Ramon went on saying nothing, and he tried to keep a poker face, but a lot of little lights inside his head were turning red, and a dismaying tingle had begun to shake its way through his nerve-tree. His heart was picking up speed like a train leavin g the station and heading into open country. He kept snatching little glances of the big man in the red polo shirt, and liking less and less what he saw. The guy’s right forearm was totally flexed now, veins fat with blood, muscles popped like freshly risen breadrolls.
Daniels didn’t seem to mind Ramon’s failure to answer. The face he turned toward the smaller man was smiling . . . or appeared to be smiling, if you ignored the eyes. The eyes were as blank and shiny as two new quarters.
‘I got good news for you, little hero. You can do the stroll on the dope charge. Give me a little help and you’re as free as a bird. Now what do you think about that?’
What he thought was that he wanted to go right on keeping his mouth shut, but that no longer seemed like an option. This time the cop wasn’t just rolling on; this time he was waiting for an answer.
‘That’s great,’ Ramon said, hoping he was giving the right one. ‘That’s great, really excellent, thanks for giving me a break.’
‘Well, maybe I like you, Ramon,’ the cop said, and then he did an astounding thing, something Ramon never would have expected from a screwhead ex-gyrene like this guy: he plopped his left hand into Ramon’s crotch and began giving him a rubdown, right out in front of God, the kids on the playground, and anybody who cared to take a look. He slid his hand in a gentle clockwise motion, his palm moving back and forth and up and down over the little patch of flesh which had more or less run Ramon’s life ever since two of his father’s buddies
— men Ramon was supposed to call Uncle Bill and Uncle Carlo — had taken turns blowing him when he was nine years old. And what happened next was probably not very extraordinary, although it seemed very fucking bizarre right then: he began to get hard.
‘Yeah, maybe I like you, maybe I like you a lot, greasy little cocksucker in shiny black pants and pointy shoes, what’s not to like?’ The cop kept on giving his cock a shoeshine while he talked. He varied his stroke every now and then, applying a little squeeze that caused Ramon to gasp. ‘And it’s a good thing I like you, Ramon, you better believe it, because they really nailed you this time. Felony bust. But you know what bothers me? Leffingwell and Brewster
— the cops who busted you — were laughing in the squadroom this morning. They were laughing about you, and that was okay, but I also have this feeling that they were laughing about me, and that’s not okay. I don’t like for people to laugh about me, and I generally don’t put up with it. But this morning I had to, and this afternoon I’m going to be your best friend, I’m going to lose some pretty serious drug charges even though you had my fucking bank card. Can you guess why?’
The Frisbee floated by again with the German Shepherd in close pursuit, but this time Ramon Sanders barely saw it. He was stiff as a railspike under the cop’s hand, and as scared as a mouse under the claws of a cat.
The hand squeezed harder this time, and Ramon uttered a hoarse little howl. His café-au-lait skin was running with sweat; his moustache looked like a dead earthworm after a hard rain.
‘Can you guess, Ramon?’
‘No,’ Ramon said.
‘Because the woman who ditched the card was my wife,’ Daniels said. ‘That’s mostly why Leffingwell and Brewster were laughing, that’s my deduction. She takes my bank card, she uses it to draw a few hundred bucks out of the bank — money I earned — and when the card turns up again, it’s in the possession of a greasy little spick cocksucker named Ramon. No wonder they’re laughing.’
Please, Ramon wanted to say, please don’t hurt me, I’ll tell you anything but please don’t hurt me. He wanted to say those things, but he couldn’t say a word. Not one. His asshole had contracted until it felt roughly the size of an inner-tube valve.
The big cop leaned closer to him, close enough so that Ramon could smell cigarettes and Scotch on his breath.
‘Now that I’ve shared with you, I want you to share with me.’ The rubbing stopped, and strong fingers curled around Ramon’s testes through the thin fabric of his slacks. The shape of his erect penis was clear above the cop’s hand; it looked like one of those toy bats you could buy at a baseball park souvenir stand. Ramon could feel the strength in that hand. ‘And you better share the right thing, Ramon. Do you know why?’
Ramon shook his head numbly. He felt as if someone had turned on a warm water tap somewhere in his body and his entire skin was leaking.
Daniels extended his right hand, the one with the tennis ball, until it was under Ramon’s nose. Then he closed his hand with a sudden, vicious snap. There was a pop and a brief harsh whisper — fwahhhh — as his fingers punched through the ball’s furry fluorescent skin. The ball collapsed inward, then turned halfway inside-out.
‘I can do that with my left hand, too,’ Daniels said. ‘Do you believe that?’
Ramon tried to say he did and found he still couldn’t talk. He nodded instead.
‘Will you keep it in mind?’
Ramon nodded again.
‘Okeydoke. So now here’s what I want you to tell me, Ramon. I know you’re just a stinking little spick rump-wrangler who doesn’t know much about women, except maybe for fucking your mother up the ass in your younger years — you’ve just got that motherfucker look about you, somehow — but you go on and use your imagination. How do you think it feels to come home and find out that your wife, the woman who promised to love, honor, and fucking obey you — has run off with your bank card? How do you think it feels to find out she used it to pay for her fucking vacation, and then she stuffed it in a bus-terminal garbage can for a greasy little penis-vacuum like you to find?’
‘Not too good,’ Ramon whispered. ‘I bet it don’t feel too good, please don’t hurt me, officer, please don’t— ‘
Daniels slowly tightened his hand; tightened it until the tendons in his wrist stood out like
the strings on a guitar. A wave of pain, heavy as liquid lead, rolled into Ramon’s belly and he tried to scream. Nothing came out but a hoarse exhalation.
‘Not too good?’ Daniels whispered in his face. His breath was warm and steamy and boozy and cigarettey. ‘Is that the best you can do? What a fucking numbnuts you are! Still . . . I guess it’s not an entirely wrong answer, either.’
The hand loosened, but only a little. Ramon’s lower belly was a lake of agony, but his penis was as hard as ever. He had never been into pain, whatever drove the bondage freaks was totally beyond him, and he could only suppose he still had a hardon because the blood in his cock was trapped there by the heel of the cop’s hand. He swore to himself that if he got out of this alive, he would go directly to St Patrick’s and say fifty Hail Marys. Fifty? A hundred and fifty.
‘They’re laughing at me in there,’ the cop said, lifting his chin in the direction of the brand-new cop-shop across the street. ‘They’re laughing all right, oh yeah. Big tough Norman Daniels, and guess what? His wife ran out on him . . . but she took time to clean out most of the ready before she went.’
Daniels made an inarticulate growling sound, the sort of sound that a person should have to hear only while visiting the zoo, and gave Ramon’s balls another squeeze. The pain was unbearable. He leaned forward and vomited between his knees — white chunks of curd laced with brown streaks that was probably the remains of the quesadilla he’d eaten for lunch.
Daniels did not seem to notice. He was gazing into the sky above the jungle gym, lost in his own world.
‘I should let them dance you around so even more people can laugh?’ he asked. ‘So that they can yuck it up at the courthouse as well as at the police station? I don’t think so.’
He turned and looked into Ramon’s eyes. He smiled. The smile made Ramon want to scream.