Then I'll put the gun down and you can call the cops. But if you don't do it, I'll kill Steve.
Deal?"
"Deal," I said.
Glodt mewed softly as I loosened his belt and tugged his jeans and undershorts down in the back.
Thad returned with another extension cord and plugged one end into a wall socket near the coffeemaker. The other end I attached to the tattoo gun. The device resembled a large hypodermic syringe with a needle in the end. When I flicked a switch, the needle vibrated.
I said, "These little jars appear to contain ink. What color would you like, J-Bird?
Or should I ask Steve?"
"Blue would be good," Plankton said. "It was good enough for me, and it will be good enough for Steve."
I removed the lid from a jar of dark blue ink. With the tattoo gun poised above Glodt's buttocks-which were remarkably firm and well-preserved for a man who was probably in his early fifties-I said to Plankton, "What is it, J-Bird, that you would like me to write?"
He told me, and Glodt began to sob.
Thad said, "That's cruel, J-Bird. That's sick."
"Do it, or I'll kill him. It's not as cruel and sick as murder."
I thought he was probably bluffing, but he spoke with such cold rage that I wasn't sure. In any case, I figured Glodt could have the tattoos removed-slowly, painfully- before they could bring him any greater harm.
"I should sketch this out first," I said, "so that I do the job as neatly as possible. Is there a marker or something?"
Thad brought a felt-tipped pen from the telephone table. He wasn't trembling, nor did he have goose bumps. But his face was taut and pale, and I could see in his eyes that he was suffering. Thad's early days as a daring FFF rescuer must have seemed so innocent and larky next to this, and I didn't doubt that he would soon head back to his eggplants and moody lover and orderly extended gay-and-lesbian family and never again head off on some midlife adventure that the likes of people like me had lured him into.
I took the pen and carefully wrote on Glodt's perspiring left buttock: "Queen of the New York State Correctional System." Then on his left cheek I drew an arrow pointing to Glodt's anus, and the words "Enter Here."
It took me a few minutes to develop a feel for using the gun and when and how to dip the needle in the ink jars. So I made a few blotchy mistakes. But when I finished the job an hour or so later, it wasn't bad overall, and the J-Bird complimented me on my work.
Then I made some phone calls, and soon after that two ambulances arrived, along with a Center Island police cruiser. At almost the same moment, Lyle Barner and Dave Welch glided up the Glodt driveway.
Glodt was still draped over the kitchen table when Lyle and Welch came in, Lyle's police special drawn. The J-Bird had laid down his automatic by then, and Lyle soon lowered his.
Welch said, "Hey, nice butt."
Taking note of the J-Bird, Lyle said to Welch, "What are you, queer or something?
Now, what the hell is going on here, Strachey? It looks to me as if you have a lot of explaining to do."
Welch shook his head, Thad raised an eyebrow, the J-Bird snorted, and Steve Glodt said, "Are you police officers? Thank God you're here! I've been attacked and held prisoner by these radical homosexual activists! Apparently they are the same deranged perverts who kidnapped my friend and full business partner, Jay Plankton here, who luckily was able to escape from his sadistic captors!"
There was a pause while we all looked over at the J-Bird, who suddenly let loose with a ferocious cackle.
Chapter 25
Midnight Sunday in Albany. The rain had moved out but not the heat and humidity, and when I stepped off the train I felt as though I was breathing peanut butter. I had picked up the Times at Penn Station and thought the Sunday crossword puzzle would represent a wholesome change of mental pace. But I dozed off before the train had cleared the tunnel heading north from midtown, and if the conductor hadn't wakened me-"Hey, young fella, Albany's your stop, isn't it?"-I might have remained unconscious right through to Cleveland.
Timothy Gallahan was there at the Rensselaer Amtrak station to bring me home, and a happy sight was Timmy.
"Donald, you're not looking your freshest."
"No, but you are, by and large. Lucky me."
"You did a fine job, and all your exertions paid off nicely. And even though Lyle Barner was involved, you didn't get your ear chewed off this time, or apparently anything else, cither."
"Nope, I'm in one piece."
"And with the vast wealth of these media heavies at your disposal, I take it you've been-or soon will be- amply rewarded."
We found Timmy's car in the Amtrak lot and climbed into it. I rolled the window down and said, "Yeah, I'll get paid. I think."
"There's doubt? Donald, not again."
"Oh, I'll squeeze it out of them. I know too much."
"Too much of what? I saw on CNN that Jay Plankton was rescued, and this Glodt guy who owns the radio network was behind it all, and that you were involved in finding Plankton, and Glodt is in custody. There's more?"
We pulled out onto the street leading to the bridge across the Hudson. I said,
"Glodt briefly talked Plankton into saying the whole thing was a gag, and that I was in on it from the beginning, and if I said otherwise publicly, they would label me some humorless PC asshole and sue me for defamation of character."
"What rot. And spectacularly unbelievable."
"It was. Plankton loved the sound of it, and there were ratings and big bucks in it for him and Steve Glodt, but Plankton soon saw that it could never work. Lyle and this other New York cop had seen and heard way too much, and anyway there were too many people involved in the conspiracy-two of them shot in the leg by Plankton-and these people were sure to turn against the masterminds of the plot in return for a better deal from the prosecutors. Glodt was going down, and the J-Bird soon saw that.
He had no interest in going down, too."
"What a scuzzy bunch of people."
"They're bad, all right."
"Well, now you've paid off your debt to Lyle, Don. If he ever asks you again to get mixed up with reprobates like the J-Bird, you can say, 'Sorry, old pal,' with a clear conscience." "That's my plan. Though I 'm not sure Lyle will be calling on me again.
I'm still an embarrassment to him. After all these years."
"What, your being out?"
"It has to be hard for gay cops."
"It is. Whether they're in or out, it's no picnic. The out cops get beat up on, and the nonout cops beat up on themselves. I admire all of them, but I don't envy them. Not one bit."
As we cruised across the Dunn Bridge, the Albany skyline spread out against the murk ahead of us, Timmy said, "They said on the news that Glodt had asked for both a lawyer and a dermatologist. What was that about?"
"Oh my. Was he allowed access to a dermatologist?"
"A judge was considering the request, CNN said. What's the problem? Did Glodt have some kind of violent skin reaction to his arrest? Hysterical acne or something?"
I thought, should I tell him? Timmy wasn't going to appreciate my role in this. But this was important-or would have been considered important, I knew, by the everlasting Jesuit Callahan. He would need to parse the moral complexities before eliciting statements from me into which he could read a degree of contrition, prior to conferring conditional absolution on me in the recesses of his mind.
Anyway, as I described it all to Timmy, I made it plain that I had no choice in the matter. It was either carry out the tattoo job or Plankton just might blow Glodt's head apart.
Timmy accepted my explanation with unexpected equanimity. He just said, "Wow.
You spent an hour writing on this guy's naked butt."
"I did. I fantasized about you, of course."
"Did he have a nice one?"
"It wasn't bad at all."
"What did Thad Diefendorfer make of all this?"