receipt. The car was on a six-month lease to the Fujisaki Corporation, 1030 Park Avenue. The zip code, I was pretty sure, put it in the same zone as the Zendo. Which is where I was, as it happened. I rapped on the rental car’s glove compartment door five times, but it wasn’t particularly resonant or satisfying.
On my walk over to 1030 Park I flipped open the cell phone and rang L &L. I’d never made a street call before, and felt quite Captain Kirk-ish.
“L &L,” said a voice, the one I’d hoped to hear.
“Tony, it’s me,” I said. “Essrog.” That was how Minna always started a phone calclass="underline" Lionel, itߣs Minna. You’re the first name, I’m the last. In other words: You’re the jerk and I’m the jerk’s boss.
“Where are you?” said Tony.
Crossing Lexington at Seventy-sixth Street was the answer. But I didn’t want to tell him.
Why? I wasn’t sure. Anyway, I let a tic do my talking: “Kiss me, scareyman!”
“I got worried about you, Lionel. Danny said you went off with the Garbage Cop on some kind of a mission.”
“Well, sort of.”
“He with you now?”
“Garbage cookie,” I said seriously.
“Why don’t you head back here, Lionel? We ought to talk.”
“I’m investigating a case,” I said. A guess tic eating a vest. “Oh, yeah? Where’s it taking you?”
A well-coiffed man in a blue suit turned off Lexington ahead of me. He had a cell phone pressed to his right ear. I aligned myself behind him and imitated his walk.
“Various places,” I said.
“Name one.”
The harder Tony asked, the less I wanted to say. “I was hoping we could, you know, triangulate a little. Compare data.”