Richard Stevenson - Tongue tied

Plankton was shaking his head with a look of disgust. "What a pathetic wuss you are, Strachey. Christ, you don't even have the courage of your convictions." He indicated the graffiti on the cardboard window coverings, as if Queer Revenge figured importantly in my moral underpinnings. In fact, it ranked far down on my life's wish list, maybe number seven or eight.

I said, "Jay, you've been understandably unhinged by what you've been through. But before you miscalculate badly and randomly redistribute many of the human organs present in the room-and I do understand your impulse to do so-I want to point out a provable fact that is sure to come as an eye-opener to you."

Miss Annette's eyes got even bigger. She knew what was coming.

"Do you know, Jay, who this woman is?"

"Hell, she's some damn, man-hating, ball-breaking lipstick lesbian! Who gives a wet fart who she is?"

"No, you're wrong. Do you know where you are?"

"Shit, no. Where am I, anyway?"

"You're in Oyster Bay, Long Island, in an apartment over Annette Koontz's nail parlor. Miss Annette here is Steve Glodt's girlfriend. Why don't you remove the tape from across what I'm sure is her pretty mouth and ask her who organized and funded the kidnapping operation?"

Plankton stood there and said nothing for a long tense moment. You could see what was left of his operational mental machinery spinning fast. Finally, he said, "Say that again, Strachey?"

"Ask Miss Annette who had what to gain by making you and Leo even madder and meaner than you already are.

Ask her who is in negotiations with GSN for a radio-TV simulcast deal, only GSN wants more 'edge' on the show, more white male anger."

Plankton stood for a moment longer staring at me hard. Then he slowly turned his gaze toward Miss Annette. Her eyes stayed on the automatic, which turned toward her also.

"Is there any truth to that?" Plankton asked her, looking a little dazed now.

She nodded vigorously and said something that sounded like "Eee! Eee!" but was probably meant to be "Steve! Steve!"

Plankton stood for a moment longer. Then he sighed, lowered his gun, and said to Thad and me, "Come here. I want you to look at something."

He found a wall switch, and an overhead light went on. Still holding the automatic, Plankton rolled up his right sleeve. Freshly tattooed on his upper arm was a big heart, and inside it were the words J-Bird Loves Al Gore.

Thad said, "That looks bad, J-Bird. But it could have been worse."

"It was," Plankton said. Then he dropped his trousers, tugged at his boxer shorts, turned and bent over. Tattooed on his ample left buttock were the words "And J-Bird Loves"-and on his right buttock-"George W. Bush Even More."

Plankton yanked his pants up, the gun still in his right hand, and buckled his belt, the gun barrel wobbling dangerously.

"Glodt probably thought you'd think it was funny," I said.

"I don't."

"Apparently not."

Plankton pointed the gun again. "Gome on. We're all going for a ride. The three of us, I mean."

"Why don't you let the police handle this, Jay? They're nearby. I can call them."

"Don't bother. I'll deal with Steve."

"We don't have a car," Thad said. "Somebody dropped us off."

Plankton looked at the tattooed man, who 1 assumed was Damien of Damien's Den of In-Ink-Kwity. '"You got a car outside, you fucking pervert?"

The man nodded and thrust his right hip at us. "(Jet his keys," Plankton said.

I groped inside the man's pocket and came up with a set of keys.

"Which car is it?" I said. "The Rabbit?" He shook h i s head. "The Pontiac?" An eager assent-he wanted us out of there.

"Should I shoot these two before we go?" Plankton said, pointing his automatic, and this led to an outbreak of violent twisting and flopping on the couch. Plankton did not shoot, however. He just snorted and said, "Let's go sec Steve. Steve wanted to deal with GSN, but first he's going to have to deal with me. Bring that box along,"

Plankton said, indicating an aluminum case the size of an airline carry-on bag that lay atop a nearby table. Then, wielding his gun again, Plankton motioned toward the door to the corridor. Thad and I did what the J-Bird seemed to want us to do, which was to lead the way out of Annette Koontz's apartment.

I drove the old red Trans Am, Thad sat beside me in the passenger seat, and Plankton navigated from the backseat. He held the gun between and just behind our heads.

Thad said, "Do you know how to handle one of those shooters, J-Bird?"

"I do. You pull back on the trigger and the thing goes blam, blam!"

"Yep, I've heard that's how it works."

We wended our way out of the Oyster Bay commercial district and into a more residential area along Long Island Sound. Plankton was uncertain about where Steve Glodt's house was located. He had been there just once, he said, and he knew it was on something called Center Island, and you had to cross a small bridge to get there. We were unable to ask directions from anyone, what with the J-Bird constantly waving a gun around, so we took several wrong turns and had to backtrack to what Plankton believed was a correct route.

The roads were slick from the drizzle and patchy fog and I drove with the Pontiac's headlights on. Traffic was building up now, with drivers heading out to church or to pick up bagels and the Sunday papers. Leaving Oyster Bay, we passed a donut shop with a line of cars stretching around the building to the drive-up window.

Thad said, "J-Bird, couldn't you go for some donut holes? You must be famished."

"That can wait," was all Plankton said, and soon there were no more donut stores to tempt any of us.

I had my cellphone on my belt and said at one point, "Mind if I make a call, Jay?

There are people who are going to wonder what's become of Thad and me."

"Let them wonder."

Minutes later we found Center Island. There was indeed a narrow bridge leading onto what even from the entrance to the enclave looked like a place where the shah of Iran might have kept a twenty-room hideaway and a helipad. The roofs of Georgian and Italianate palaces were visible through the trees in the distance.

A small guard outpost was at the end of the bridge we passed over, but there was no barrier, just a sign that said Turn Around Here.

"It's just local cops," Plankton said, lowering his gun for the moment. "Keep going.

Don't even look at the cop house."

"So Center Island is not a gated community?" Thad said.

"These people don't need gates," Plankton said. "They're protected by the very fact of their money."

"It's not working in your case, J-Bird."

"No, it isn't."

We wound along a tree-lined road, where driveways, some with wrought-iron gates, led off toward mansions whose rear terraces must have had glorious views of the water. I wondered if Annette Koontz had ever been out this way for a breezy afternoon sail followed by cocktails, but I supposed not.

I was hoping that Annette and Damien the tattooist had managed to free themselves and had gotten on the horn fast to warn Glodt what he might be in for. Not that 1 knew what Plankton had in mind or exactly what he was capable of, beyond the fetid gas-baggery so beloved by his radio fans. I did know that he had become enraged by what I had told him about Steve Glodt, and that he was carrying an automatic weapon I was afraid might be loaded.

"Slow down," Plankton said. "I think it's over there."

"That driveway?"

"Yeah, go left, in there."

It was probably the ugliest house on the island, a grotesque, recently built McMansion done in a hodgepodge of styles exemplifying the culture of waste, and no doubt on the site of some turn-of-the-century graceful marvel that hadn't been grandiose enough for Glodt. I almost wanted to ask Plankton for the gun so I could go in and shoot the media tycoon myself.