Tyrone… Kiwasee?' McNeil played with the last name as if he regarded it a joke.
'That's him,' said the warder.
'He doesn't seem too sure about it,' said McNeil. 'Tyrone's a little confused about a lot of things,' said the warder.
Kiwasee had not yet stirred or made any recognition of McNeil's presence.
'I'm from Clamden,' McNeil repeated. 'You know Clamden, don't you, Tyrone?'
Kiwasee shrugged imperceptibly.
' Sure you do, Tyrone. Bridgeport cops found your house stuffed full of stolen goods-about half of them came from Clamden.'
'Wasn't my shit,' said Kiwasee. 'I got nothing to do with it. '
' They found it in your house, Tyrone. In your room, tucked under your bed. How'd it get there? we got to wonder. We don't wonder where it came from though, you know why, Tyrone? Those people in Clamden don't like punks from Bridgeport coming into their town and stealing everything in the house. That's how some people are, I can't explain it. So know what they do? They mark that stuff. They record serial numbers on all their valuable little goodies. They get special machines to put special codes right into the merchandise so it can be identified later when we find it under your bed. Isn't that selfish of them, Tyrone?'
Kiwasee continued to gaze blankly at the bars of his cell.
'So, you know what else, Tyrone? That makes the police in Clamden just a s eager to talk to you as the police right here in your own hometown.
You are an inner-city, intercity celebrity, Tyrone. You and your pals are the burglars who been stealing from those nice folks in Clamden for the last three years, aren't you?'
'Ain't stole nothin'. Don' know where that shit come from.'
'Well now, that's a good story. it is.' McNeil looked to the warder for support.
'It's a good story,' said the warder. 'I believe it.'
'Anybody would believe it, except maybe the judge. The judge might not believe it. But, hell, you don't expect me to explain judges to you, do you, Tyrone? You already have more experience with them than I do. So I tell you what, Tyrone. I'm going to take you back with me to Clamden and you're going to talk to us some, and look at some houses and tell us why you broke into them and tell us what you did with the other things you took from those houses, and generally be cooperative. You'll like that, won't you, Tyrone? A nice ride in a police car? We can even swing through your old neighborhood and let everybody see how you're getting on. Most of them'll be proud of you, we know that much, don't we?'
For the first time Kiwasee lifted his head and looked directly at McNeil. His eyes were deep brown, the whites clouded and rheumy as an oyster. 'Then let's go,' he said.
'VVhat's your real name, Slick?' McNeil asked. Kiwasee sat in the back seat of the cruiser, separated from the driver by a screen of wire mesh.
'Tyrone Kiwasee.'
'I mean your street name. What do the bros call you?'
Kiwasee was silent. He watched the trees of Clamden sail past the window.
'They call you Skids, right? That's your street name, Skids. What's that mean?'
'Means I run so fast, when I turn a corner I skids.'
McNeil studied his prisoner in the mirror to see if he was being mocked.
'I know your street name,' Kiwasee said. 'I heard about you. '
'I don't have a street name.'
'Sure you do, everybody do.'
'My name's McNeil.'
'That ain't what the bros calls you.'
'What do they call me?'
Kiwasee allowed a slow grin to steal over his face. 'They call you the fat-ass jack-jawin' motherfuckin' cop from Clamden.'
'Oooh, dat what dey call me, Tyrone?'
'No, that's too long. They just call you Pussy, 'cause you loves pussy.'
McNeil laughed. 'You're funny, Skids. I like that in a felon. What else they say about me?'
'We don' talk about you a whole lot, you unnerstan'. Ain't nobody studying on you 'cause you ain't that important. Jus' once in a while when your white-ass preppies come to the Port to buy a ho or some snort.
They tell us about you.'
'What they say?'
'They say you go to Clamden, don' get caught by ol' Pussy McNeil 'cause he one mean-ass racist sonofabitchunless you a ho. Now if you a ho and McNeil catch you, then he really going' to fuck you. You be better off if he just beat you with his nightstick. If you an underage ho, that the worst of all. Then ol' Pussy McNeil gon' make you suck on his little dick for years.'
McNeil pulled the car to the side of the road and turned to face Kiwasee through the mesh.
'You're real talkative all of a sudden, Skids. And here I thought I was going to have to kick shit out of you to make you talk, but I guess I was wrong, wasn't I?'
'You wrong about me in a lot of ways,' said Kiwasee. 'What's that supposed to mean?'
'That- mean don' try your nightstick shit with me, Pussy. I know about you and I ain't afraid to tell.'
'Tell what? What are you going to tell?'
'I ain't going' tell nothing you treat me right. You mess with me, I'll tell the world.'
'Tell what, Tyrone? What you got to tell?'
'I seen you.'
'Seen me what?'
'Seen you come out of a window, pulling your pants on. '
'Bullshit.'
'I was there. Three, four in the morning? A week ago? You 'remember that. I was doing a job, I hear a noise, look out the window, who do I see coming out the window with his dick in his hand? 01' Pussy, looking guilty. Well, no, you wasn't looking guilty, neither. You was looking happy, grinning and all.'
'You saw me grinning at three in the morning, Tyrone? You got real good eyes.'
'There was light coming out the girl's window. Guess her old man was coming to see who was making the noise. Must have been you making the noise, Pussy. You couldn't work no ho up to that.'
'You're bullshitting me, Tyrone.'
'We done pass the house not two minutes ago.'
McNeil wheeled the cruiser into a U-turn. 'You show me where, you hear?'
'You know where,' said Tyrone. 'Or you been jumping out of windows all over town?'
'Must have been my brother.'
'Your brother drive off in a police car too?'
'That's right, Skids. I got an evil twin.'
'See, that's what's wrong with you people right there. You think getting a little pussy he's evil. I ain't saying there's nothing wrong with what you up to, McNeil. You be saying that.'
'Show me the house, Tyrone, or I'm going to beat you for giving false information to a police officer.'
'You ain't gon' touch me, Pussy. This ain't L.A… There the house, right there.'
McNeil slowed the car and they crept past a large, white Cape Cod with green shutters and trim.
'You know they been robbed a week ago, I know you got a report on that.'
'That was you, was it?'
'And there's where I seen you, coming out the window right there. '
'You didn't see me, Tyrone. First of all, I wasn't there, second, you can't even see this house from the other one.'
'You can from the second floor, you look right down there and here come of' Pussy, tugging on his pants and laughing. I figure, shit, I don' have to worry about the police tonight. They ain't coming back here.'
McNeil made another three-point turn and headed away from the site of Tyrone's story.
'You made out a living will, Tyrone?'
