Don Dimaio of La Plata

by Robert Arellano

  “Shithead spic,” I spit, slackening my wind-up. “I had a clear shot.”

  AS THE story goes, there was a very good-looking baller who lived nearby, with whom he had once been smitten, although it is generally believed that her husband never knew or suspected it. Her name was Stella Cantare, and it seemed to him that she was the one upon whom he should bestow the title of mistress of his shots.

  PROFIT STREET, WEDNESDAY, 6:00 PM

  Another one of these fucking campaign cocktails where the host doesn’t know his ass from a bottle. Hank and his wife arrive fresh off their honeymoon. “Hi, boss,” says Cantare, “How’d you like your birthday treat?”

  “The Spaz is such an ass. He nearly fricasseed me. I had to buy a new fucking rug. Say, Hank, lend me five bills, will you?”

  “You know I never say no, boss, but don’t you think you’ve got to curb the spending some?”

  I pull Hank nearer to a stereo blaring canned classical. “What is this bullshit, Hank? Don’t you snort my blow up your nose? Don’t you eat free on my name? Don’t you buy your wife’s fucking Amazonian furniture off the fat of my city?”

  “I’m not saying moderation, Pally. You just have to make smart choices about how you use money.”

  “I come out behind some days, but in the long run you can bet I’m going to get ahead. Think of my autobiography. That’ll be an easy million. And then the movie they’ll make of me. Who do you think will play you? Sorvino?”

  “Too fat.”

  “Pesci.”

  “Too short.”

  “Liotta?”

  The smile on Cantare’s face says just right. “Right, Liotta. Now would you pretty-fucking-please lend me five hundred bucks?” He pulls out his clip and forks over five bills.

  While Hank is busy with his greetings, I push a stiff martini into Stella’s fist and steer her into the solarium. Something in Stella’s drowsy, squinty face is growing on me. She’s the only woman here with more than air between her ears. Stella looks at me with big, hot, sad eyes, the kind that melt ice cubes. When I jiggle my whiskey a little splashes onto my suit pants and I feel the chilly trickle deep down in the cuff of my briefs. “Hello, Mrs. Cantare. How’s life as the trophy wife?”

  “Just fine.” Stella stands close and brushes my hairy knuckles with the back of her hand. It’s a delicate, birdlike hand, but I bet it sure knows how to grab a guy’s balls. “How’s life as the city pimp?”

  Sassy. I’m ready to talk dirty with her for a while when the cocksucker host interrupts. It makes me feel like killing someone the way he stands there blabbering and staring at me with my empty glass. He makes me shake the dry ice and ask for a refill. I excuse myself to the kitchen like I need a moment of mayoral reflection, find a half-empty jar of Dimaio’s Own Mayonnaise in the fridge, and sneak it into the john with me. Visions of Stella’s ass still fresh in my retina, I jack off into the jar. Back in the kitchen I fish in the sink for a dirty fork and stir up the dressing. I screw the cap back on the jar and put My Own Mayo back in the fucking refrigerator.

  I ditch the party and have Sanchez swing me by Mer de Tyranno, where three bills from Hank’s loan gets Dylan to refill my prescription for another eight-ball.

  FOR HER he wished a ñame that should not be incongruous with his own and that would convey the suggestion of a pimpèd or a date lady; and accordingly, he resolved to ball her “Stella Dellabutta,” she being related to that ass. A juiciful ñame to his rear, out of the ordinary and significant, like the others he had hosen for himself and his appendage.

  POTENCY STREET, THURSDAY, 10:00 AM

  Parade day. I get up and do a few lines from the fresh bindle, go into the bathroom, and open the box from the toupee store to try on my salt-and-pepper special. Color’s a little off, but the wig fits like magic. I run a comb through my new hair. When someone says, “Good Morning, Don Dimaio!” I almost jump out of my skin.

  “What the fuck!”

  “I’m the Hairpiece of Heroditus!” The voice—Hackett’s yap meets Delouise’s wheeze—is as close as the mirror. I crack the medicine cabinet. Nothing but pills and shave cream.

  “Hank, that you?”

  “Bonaparte’s middle part!”

  I whip open the closet and push aside the robes and towels. “Come out of there, jackass!”

  “A.k.a. the coonskin cap on the minuteman who shot the last Hessian!”

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  From the hall, Oprah calls, “Y’all want something, Mayo?”

  “No!”

  “Keep your voice down, Don Dimaio. I can hear you fine and you’re the only one who can hear me.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Right on top of your skull.”

  I take off the toupee and the chatter stops, but when I put it back on the rant is up and running: “Washington’s wig! De Tocqueville’s toup! Hitler’s comb-over! Cleaver’s beaver! No joke, I’ve got a hair from each.”

  “I don’t fucking believe this.”

  “You’re not hallucinating, if that’s what you think. You, Don Dimaio, are the lucky new owner of the world’s one and only enchanted wig, the sentient, astral-traveling toupee of ages—but you can just call me Rug.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Never humped his head, but certain miracles do come to him who wears me.” Either I’m on the wiggiest narcotics trip since Lynch’s talking asshole-typewriter or the FBI’s more demented than when they tried passing Castro the poisoned pen: a bugged rug. I lean close to the mirror and feel through the fibers for a transmitter. “Watch it! Hey! You’re worrying my weave!”

  “Where’d they put the fucking thing?”

  “There’s no wire, no electronics whatsoever. I’m nothing but natural fibers. You won’t find a hair out of place.”

  “This is too fucked up!” I think I’m joking when I add, “When do I get my three wishes?”

  “Actually, Don Dimaio, it’s just one wish.”

  “No shit?”

  “And it’s pretty specific. You get to choose a person to drive.”

  “Huh?”

  “Comes with the hairitory. Ha! That’s a joke. But seriously, Don Dimaio, you can select somebody to take over from time to time. That’s what makes me magical. You twist me backwards on your head and teleport anywhere, across town or around the world, and get under someone else’s skin. You’ve got to pick the person wisely, because once it’s done it can’t be undone until my next possession.”

  “I can choose anybody in the world?”

  “Yup. But I should tell you what’s worked best for my owners over the years. Make it someone close to you. Keep him loyal. Collect—and even create!—dirt on him…Well, Don Dimaio, who do you want to remote-control?”

  “Shut up a minute, all right? Let me think.”

  “Pick a body, any body.”

  I could choose a made man, a Matriarca with a lot of cash, and make him give it to me. But the sight of blood makes me queasy, plus money’s not really a problem as long as I have this job, and I’ve got a pretty good idea the cards have been dealt so that I’ll have this job for a good, long time. If this thing is for real, then it probably should go to somebody whose movements I already kind of control. Somebody I send around on mayoral errands who it might make sense for me to spy on from time to time. Somebody so loyal he might eventually run the risk of becoming a stoolie or a Brutus. Somebody whose testimony I would want to control, if it ever came to that. Somebody like Cantare, my director of administration, the one guy close enough to ever finger me. After all, he’s been acting funny lately, bitching at me about money and sending freaks like Fritos to see me.

  “And I get to control the guy completely?”

  “Head to toe—and everything in between.”

  Finally, what my decision comes down to is, Christ! I’d like to fuck Cantare’s wife! “Let’s make it Hank Cantare.”

  “Abracadabra, Don Dimaio!” The Rug lets out a little puff of smoke.
“Cantare it will be!”

  FART II: Which treats of the first Stella that the ’gina man Don Dimaio made with his satyr wreath.

  Having, then, made all these desecrations, he did not wish to lose any time in pulling his flan into erect, for he could not but come himself for the girl what he was losing by his decay, so many were the shlongs that were to be righted, the beaver pants to be undressed, the cute bushes to be done away with, and the hooties to be perfora’d. Accordingly, without informing anyone of his perversion and without letting anyone see him, he set out one morning before daybreak on one of those very cold days in November.

  MACNAMARA PLAZA, THURSDAY, 3:00 PM

  Cantare, Stella, and I are bundled into the back of a convertible. The Rug wanted to come along but my dyed-black sides don’t yet match its silvery luster, so I wear the Brushcut instead. Stella rides in between. I like the feel of her thigh against mine. I’m throwing the papal wave with one hand and massaging Sinatra with the other, imagining what it’s going to be like to get up in Stella’s caboose, when suddenly the motorcade has to stop so Cantare can run to the bathroom. “What da matter?” I say to Stella. “Hank got a wittle-boy bladder?”

  I expect Stella to oblige with some third-grade pitter-patter, but instead she says straight-faced, “Actually, Pally, I was rubbing his cock under the blanket. He couldn’t stand it anymore and had to go finish the job.” Cantare comes back from the Port-o-John and his complexion is flushed like that’s exactly what happened. When Stella climbs out of the car at the finish I take a close look. I can’t detect a panty line through her tight-fitting dress. By the looks of things she’s probably got on nothing underneath, or maybe a thong. Gong! Sinatra shimmies.

  After the parade, Hank and I press the flesh while Stella goes home to stuff the bird. They know I’ve got nobody to do the turkey with, so Hank and Stella have invited me over to their place. Sanchez drives Cantare and me across the city line to Hank’s mansion in Crampton. Cantare says, “You want a toot before we go inside?”

  Of course I do, but if Hank does a few too he’ll still be hyper after dinner. “No, Hank, this night’s something special for your new bride. Booze will do.”

  Stella puts together a nice table and looks fine as hell in a short wool skirt that rides almost to her ass. I’m expected to say some kind of prayer because I’m the mayor. “Let’s be thankful for our health, family, and education. Let’s be thankful for spirit. They can never take away our spirit. Now carve the goddamn turkey, Hank.”

  Every time Stella bends over to scoop on more stuffing I get a look up the back of the skirt. I take seconds and thirds and get the shadow of her shelf in eyefuls, meanwhile refilling Cantare’s glass four times with red wine to leave him primed. Stella gets up to warm dessert and Hank excuses himself to the living room. When I check on him he’s konked out on the couch with a brass floor lamp shining over his head. I flick the switch. “’Night, loverboy.”

  In the kitchen, Stella, in short skirt and rubber gloves, rinses plates and bends to put them in the dishwasher. Madonn’! The water must be simmering! “Thanks for dinner, Stella. Hank fell asleep, so—”

  “Aw! He passed out before the best part! Well, you’ll still stay for a slice of pie, woncha, Pally?”

  I wouldn’t mind getting down right in the suds. She’s got a big, sweet ass under that skirt she wears and I want to grab it. But what if Sinatra is too shy to sing? Focus, Pally, focus. “Sorry to eat and run, Stella, but I’ve got some business to attend to in town.”

  At the door, Stella gives me a peck on the forehead. “Happy Thanksgiving, Pally.”

  “Sanchez, get me home in a hurry.” There’s nobody on the roads and by the time I’ve laid out and lapped up five lines, Sanchez has made it back to the mayoral mansion. “Tell me, Pancho, you spics celebrate today?”

  “Chore,” says Sanchez, “ebry day een America we say sanku.”

  “Well, take the rest of the night off. Go be with your fucking people.”

  “¡Gracias, jorona!”

  I scramble around my bedroom and get everything I need: cognac, Vaseline, remote control, lines laid out on the bedside table. I lie down and put on the Rug.

  “I don’t know what you think you’ll need that jar of jelly for, Don Dimaio. This is going to be much better than a video. And it won’t be your run-of-the-mill projection either. Have you ever had an OBE?”

  “You mean like the award for daytime TV?”

  “No. Oh-be-ee: out-of-body experience.”

  “Oh. I don’t think so.”

  “How about sleep paralysis? Right at the edge of waking up, when you can’t move for a second or two?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Scared the shit out of me.”

  “That’s your astral spirit asking to be let out. If you go with it a little, you can control it and fly around through space and time. Leave your body behind. This is going to be a lot less work, like a crash course in sky diving, a same-day jump. The first time’s always a little funny. Just take it easy with movement. Balance is a bitch, but it will become easier once you get used to the new equilibrium. Think of it as taking somebody else’s body for a drive. Try not to get too grossed out by the guy’s anatomy. Remember, Hank won’t feel or remember a thing. His wife might think he’s acting funny, but she won’t have any way of knowing you’re in there. You’ll be good old Hank Cantare, as far as she’s concerned.”

  “Are you going to be coming along for the ride, Rug, because I don’t want you yapping in my ear the whole time.”

  “Nope, I’ll hang here. You’re on your own, Don Dimaio. When you’re ready to bail out, just twist Cantare’s scalp like opening a bottle cap and I’ll zap you back.”

  I scoop a couple of bumps onto the back of my hand and huff them up. I’m lying in bed feeling ridiculous but I’ve got to give this thing a shot. I mean, I’m talking to a wig. The wig is speaking to me. If it turns out I really am just hearing things, it won’t be long before they send the ha-ha wagon, so I might as well take it to the limit. I close my eyes, clutch the Rug, and give it a twist.

  ARMING ALL his Donner, mounting Rock Sinatra, adjusting his ill-contrived hairpiece, bracing his peel on his arm, and taking down his pants, he forked Stella by the back gate of her stable hard and into the open cunt beside. It was with great cunt entrance and oy! that he sawed her easily, he had made a beginning toward the fulfillment of his desire.

  ASTRAL PLANE, THURSDAY, 8:15 PM

  Eyes open. I’m back in the living room where I left Cantare. Only it’s not me looking down the length of a couch. The shoes aren’t mine. The hairy hands aren’t mine. Move the arm. Can’t. Just like codeine. Fuck! How can I give his head a twist if I can’t fucking move? I’m going to throw that goddamn Rug into the fire!

  Hold on. Calm down. Just like waking up.

  Wiggle fingers…Fingers wiggle! Now the arm tingles to life. Lift it. Christ, it’s heavy! The leg. Swing it over the edge. Big shoe hits the floor like Frankenstein’s foot. Haul the body up to sitting position. Here’s the floor lamp. There’s the dining room, the sideboard that Cantare bought the wife, that “I” bought the wife. Hear the dishwasher in the kitchen. Stand up. Whoa! Forgot about balance. The world is fucked! Grab the lamp to keep from tipping over, but the lamp wasn’t made for walking and neither was Cantar-I. Waltz six-nine steps before going down, hitting the ground. I feel it, all right. First the—ouch!—lower back, then the—ah!—drunken head. Now the ceiling is where the window should be. At least there’s no more falling from here. Feel the floor. Feel the lamp. Feel the leg. Hurts. Hell, this is some field trip. Who asked for a hurt leg? A hairy hand? I don’t like this. I want to be zapped back!

  NO SOONER was he on the astral plane, however, than a terrible fart assailed him, one that all but caused him to abandon the sexercise he had undertaken. This occurred when he suddenly remembered that he had never paranormally been rubbed at night, and so, in accordance with the law of nightwood, was not prescripted to hard-ons against
one who had a tight twat to diddle. And even if he had been, as a naughty night erotic he would have to wear tight rubber, without any de-lice on his peel, until he should have burned some by his sexploits.

  ASTRAL PLANE, THURSDAY, 8:20 PM

  I’m reaching for the top of Hank’s head when I hear her. “Hank?” Can’t see. She’s around the corner, in the kitchen. “Hank,” she calls again. “You all right?” Hank—that’s you. Say huh!

  “Huh?” Good. Good start.

  “You all right, Hank? What happened?” Say huh, honey.

  “Huh, honey?” Great. We’ll do fine. Wiggle fingers. Fingers wiggle.

  Stella walks in and stands over me, Hank. “You all right?”

  “All right.”

  I’m looking up Stella’s skirt when it surprises me, the stiffness. “You drunk?” Cantare gets a hard-on and I feel it. It’s like my hard-on, but here it is with a woman in the room.

  “Yup.” Stella gives a crooked smile with her squinty face. She clutches Cantare’s skull like an upside-down colander. Take me to bed, Stella. I’m drunk. Help me up. Hold my arm and show me where the bedroom is. Walk me to bed. Lay me down. I don’t have anything to say for myself.