“His name?”
“Don't know. As I said, many of these boys-”
Ceepak's suddenly not listening any more. He sees something outside. A guy who looks like an old hippie carrying a dirty bath towel.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It isn't Squeegee.
The guy outside doesn't have a beard and his hair is red and curly, like a Bozo wig, not white and scraggly.
But he sure looks like he could be one of Squeegee's best buddies, like they might hang out together on beanbag chairs and pass the bong around. The way the guy is weaving? I'd say today was a bong-for-breakfast kind of day.
He looks to be about fifty-something and has on these green corduroy shorts with stringy threads where he cut off the pants. His legs are so filthy, they're caked with dirt, as if he took a mud bath a month ago and forgot to rinse. He's also wearing a rainbow-colored tie-dye shirt like we know Squeegee likes to wear. Who knows-it might be their fraternity uniform.
“Excuse me,” Ceepak says and starts for the door.
He's thinking what I'm thinking-the hippie burnout in the parking lot probably knows Squeegee.
“Danny?”
I'm right behind him.
“Is there going to be some trouble?” Steve sinks a little lower in his swivel chair, nervous. The flags cover his face.
“No,” Ceepak says. “We intend to remain in total compliance with all state and federal laws.”
He unsnaps his holster.
I can hear Steve whimpering, “Wait!” in the background as we head out his front door.
The old hippie looks like he's lost. Like he can't remember how he usually walks around to the back of the building. Does he go left, or right, or maybe left-then-right?
“Sir?”
Our quarry turns to face us. His eyes are like blurry slits underneath his giant red Afro.
“Yeah?” he says with an effort.
“I wonder if we might have a word with you?”
“Me?” Again, he answers as if it's extremely hard work.
“Yes, sir. You.” Ceepak steps toward him. I stand ready to radio for backup.
“We need to talk to you-”
“Fuck!”
He starts running. He's old and fat and wearing worn-out Birken-stocks, but he can waddle pretty fast.
However, he makes a real stupid move.
He heads into the car wash.
Looks like he's finally going to get those legs washed, maybe even waxed: he tries to lose us by running alongside somebody's sudsy Pontiac.
Ceepak shakes his head and tries not to laugh. No way are we running into the car wash after this freak.
“Go left,” he says calmly. “I'll swing around the right.”
I race back into the lobby, past the cashier, and up to the windowed walkway where you can watch your car moving down the line.
I see our friend inside. He's not running any more.
He's soaked and sort of squeezing through these big fluffy spinning roller-buffers.
When he gets past those, he's sprayed by high-pressure water jets that pin-needle him so hard he has to close his eyes and that means he can't see what's coming next: big flapping straps of cloth that swish back and forth and scrub him down good. While he's slapping against the flaps, he also gets some undercarriage rust protectant shot up his shorts.
Now he's in the rinse cycle where the water's mistier, less like bee stingers.
By the time he reaches the end of the line, his curly red hair is shooting straight back, plastered in place by the turbine-powered blow dryers.
He tries to run past the towel guys and negotiate a sharp turn into the street, but his sandals are so slick he slides sideways, loses his feet, and plows into the rolling table with the pirate chest on top. The tip box goes flying while our fugitive sleds across the tarmac on his butt.
“Freeze!” Ceepak booms.
I can tell he's trying very hard not to laugh, but it's not working.
The redheaded guy sits in a soapy, oily puddle and raises both arms to surrender.
Ceepak walks forward shaking his head. His pistol is still in its holster.
“Why'd you run away, sir?”
“I dunno, man.” He rubs his knee where it got roughed up in the tumble. “Seemed like a good idea at the time….”
Ceepak turns to the towel guys standing in a circle, having the best laugh they've probably had in weeks.
“Can I borrow some of your towels? We need a couple.”
A few of the guys oblige.
“Thanks,” Ceepak says. “Gracias.” He hands the towels to the man on the ground.
Then Ceepak stuffs a ten-dollar bill into the pirate chest. Doing better than me-just like he always does.
* * *
Ten minutes later, we're sitting with our captive at Do Me A Flavor, the ice-cream shop next door to Cap'n Scrubby's. I think Mayor Sinclair owns this place too.
Ceepak buys our new pal a jumbo mug of black coffee and a gigantic hot-fudge sundae with two scoops of mint chocolate chip, two scoops of moose tracks, marshmallow sauce, nuts, sprinkles, Oreo crumbs, whipped cream, and maraschino cherries.
We're the only ones in the ice-cream parlor this early in the morning. The girl in pink scooping up the sundae? Jenny. A friend of mine for years.
The guy is shoveling the ice-cream concoction into his face, smearing sauce down his chin.
“You might want to slow down, sir,” Ceepak suggests. Bozo digs faster. The man loves his sugar. Probably because he also loves booze or heroin or both.
He has to slow down when he belches.
“Sorry I ran, man,” he says during the quick break between bites.
“No hard feelings,” Ceepak says. “What's your name?”
“Red.” He digs into the ice cream again.
“That your real name?”
The guy stares blankly at Ceepak.
“It's the name I choose to use, man.”
“Okay, Red.”
Ceepak lets him eat some more.
“So, why'd you run?”
“You're the fuzz, man.” Red is licking as much of his face as his tongue can reach, trying to lap up all the sticky stuff available.
I haven't heard police called the fuzz since my father made me watch a re-run of The Mod Squad.
“I always run from the fuzz. Ever since 1968. Chicago. They'll stone you if you're a stoner who likes to get stoned, man.”
Ceepak nods. “Bob Dylan once expressed a very similar sentiment.”
“You dig Dylan?”
“Certainly. Bob Dylan was quite an influence on the young Bruce Springsteen, my favorite recording artist.”
“Springsteen? Springsteen ripped Dylan off! Just rhymed words to hear them rhyme.” Red chomps a cherry and licks whipped cream off his spoon. “‘Some go-kart Mozart checking out the weather chart?’ What the fuck's that supposed to mean? Where's the poetry, man? Springsteen sucks.”
“Thank you for sharing your opinion,” Ceepak says. “Now-talk to me about Squeegee.”
“No can do.”
“Why not?”
“Hey. If Squeegee hears through the grapevine that I squealed, turned ratfink on him? He'd hurt me, man. Hurt me bad. Dude is the devil. I'd be buying the stairway to heaven.”
“Is that so?”
“You seen that sketch? In the newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“That dragon crawling up his neck? Squeegee told me it could fly off his flesh to devour his enemies with hellfire and brimstone, if he so exhorted the beast! Like a funeral pyre, he'd set the night on fire!”
Oh-kay. I'm wondering exactly how many spliffs Red had for breakfast this morning.
He takes a loud slurp on the coffee.
“Pass the sugar, man.”
I slide the sugar jar across the table. It's one of those glass jobs with the little metal gate that swings open when you pour. Red doesn't bother using a spoon or measuring. He just pours the white stuff in until his coffee thickens up like Karo Corn Syrup.
“So where is your friend now?”
“Squeegee?”
“Squeegee.”
“Are you even listening to me, man?” Red holds up his hands and shakes them near his head like his brain is about to explode. “He's no friend of mine. I have zero sympathy for that devil. The dude tried to kill me.”