Don Dimaio of La Plata

by Robert Arellano

  “You all right, Mr. Cantare?”

  “Yeah…must have…had too much.”

  “You don’t sound so good.”

  “I’m fine—” I squint through the eyes to bring the bartender into focus. “Joe.” Jerk Joe, as in soda jerk and of course jerk-off. A waitress whirls over to towel up the wet mess.

  “You sure you okay? You want me to call a cab or something?”

  “No!” I stand Hank up straight. “No thanks, Joe.”

  “Mr. Cantare, you come in here all the time with the mayor and all, but in a situation like this I’m supposed to ask for your keys.”

  That brings my bearings back real quick. “And in a situation like that—” contract Cantare’s brow, curl his lower lip down, feel the face muscles tighten, “I ask my friends at the health department to start paying Tripleplay surprise visits.”

  Joe the Jerk backs off. “All right, all right, Mr. Cantare. But please be careful.”

  I push out the door and steer Cantare across the street into police headquarters. A nod to the desk sergeant. “Hello!”

  “Hello, Mr. Cantare!”

  “Thought I’d go back and check on the detectives.”

  He buzzes me in and I take Cantare downstairs. One step at a time.

  Figures: There’s nobody posted at the entrance to evidence. I walk in and scan the tags until I find recent crimes, reach behind some guns and knives, and feel a package. I hold it in Cantare’s hands. It’s hard to believe it could contain cocaine. I’ve only seen it in little bindles, but this is a motherfucking bundle! I peek beneath brown paper. It is coke. A fucking kilo! That’s 996.5 more grams than I’ve ever had all to myself. Fuck yeah! I slip the package inside Cantare’s jacket and head for the door.

  In the hallway, a slob of a cop holds a greasy torpedo of cheese and beef from the Hades Brothers diner truck. “Hey! What the fuck were you doing in there?”

  “Just checking on a case of interest to the city.”

  “And what the fuck do you have to do with the city?”

  I remember this kid: Cosmo Cochino. Got fat as soon as he finished his first-year beat. He’s probably planning on sailing straight to retirement on lard-ass desk duty, the epitomy of “pig.” I pull out Hank’s clip and show him the driver’s license.

  “Shit! I mean, sorry, Mr. Cantare. You’re just not as recognizable as…you know—”

  “You have spray cheese on your badge, lieutenant.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “You better shape the fuck up, Cochino, or I’m going to have a talk with your captain about how you leave your post for this heart-attack crap.” I take the sandwich and throw it in the trash. “Jesus! Join a fucking gym or something!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then again, walking to Hades Brothers is probably your only exercise, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In fact, this is the one time a day you get off your fat ass, isn’t it, porky?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  This is great. As Hank Cantare, I can fuck with almost anybody—and much harder. I don’t have a reputation to protect. I’m not saying this only in terms of telepathic gambling with my chief of staff’s rep. It’s because Hank is not the figurehead. When I’m mayor, I’m limited to jabbing Sanchez about his paunch and razzing strung-out Spaz. Director of administration doesn’t stain so easily. He’s expected to be the ball-buster. I’m beginning to feel a little more comfortable in Cantare’s skin.

  I climb back upstairs with the kilo in the jacket, throw the desk sergeant a salute, and walk Hank out of the station.

  BY CHANCE there stood in the doorway two lasses of the sort known as “of the district”; they were on their way to Davio’s in the company of some drug pushers who were spending the night in the diner. Now, everything that this adventurer of ours thought, saw, or imagined seemed to him to be directly out of one of the porno flicks he had viewed, and so, when he caught sight of the diner, it at once became an asshole with its four cutlets and its pedicels of reaming sphincter, not to speak of the cleavage and mouth and all the other things that are commonly supposed to go with an asshole. As he rode up to it, he accordingly reined in Rock Sinatra and sat there waiting for a wart to appear on the bladder mitts and blow his strumpet-bi wad announcing the arrival of a night erotic. The wart, however, was slow in coming, and as Rock Sinatra was anxious to retch the stew ball, Don Dimaio drew up to the door of the hot takeout and scurvied the two merry maidens, who to him were a pair of beauteous damsels or gracious ladies taking their ease at the asshole gate.

  ASTRAL PLANE, FRIDAY, 10:45 PM

  In front of the Hades Brothers truck, I spot a small group of City Hall junior staffers—two good-looking girls, interns from Hank’s office—getting hit on by a punk kid from communications, one of those aides who’s always whispering shit about me behind my back meanwhile kissing my mayoral ass. He’s a pretty-boy prick with his left ear pierced. Walking by, I decide to send Cantare’s shoulder into his. “Asshole!” the prick spurts at my back. I turn and he sees the face. “Jesus! Sorry, Mr. Cantare.”

  “Don’t use God’s name in vain, you little shit.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cantare.”

  “You’re a nice enough kid. Why do you go and wear that fucking earring?” The girls smirk. With a stretch of the mouth, so does Cantare. There’s menace in the air and the girls are enjoying it. They’re smoothing their skirts over their hips and leering in Cantare’s face the way they would never do with Dimaio, and yet to them Cantare is at least as powerful, maybe more. The little cocksucker keeps his mouth shut. I wonder how much Hank has taught this kid. “I’m asking you a question. One to which I expect you know the correct answer, if you know what I mean.”

  His expression replies, If I don’t want to be fired, and the little cocksucker says, “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No. Yes, and what’s the reason you wear a fucking earring like a fucking woman?”

  “Because,” says the kid, rolling his eyes, “I’m a cocksucker.” The girls giggle.

  “Correct.” I look at the fat one in the short skirt and the fat one in the short skirt looks back at me. Her ass is nice and fat. She’s a daughter of a union official, old-school I-ti, who would take his belt to the girl before letting her make the kind of mistake that could cost him his home, his business, and his family. I ask the kid, “And what do cocksuckers like you do?”

  I don’t regret putting it to him. If the kid has any class he’ll just laugh it off, or even if he is half a homo he should at least pretend to be in on the game. Cantare must have him on a pretty short choker by the way he replies, “Cocksuckers like me do it in the john with Elton.” The girls laugh.

  “That’s right.” I take the one with the fattest ass and I put Hank’s arm around her waist. Feels good. She leans in and I press Hank’s piece into her leg. Feels even better. “A cocksucker like you jacks on Michael.”

  The kid replies, “Cocksuckers like me suck on Hudson’s rocks.”

  “Good one!” Christ! Cantare gets away with this shit? I take the girl with the fattest ass and let Hank’s hand drop to her bare thigh. Ying! “A cocksucker like you skewers Stewart’s rod.”

  “Cocksuckers like me rally in the alley with Pally.”

  Yang. The girls jiggle with laughter. The fat one whispers, “Is Dimaio really gay?”

  “What! Who the fuck taught you that?”

  Flustered, the little prick spurts, “You did, Mr. C!”

  “Son of a bitch! Listen, kid, forget that one. And next time we play the game, I want you to think up a new one? One for my own name, all right?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. C.”

  “‘Yanks on Hank’s canary.’ Something like that. I want you to work on it. All right?”

  “Of course, Mr. C.”

  “Don’t forget. Next time we play, I’ll expect you to say it.” I take the girl with the fattest ass and I smack her on the ass a
nd she squeals like she likes it.

  I walk Hank over to the mayor’s mansion and I’m about to go inside when I realize I’m not me, so I drop the bundle in the mailbox instead. Better than ringing the doorbell and having Cantare hand the kilo over to nosy Oprah. Besides, Hank needs to take a piss and I don’t feel like dealing with it. I walk him back to Tripleplay in a hurry. Before checking out I take a peek in his datebook. All Cantare’s Saturday appointments look pretty standard except for a morning meeting that catches my eye: “Donkey 11.”

  When I give Hank’s skull a twist and get zapped back into my own skin, it’s no longer lying in bed but standing in the bathroom. I wobble off balance and barely catch myself on the towel rack. “Whoa!”

  “Hello, Don Dimaio! Great job scoring the coke!”

  “What the fuck, Rug? How’d I get in here?”

  “I just strolled you over to the can.”

  “You didn’t tell me you could do that.”

  “You needed to go wee wee, Don Dimaio.”

  Something about the way the Rug forgot to mention it could walk me around while I was out driving Cantare makes me want to hold some cards. I show it my poker face and change the subject. “Hank’s got a donut date tomorrow at 11. What do you make of it?”

  “Same as you, Don Dimaio: suspicious.”

  “Granted, sometimes Cantare just wants to get himself a fucking donut.”

  “But why would he write it down in his appointment book?”

  “Exactly. Plus, that fuckface put me in the cocksucker game.”

  The telephone rings and Caller ID shows Cantare’s cell. The Rug says, “Let him have it.”

  I pick up the phone. “Where the hell were you, Hank?”

  “I’m sorry, Pally. I must have blacked out. Barkeep tells me I blew out of here around 10:30. For Christ’s sake, I can’t remember the past hour!”

  “You sure you weren’t meeting someone more important than me?”

  “No! I swear, I forget everything that happened. I don’t get it. I had two, maybe three drinks.”

  “Can’t remember that either, eh?”

  “I’m really sorry, boss. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I haven’t felt like myself since that night at the zoo. Monkey fever or something.”

  “Next time you stand me up you’re shitcanned, understand?” I hang up on Hank.

  “Well, Don Dimaio, we have a whole kilo. What do you say? Shall we try a line or ten?”

  “Mañana,” I hang up on the Rug, too, putting it back on the wigform. With that bathroom stunt, the Rug is making me wonder who the fuck has been riding who the past couple of days. I’ve noticed the coke has been running out a lot quicker than usual. Granted, it’s my birthday week, but when I find out the Rug can do tricks like taking me for a pee while I’m handling Hank, I have to ask myself: What’s to keep it from fucking me over?

  I walk through the house and open the front door. There it is in the mailbox, a kilo of my own! It’s obscene the way the stuff bulks out of the plastic, like fat bulging out of a mother’s panty hose. They say pure coca’s got phosphor, and this shit’s so white it glows from inside. I think I’m going to be sick, joyous sick. I love you, Pablo Escobar! I hide the package in the bathroom closet on the top shelf with the gun and hit the last of Dylan’s eight-ball.

  AND THEN a briber came along, engaged in rounding up his trove of sop—for, without any boondogglery, that is what they were. He gave a taste of his corn to ching them together, and this at once became for Don Dimaio just what he wished it to be: some pork who was barreling his palming.

  POTENCY STREET, SATURDAY, 10:55 AM

  The best part of the day is already laid out where I left it last night, five lines this time, nice fat ones. Ah! the sight of them sparkling on the shaving mirror in the daylight! But when I peek at the clock I see I’m going to be late for the meeting. I don the Rug.

  “Good Morning, Don Dimaio! Time for a few lines?”

  “Not yet, Rug. We’ve got work to do.” I give the Rug a twist. I’ve timed it perfectly: Cantare has just parked the car. I climb out and take Hank inside Donut Donkey and straight up to the counter.

  “Welcome to Donut Donkey. Hee haw!” The counter kid wears fake buckteeth and a cap with floppy ears.

  “Uh, large coffee and a Swedish Longdong.”

  “Black? Hee haw!”

  “Huh?”

  “Coffee black? Hee—”

  “Regular.” The kid scoops in two long-spooned sugars, and when he turns around to pull the yoke for a long shot of Donkey Kream, I see he’s wearing a long, black tail. This chain has gotten a little weird trying to stay ahead of the competition. A couple of years ago the Bertoli brothers, friends of mine, announced a campaign to open the state’s first Krusty Kustard, a southern chain with a secret recipe and a big crock of stock to dunk into. Sixteen months and a couple of half-hearted PR stunts later, they pulled out and shot their wads of cash all over Jess Hoggin’ Donuts instead. Not even the PlaGa figured out the real stunt: From the start, the Bertolis were ringers in the back pocket of a third chain, the franchise that ate the state: Donut Donkey. The Donkey sent the Bertolis under false pretenses to call on the Dixie dipshits and succeeded in stalling the sticky-fingered competition locally by steering them away from legit investors.

  I find three bucks in Cantare’s wallet and let the jackass keep the change. I take cup and cruller back to a booth by the window and wait. For what, I wonder. That’s the trick with this telepathic wig. Just because I can fly anywhere doesn’t mean I know everything. I’m sitting there burning Cantare’s upper lip with Donkey coffee when behind me comes a whinny. “Why you go sit over there for, Hank?”

  I don’t even have to turn around. I know the sound of tongue-tied Tommy Fritos begging for a city contract. So he and Cantare are this social? Things don’t look so good for Hank. I shift to the next booth and sit across from Fritos. “What’s happening, Tommy?”

  “Business stinks. I needa schools department leaseda building, Hank.”

  “How did your meeting with the mayor go?”

  Fritos’s face caves in like a loaf of sweetbread getting hit with a fist. “Wha meeting?”

  His lame bluff tells me Cantare wasn’t supposed to know. Now Hank is holding a full house. I narrow the eyes. “The one I set up for you, remember?” Fritos fidgets. The guilt is written all over his fishy face. I give him the Cantare scowl I’ve been practicing. “The one you told Dot to tell him I set up, that is.”

  Fritos goes right into shit-eating mode. “Damn, Hank. I wuzzin gone round you back or nuthin.”

  “Tommy, you fuckface, you don’t ever use the name Cantare to squirm in under anybody’s door—especially not my boss, capisce?”

  “I’m sorry, Hank. I just hadda be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “When I givya da money it getsta him.”

  I wonder whether Cantare skims any more off the top than he’s supposed to, too, but I can’t tell that to this goatsucking prick. However, I do realize I’ve just been handed an opportunity to troll for an unbiased indication of Hank’s loyalty. “Well, Tommy,” I make Cantare say, “you know what I’m always telling you about Pally.”

  Fritos nibbles at the hook. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You say it a tousand times.”

  “Yeah?” I give the line a little slack. “I want to hear you tell me, Tommy. Show me you’ve been listening.”

  “Okay.” Fritos wrinkles his upper lip into a sour-grapes shape and I brace myself for the naked truth. “‘Tommy, you know Mayor Donald Dimaio issa bossada city—’”

  I jerk the rod. “And?”

  “‘And he getsa stuff done—’”

  I reel him in. “And what, Tommy?” Here we go, Hank. It’s your ass.

  “‘And you better shape the fuck up, Tommy Fritos, or you never do bidnis widda city again.’”

  Good old Cantare! I’m thinking, I didn’t doubt you for a second, Hank, when boom! Fritos presses something under t
he table against Cantare’s leg. I grab in reflex and feel a thick envelope. My Dimaio instinct shrinks, but then I remember who I am. A look around: Nobody, not even the ass-faced counter kid, is looking at me. I let Hank’s hand accept the envelope, pull it into his lap, and peek under the table: hundreds. A bundle of hundreds. There have got to be a hundred hundreds in there. I take the wax bag with the Swedish Longdong, pull it under the table, and stuff the envelope inside. I let Fritos flop around on the deck for a minute. “Listen to me, Tommy. If you’re lucky and you keep your fucking mouth shut, maybe you’ll get that fucking schools lease, but that’s not something we talk about and it sure as hell isn’t something a fucking zero like you should go and try to talk about with the boss directly.”

  I throw Fritos back into the pond with the rest of the little fishies. In parting, he pawns one of those nasty cigars off on Hank and I slip it in the bag with the bribe. I go back out to Hank’s car and watch Fritos pull out of the parking lot.

  A tricky situation, getting Hank to pass me cash he doesn’t remember taking, but I know how to handle this. I wrote the book on it. Where do we put the bankroll, class? Someplace nobody else will look for it. Someplace that won’t be disturbed until Monday. Someplace I, Dimaio, can retrieve it undetected. I take the bag full of money and twist the top shut, leaving Fritos’s stinky stogie sticking out a little, walk around the back of Donut Donkey, and drop it in the dumpster. I climb back into the car and give Cantare’s skull a twist, leaving Hank right here where I found him.

  Zapped back, I’m relieved to find my body still in bed. Or at least the Rug brought me back to bed after walking me around in my underwear.

  “What do you know, Don Dimaio! Looks like Cantare’s more loyal than we thought.”

  “I never doubted him for a second, Rug. And what’s this ‘we’ bullshit? I’m the one who does the thinking, you pile of chink pubes.”