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
“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!”
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.”
“When?”
“After he stole my old lady.”
“You had a domestic dispute?”
“He came after me with a rusty blade, man! A machete! Said if I didn't back off, he'd go get his gun!”
“Squeegee has a gun?”
“Hell, yeah! How do you think he shot the billionaire on the beach? Don't you guys read the papers?”
“Where does Squeegee live?”
“Same place as me, man. Here, there, everywhere.”
“You're homeless?”
“Ever since the night those brown bastards drove us down.”
“Who?”
“The Dominican death squad, man! They said they'd smoke us out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And we had such a groovy thing going. Had the whole hotel to ourselves! You could take ten bedrooms if you didn't mind sharing space with Mother Nature's children … seagulls and shit….”
“Where was this hotel?”
“Up north, man. The Palace! It was like Camelot, and Gladys was my Guinevere!”
“Gladys?”
“My ex. My old lady. It was paradise, man.”
“What happened?”
“Reginald Fucking Hart. He pushed us out, man! The white man pushes out the Red man once again….”
Red is, of course, a Caucasian. The only minority he belongs to is old guys who eat too much ice cream and do too many drugs. While he shakes his head and fumes, he also clinks his spoon against the sides of his sundae glass, trying to scrape up any melted ice cream or cherry juice or chocolate fudge he might have missed on the first pass.
“Squeegee was working for The Man.”
“For Hart?”
“No-the jack-booted thugs. I figured he had some plastic-fantastic deal worked out with Mendez….”
“And who is Mendez?”
“Come on, man-keep up with me, okay?” He does the head-exploding shaking hands thing again. “Mendez was the leader of the pack. El jefe grande. Squeegee cut a deal with Mendez, I know he did. I swear that's why my old lady left me. Thought she could really be princess of The Palace by shacking up with King Squeegee. But whatever he told her? It was totally bogus. Squeegee got squeezed out, too. We all did.”
“What happened?”
“Couple weeks ago? We had to split. Mendez said he'd torch the building and use us for kindling if we didn't vamoose. So we packed our shit and split, hit the beach. I slept under the boardwalk. On the beach. Spent a couple nights on a cot in a church….”
“Have you seen Squeegee since you vacated The Palace Hotel?”
“Here and there. Here and there. I try to avoid him because of the bad vibrations that emanate from his aura. But I'll be honest-we both have substance abuse issues.”
Ceepak does this “really?” expression, pretending like this is some sort of news flash.
“So, sometimes, by sheer necessity, I have to deal with the devil, dig? Squeegee's always got good shit. The best.”
“Where does he procure his merchandise?”
“Where do you think? The Dominicans, dude! They have their fingers in every pot and, like I said, Squeegee worked out some kind of deal because even though he had to leave the hotel, he still has this primo powder, dig? And my old lady? She says they have plans. Big plans. You ever notice, man-chicks dig the dark, dangerous dudes like the Squeege? Even the bikini babes? From the beach?”
“Yeah?” He's got my attention.
“They dig him ’cause he's like this wild sex beast they want to ride and tame. Oh, yeah. I see the young chicks crawling under the boardwalk with ol’ Squeege all the time, promising to unsnap their jeans….”
“Springsteen,” Ceepak says.
“What?”
“‘Chasing the factory girls underneath the boardwalk where they all promise to unsnap their jeans.’ That's from a Springsteen song.”
“No, man. Not factory girls. These are like college co-eds. High-school chicks.”
Ceepak lets it drop.
Apparently Red's head is so fried, it's like an iPod somebody toasted in the microwave and the MP3s have
