And in that fleeting second, as he looked at the screaming monkees and the weary Ma and Pa with their brood in the old car, even a lawn-mower handle or something protruding from the filthy trunk lid which was tied down and flopping back and forth as the old car bounced along, in a big hurry to what? Go mow their lawn? They fascinated him. What could they be thinking, these monkees.
How easy it would be for him to tap their bumper, and the twine would break and the lawn mower would do whatever it would do and the trunk lid would pop up and the man would panic and brake and pull over and Chain would be on top of them in a heartbeat. And instinctively his mind planned a scheme whereby he could insert himself into their peaceful, nothing, alien lives. Saw their monkee reveries apart with a nasty, serrated steel edge. Hammer into their plans and boring lives of predictability with a fury that would leave them bloodied and screaming from pain and terror. Rip apart their lawn-mower lives of weed-eating, water-sliding, tractor-pulling ignorance and blissful stupor. Make them beg for merciful death to take them under. And the heat of the fantasy kindled an old familiar hunger.
Party animals uncaged.
“There are eight million naked stories in the city and—'
“Eight million STORIES, ya fuck,” Lee corrected his partner.
“That's what I said, eight million stories in the whore. There are'—he took a deep, boozy breath—'eight million naked bimbos in the city and I'll poke every one of ‘em.'
“You guys flyin’ pretty good already?” Eichord said, sipping his nonalcoholic cooler.
“What ya drinkin?” Dana Tuny peered at the glass.
“He's drinking Seven-Up same as I am,” Donna said loudly from the next room.
“Canada Dry,” Jack said.
“He's drinkin’ Canada Dry,” Lee said.
“Shit, Eichord already done drunk Canada Dry a long fucking time ago,” Tuny mumbled.
“Tuny, if brains was worth a dollar and it cost a quarter to go around the world you couldn't get outta sight, ya’ fuckin’ imbecile,” Lee whispered.
“If dick was worth a dollar and it cost a quarter to get laid, you couldn't fuck a cheerio, ya’ slant-eyed little squid-eater.'
“My dick is bigger than that little hernia you carry around.'
“Come on, girls, let's not fight,” Eichord admonished as they walked out into the yard.
“Listen, picklepecker, remember we done SOLVED this question long ago when we measured them whores —mine was six inches longer than yours an’ I only pulled enough outta my pants to beat ya.'
“The only thing ya ever pulled is your pud, and you hadda do THAT with a fuckin’ tweezer, numb-nuts.'
“Poor Peggy.” Fat Dana shook his head in mock sorrow at the thought of her suffering. Unaware of the singer, Lee's wife had changed her named to Peggy when he'd brought her over. “Just imagine—she's never known nothin’ but a li'l ole two-incher.” He held his fingers out in measurement. “Li'l fucking firecracker of a hard-on about the size of a dink cherry bomb.'
“At least Peg GETS a hard dick once inna while,” his partner said. “Not like poor ole Bev. God, I feel so sorry for Bev. Married to d’ blimp here.” Lee discussed the weighty aspects of the problem with Eichord.
Jack knew that when they joked like this, these old-time partners of a hundred and fifty years or whatever it had been, they were TALKING about dicks but they were talking ABOUT something altogether different.
They'd been together so long they could probably communicate by sign language, and Jack often wished they would, when the banter wore thin. But there were odd moments of oblique and surprising subtlety when they'd be exchanging their goofy rap back and forth and Jack would suddenly realize they were having some kind of a discussion during the nonsense. They managed a between-the-lines dialogue of sorts, something about work, or whatever, hidden, subliminal, sandwiched in between all the crap. In this way their chauvinistic, vulgar, silly demeanor served as a kind of vocal camouflage. A code or word smoke screen. He wondered what it was all about tonight.
“That ain't no bullshit about the hard-ons,” Dana ruminated, his tone sobering slightly as he thought about it. “Shit, I love that woman and we don't even hardly kiss anymore. ‘Course we don't kiss any LESS either.'
“Peggy says if she ever got hurt in a traffic accident I wouldn't be able to identify the body,” Lee said.
“Umm.” Dana smiled. They were still walking, out of Eichord's yard and down the darkened street, three old coppers who loved one another. “I can't enjoy it anymore. I don't mean Bev. Shit, I love Bev. I can't hardly get it up. Christ, I don't even play with it.” His voice was serious.
“Bullshit,” Eichord said.
“I ain't had a blue veiner in weeks. It's pitiful, man. I don't even wake up with a piss-hard anymore.'
“Who does? That's kids get piss-hards.'
“I gotta piss hard now.'
“Ya fuckin’ pissant.'
They laughed.
“It's terrible never to even get a soft-on.'
“Remember that time we busted that old guy in the whorehouse over on Canal and Mary?'
“Yeah.” Dana chuckled.
“That's when I knew you couldn't get it up.'
“Huh?'
“Yeah. You remember that big blond one?” Eichord asked him.
“Yeah.'
“One day I hadda go back there when I was doing the follow-up on the dude that got dusted.” They'd been together while Lee was out for some reason, working on a murder in a low-rent brothel. “One day I hadda go back there when I was doing the follow-up on the dude that got iced, and she said ‘Where's that no-dick partner of yours?’ She was trying to give me some shit about what a fizzle you'd been in the sack.'
“What's all this shit?” Lee had never heard this one.
“God's truth,” Eichord said to James Lee, “Dana and me were taking the stories and what-not and he says, You cover me—I gotta go back and boff Blondie. And he goes back in the back with this one,” Eichord was whispering.
“It's true,” Dana told his partner, smirking in the darkness.
“She says, Where's that no-dick? The fat one? That worthless no-dick partner of yours couldn't even get it up.'
“That's true.'
They laughed.
“Pathetic,” Lee said to his partner.
“Well, shit. She had hair.'
“What the fuck?'
“Shit, she had more hair on her fuckin’ legs than you do.” They all laughed. “That's no shit.'
“Lying fucks.'
“Hey. Really, man. I still remember that bitch. Big ole’ watermelons like this onner.” Dana gestured in the shadows. “Looked pretty good. Long blond hair. Shit, I didn't know how long. I took her back there and Christ almighty, she's whippin’ those clothes off and here's all this fuckin’ hair under her arms, looked like little black forests growin’ under there. And she had this garter-belt deal, and I can still remember those legs. Nice legs, man, but there's all these old black hairs mashed down under them hose. I go—” He makes a little descending whistle noise that they both recognized and know he is also holding his little finger in front of his fly and letting it droop with the sound effect—Dana's drooping dick schtick.
