“Red Davidson?”
“I never actually caught his last name.”
“Red hair? Like Bozo the clown?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Figures. Red is an a-hole. He's pissed because I won't hop in the sack with him any more. That's over, you know? Red and me? That's history.”
I'm getting a little queasy imagining this lady hopping in the sack with anybody.
“He kicked Henry,” she says.
“Your dog?”
“Red kicked Henry in the butt because we had this mattress upstairs last winter and Henry wanted to sleep with us because the floor was cold. Henry? He has a gas problem. He's old, he's earned it. Henry farts and Red kicks him. Kicks him ’til he yelps, I kid you not. He yelps. Jerry?” She waggles the newspaper clipping to remind us Jerry is Squeegee. “He and I aren't even dating or messing around back then, but the next day, when we're all, you know, hanging out, doing our thing, Jerry tells Red to cut that dog-kicking shit out. Says dogs are not pets, they're our spiritual companions in this earthly realm. Who made man king of the jungle, anyhow? Tarzan? Reagan?”
She tugs at the tie-dye shirt.
“Jerry lent me his T-shirt because I was cold. You got any food?”
Ceepak pulls one more Power Bar out of his pants.
Henry hears the wrapper crinkle and lifts his head. He's interested. Ceepak pulls a Pupperoni jerky strip out of another pocket. The guy lives the Boy Scouts motto. He is always prepared!
“Can your dog have a treat?”
“Is it all-natural?”
“I'm not certain. It's what they call a Pupperoni.”
Henry is licking his chops.
“Pupperoni?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Fine. But if he farts? It's your fucking fault.”
Ceepak bends down and lets Henry eat out of his palm.
“Here you go … good boy….”
The bag lady is staring at the Power Bar.
“Jesus. You got like a veggie sandwich or something? Maybe tomato-mozzarella on a baguette with some pesto or something?”
“I could check another pocket.” Ceepak is trying to make a little joke.
The lady does not know this. She waits.
So he checks another pocket.
“Sorry.”
“Jesus.” She settles for the Power Bar. “What the hell is in this thing? Chemicals and chalk?”
“Yes, ma'am. I believe so.”
“Fucking yuppie food. Next time, bring me that sandwich.”
“Roger that.”
“And grab some chips. Taro chips. Snapple, too. But none of that NutraSweet shit. That's a plot. A conspiracy. All about mind control. The fucking Republicans….”
“Will do.”
“You’re a cop, right?”
“Yes, ma'am. I work with the Sea Haven Police.”
“No shit, Sherlock. How's Scooter Boy?”
“You know Officer Kiger?”
“Don't get me started. That kid Kiger wakes us up all the time. Comes along on that goddamn scooter. ‘Wake up, wake up, you sleepyheads. Get up, get up, get out of bed.’ Kicks us off the beach before the rich people show up. Fascist fuzz….” She stops to fan the air in front of her face. “Whoo! Thank you Mr. Pupperoni.”
“Ma’am-do you know where Jerry is now?”
“Why do you keep calling me ‘ma'am’ like that?”
“Just trying to be courteous….”
“Well, knock it off. Jesus. You sound so fucking subservient. Why? No bourgeois man or woman is your better. All power rests with the people!”
She raises her fist in some kind of salute. I think she might be an intellectual when she's not stoned. Or a socialist. One of those.
“So, just so we're all clear here,” she says, “Jerry didn't do it.”
“Didn't do what?”
“What the papers say he did.” She waves the newspaper in Ceepak's face. “Murder? Kidnapping? Lies and bullshit. Just because it's in the paper doesn't make it true. It's just propaganda-paper and ink and lies and bullshit. Republican bullshit.”
“If that's the case, Mr. Shapiro has nothing to fear from me.”
“Bullshit. You're the fucking fuzz. Can't trust the fuzz.”
“You can trust me,” he tells her.
“Really? How come? What makes you so super-special?”
“I give you my word.”
“Your word? Like your solemn vow?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Wow. That's some heavy, serious shit. You give me your word? Wow. Just like Nixon? He gave us his word. ‘I am not a crook.’ So did Clinton. ‘I didn't have sex with that woman.’ Bush. ‘Saddam has nukes.’ Fucking Republicans.”
She's staring at Ceepak, trying to figure out who he might really be.
“You can trust him,” I say.
“What?”
“He cannot tell a lie.”
She stares some more at him.
“Really? Who is he? George Fucking Washington?”
“Officer Ceepak doesn't know how to be dishonest,” I say.
Now she's studying his eyes.
“What's the matter? Your parents never taught you how?”
“They tried,” he says. “However, they failed.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Uh-uh-uh. You did that damn ma'am thing again.”
“Sorry. Do you know where Jerry is?”
“Maybe.”
“I'd like to talk to him.”
“You won't hurt him?”
“I give you my word.”
“When I was cold? He gave me his shirt. His favorite fucking shirt.”
“I will not hurt him.”
The bag lady bends down to rub the dog's head.
“Upstairs,” she says. “Room 215.”
“Thank you. Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stay here with….”
“Gladys,” she says.
