“Right? Right? So Remy’s got body that night – and I don’t have to tell you which boss we were assigned to then, ’cept to say that poor Remy’s sleepin’ in one of the Town Cars outside some skank’s apartment in Alphabet City while the boss drills for soil samples, right-” The guys all laughed knowingly. “And that’s when the fuckin’ boss comes down barefoot with his pants undone, in a T-shirt – remember that? Remember, Bri? – stupid fat fuck, too goddam furious to use the phone, he wants to get in someone’s face because he’s gone and picked another whore with a tool, right? He’s out of his fuckin’ mind, wants every transvestite hooker off the fuckin’ street. That night! And this jackass is so in love with his own power and with his phony fuckin’ statistical results, he really thinks this can be done, right? Like it’s just a fuckin’ number on a graph – eight hundred or something. ‘So great,’ I tell Remy, ‘call patrol.’ But genius here-” McIntyre pointed at Remy “ – says the boss wants us to do it. And I’m like, ‘He wants us to do this?’ And Remy says, ‘Yeah. He wants us to do this. Right now.’ And I’m literally half in this fuckin’ waitress, on the upstroke, right? And I’m on the phone and I’m like, ‘Right now, Brian?’ And he says, ‘Right now, Billy.’ And I’m like, ‘All of ’em, Brian? All the whores?’ and this unflappable motherfucker here, this asshole thinks for a second, then says, ‘Well… I guess all of ’em with dicks, Billy.’”
The guys slapped the table and held their chests, doubled over, Carey’s high, squeaky laugh rising above the din.
“And I’m like, ‘How the fuck are we supposed to know which ones have dicks, Brian?’ And this brilliant son-of-a-bitch-”
Another delighted squeal from Carey stopped McIntyre’s story for a second, and the room dissolved into drunken laughter: deep, dissonant howls and hoots like a brass band warming up. Remy looked around at his friends and past them, through the filmy strands in his eyes to the banquet room of an Italian restaurant and then down at the checked table, covered with oval plates, gnawed scattered T-bones, surrendered piles of noodles and glimpses of garlic potatoes and green beans, spent shells of empty beer pitchers, wine bottles and highball glasses. For a moment he worried about their appetites, and wondered if they could ever be made full, these men, until this thought was replaced by a more important thought. Which glass was his?
“This! Cool! Mother! Fucker! Over he-yah!” McIntyre pointed to Remy again. “He says, ‘Well, from what I hear, you can tell by the hands.’ And I’m like, ‘You can tell what by the fuckin’ hands?’ And you gotta remember, while I’m talkin’ to Remy here I’m fuckin’ doin’ a pushup on this waitress, and that’s when she and I stop what we’re doin’ for a minute and we both look at her hands. And Remy says, ‘You can tell it’s a woman by her hands.’ And I’m lookin’ at this waitress’s big mannish hands and I say, ‘Jesus Christ, Brian, if we’re gonna get close enough to look at their hands we might as well reach up and see if we get a handful.’”
“Aaaagh!” Guterak made a noise that sounded as much scream as laugh, and clapped Remy on the back.
“So all night, fuckin’ Remy and me are driving around lookin’ at hookers’ hands and I swear to God, they all look like dudes to us, right? And I got mixed feelings. First, I’m startin’ to panic… if the fuckin’ boss wants tranny whores, then goddamn we better fuckin’ find some chicks with dicks, you know? But the other thing is this: I’m gettin’ so fuckin’ horny drivin’ around lookin’ at hookers that I’m half tempted to try one out just to see. And that’s when Brian remembers this fuckin’ Dominican scumbag up the Heights he’s arrested, what, five, six times, Bri? This motherfucker used to run a bunch of tranny whores… what the fuck was his name… Kiko something?”
Someone called out: “Ramirez!”
McIntyre pointed. “Right! Right! This fuckin’ mutt Kiko Ramirez, little fuckin’ Dominican pimp lived up off a hunnert and fifty-third by Broadway, we go drag this motherfucker out of his cousin’s bed and take him downstairs and I’m like, ‘Listen up, fuckball, you’re privy to some information we want, you know… very important investigation, top priority… you play along and you’ll get a two-month pass, right?’ Guy’s like: ‘Whatchu wan’, mang,’ and I say, ‘I need you to find us five whores with optional equipment,’ and this little shit looks at me like I’m fuckin’ king-a-the perverts, you know? And Brian says, ‘It’s not for us, Kiko, it’s for our boss.’” The laughter rose again. “And this little shitbag Kiko, he must know which boss we’re talkin’ about, because he just nods like we’ve just ordered five pizzas. Kiko, he got this thin little mustache, and he just shrugs, like, ‘Hey mang, eet don’ matter to me. Diff’rent strokes, mang.’ Yeah? Like this fuckin’ Scarface motherfucker he’s seen it all, right? All the shit in the world.” The laughter rises again.
“Now the three of us are drivin’ around in the fuckin’ Town Car, Brian and me in the front and Kiko in the back like we’re his chauffeurs, and at one point old Kiko goes to light up a fuckin’ cigarette and I turn and say, ‘You can’t be serious, Kiko? You smoke in my boss’s car and you know I’m gonna have to clean you like a fuckin’ fish, right?’ And we’re runnin’ down Broadway, cruisin’ the Deuce, and this shitbag Kiko is starin’ out the window like a fuckin’ four-year-old at a parade, checkin’ out all these whores, sayin’: ‘No. Ees a woman. No. Ees a woman. Ees a woo-man too.’ And finally, I turn around and I’m like, ‘Kiko, I’m gonna shoot you in your fuckin’ face you don’t find me a whore with a goddamned cock.’”
Laughter cascaded and crashed and Remy became slightly worried that someone would have a heart attack.
“And Kiko… this fuckin’ mutt Kiko, he’s just starin’ out the window, every few minutes, ‘No, ees a woo-man. No, ees a woo-man.’ And Remy and me are checkin’ our fuckin’ watches, thinkin’ the boss is gonna fuckin’ have us for breakfast, right? And then, finally, Kiko comes to the window, says, ‘Maybe her. Yeah, I think she’s a mang.’ So we park and walk closer and he says, ‘No. Ees a woo-man too.’ And by this time I’ve had about enough of this shit, I’m like, ‘Motherfuck Kiko! How the fuck do you know that one ain’t a guy?’ And this greasy fucker points to this whore and says, ‘You can tell by the hands, mang.’”
The room broke in screams and groans, guttural and full, the aging men given over to a grinding death rattle and release, and even Remy found that he was smiling, not exactly remembering, but wanting to, and thinking there’s not such a difference, that the best memories might be those you don’t remember, and the gales smoothed and calmed and guys hummed and wiped their eyes, and someone yelled, “Speech! Speech!” and then the others joined in and Remy was yelling, “Speech,” before he realized that it was him they wanted the speech from.
“Wait. Wait.” Ass Chief Carey held up his left hand. “Before we let Remy say something the rest of us will regret, I got something for you cocksuckers.” Carey bent over. “To mark the occasion. A taste.” He came up with a backpack that he set on the table. “Compliments of the bosses.” He unzipped the backpack and began removing watches, still in the bottom halves of their boxes, as if they’d been on display, like tiny open caskets. He handed around the table, to whistles and hoots. One by one, the guys slid watches (“Aw, boss.” “No fuckin’ way.”) onto thick, hairy wrists.