The Bialy Pimps (51 page)

Darcy held it up and elbowed Philip. “Look,” she said. “The Rat is back.”

Then both Darcy and Philip looked up, through the Plexiglas, past the row of candy machines. The door leading to the basement staircase was ajar. Darkness yawned behind it. And in the darkness, they saw eyes.
 

That was new.
 

“The Rat is immortal,” said Philip.
 

And by new, she meant old.
 

“The Rat is immortal,” Darcy repeated.

What neither of them knew was that the Great Rat Uprising would occur a week from Friday, in exactly five days.

On the day that Angela the Agent suggested that Bingham’s host a New Year’s Eve gala to end all New Year’s Eve galas, the Manwoman showed up again and threw Mike and Tracy into a tizzy.

“I know that it’s a man,” Mike told Tracy, “but it really, really looks like a woman.”

Tracy looked at the approaching sexless creature and chuckled at Mike. “It
is
a woman,” he said.

Mike shook his head. “No it’s not. It’s a man.”
 

The Manwoman was closer now. It stood maybe five-seven and was probably black. Probably, because its race seemed as questionable as its sex. It had slightly rosy cheeks and short-cropped hair. Its chest gave no sign of breasts, but its shirts were always baggy. It didn’t seem to have an Adam’s apple, but it usually wore high collars.
 

Mike thought it was funny how this man looked so much like a woman. Tracy thought it was amusing that this woman was so masculine as to appear male. Both had a “I laugh about being unsure which sex it is even though I know it’s actually this sex” line involving the Manwoman, but Tracy’s and Mike’s lines were exactly opposite each other.
 

The Manwoman approached the counter and ordered. Tracy tried to locate breasts in the baggy shirt. Mike tried to find an Adam’s apple. Each was sure they were right. Each was unable to prove it. Rich half wanted to take bets and give odds on the outcome.
 

After completing its order, the Manwoman said, “Can I have the restroom key?”

Mike looked at Tracy, then at the two keys next to the register. The women’s was tied to a stale bagel. The men’s was tied to a plastic pickle. The Manwoman couldn’t reach the keys. Mike would have to decide.

Tracy had turned away, pretending that he hadn’t heard the request. From the corner of his eye, he regarded the Manwoman, suddenly doubtful as to its membership in either sex. Man. Woman. Man. Woman. Which key would Mike give it?

“If you’re a man,” Mike told it, “use this one. If you’re a woman, use this.”

And then six members of Bricker’s crew were upon it, wrapping it head to toe in gray duct tape.

“Wait!” Tracy cried, but it was too late. The bouncer crew was practiced and efficient, and soon all that was left of the Manwoman was a dull gray mummy with an airhole.

“Mmph!” said the mummy.

Tracy glared at the bouncer.
“Bricker!”

“Oh, quit your bitching,” he replied testily, “It was a man.” He rubbed his chin. “Or a woman.”

As the Manwoman was being wheeled out the front door along with the rest of the day’s mummies (a new trend), Angela walked in and flashed them a big PR smile.

“Have I got a deal for you!” she said exuberantly.

“Have you?” asked Mike.

“Yes. I do. I have a deal for you.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Um...”

Mike turned to Tracy. “We need a new agent.”

Angela continued. “I know that this train is still on the way up,” she said, using another of her trademark clichés, “but I want to keep it that way. You kids aren’t going to go down in flames, like Milli Vanilli. You’re going to stay on top, like Wham!”

Mike nodded.

“Now that Christmas is over...” she began.

Tracy jumped as if Bricker had goosed him with the cattleprod. “I missed Christmas?”

“...we should focus on the new year. We...”

“I missed
Christmas?”

Angela stopped and looked at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Tracy here says that he missed Christmas,” Mike explained.

“I missed Christmas!”

“Well, you’ll remember that we were promoting your new video, and...”

Tracy held up his hands, silencing her. “What’s the date today?”

Rich was walking by and answered Tracy in his best Dickensian English accent. “You there! Wot doy is this? Whoy, It’s Christmas Doy, suh!”

“December twenty-seventh,” said Mike.

“I missed Christmas?”

“Calm down, Tracy,” said Mike.

“Did
you
miss Christmas?”

“No. I drank eggnog and got a new bike. How was
your
Christmas?”

“I
missed
Christmas!”

Mike stared at him. “No! You did?”

Angela was rolling her eyes. She explained to Tracy that sometimes personal sacrifices had to be made in the name of business.

“Screw business!” Tracy said.

“You can celebrate later. Right now, I’ve got...”

“Does my mom know?” Tracy asked Mike, shaking him. “Has she called? I don’t have a phone. She’s supposed to call me here. Have I gotten any calls?”

“No. But some woman did keep calling for ‘Tre.’
She wouldn’t listen when we told her that she had the wrong number. She wouldn’t give up. I told her that if she didn’t stop harassing us, I was going to call the police.”

Tracy was staring at him with astonished bug-eyes.

“Oh, right,” Mike said. “Tre. Now I get it. Sorry.”

Rich finished whatever he’d been doing in the back, reemerged, and hopped up on the counter.
 

“What’s new?” he asked.

“I missed Christmas!”

“I miss
Hogan’s Heroes,”
Rich said, nodding.

Angela broke in. “Now,” she continued as if she had never been interrupted, “it’s time to think of the next holiday. And I’ve got a great idea that will get ratings and sponsorships like you wouldn’t believe. You’ll be millionaires!”

“We already are millionaires,” Rich told her.

“It’s going to be a New Year’s celebration,” she said, sweeping her arms up as if with rapturous vision. “We’ll deck this place out and invite the
creme de la creme
of society. We’ll have all of the networks here. MTV will of course be all over us. We can get some product placement, too – you know, put you guys in new Nike sneakers and Tommy Hilfiger vests and things like that. It will be the party of the century. You’ll be rich!”

“We already are rich,” Rich reminded her.

“It will be the definitive media event of the decade! Everyone will be a star, including that guy over there!”

Rich followed her finger. He saw where it was pointing and told her, “He’s a bum. He likes to start fires in here sometimes.”

“Well, then forget him. It will be a sensational party. Streamers, confetti...”

“Strippers?”

“...champagne, the works. We can make it black tie. We’ll have everyone in their finest, and...”

“I don’t really like parties like that,” Rich told her. “How about we just have a small gathering at Philip’s house like we normally do?”

Angela smiled at him, assuming that he had to be kidding. “Philip’s place is too small!” she said. “No, it has to be here, where we can have the cameras and all of the important people.”

“Sounds shitty,” said Mike.

“I missed Christmas!” Tracy agreed.

“We can replace these lights with chandeliers. Little ones, so the boom mikes don’t hit them. We can get your record label to pay for it all. They take care of their musicians.”

“We’re not musicians,” Rich pointed out. “We’re screw-offs.”

Angela was oblivious. “I’ve already lined up a few celebrities and local big-wigs to put in appearances. We figure you can hit them with spatulas and do all of your shtick to them. The cameras will broadcast it all over the globe. It will rival Dick Clark’s Times Square show! Think of the exposure!”

“I’ve already got exposure,” said Rich, showing Angela that his pants had no back on them.

“I’m out,” said Mike. “I don’t want to go.”

“You
have
to go! Think of your career! Listen, you have to milk this for all it’s worth. Do you know what happens to ungrateful celebrities? They become nobodies. You may have started small, but this is the big time. You have a responsibility to your fans. You sometimes have to make sacrifices.”

“Like Christmas!” Tracy sobbed.

“Fans?” said Mike. “We have fans?”

“They’re counting on you! They...”

“We don’t want fans. We want to be disliked.”

“And that’s a great angle! It’s what got you where you are now. We’ll let you be bastards and hate people and all of that routine at the party. The mayor is coming. You can – you
must!
– really lay into him. You can...”

Rich cocked his head. “Angle? Routine?”

“Think of the sales. You’ve got your new single out now, and you can perform it live, just before midnight. It’ll shoot through the roof. You’ll get a gold record.”

“A gold record? But it’s a joke!”

“Not to your fans, it’s not. This is the spotlight, kids, and now that you’re in it, you have to fight like hell to hold its attention. This party will ensure a place for Bingham’s in history. You’ll do the talk show circuit. We’ll open up other delis, all with the same theme. It’ll be a new wave. A new phenomenon. We’ll be rolling in dough.”

“We already are rolling in dough,” Rich explained.

“So I can get on it?” Angela asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, “Great, great. You’re dynamite kids. Really. You just wait. It’ll be the blast of the century!”

Dicky’s “friend” was named Willy. He had a gold tooth and didn’t actually seem to like Dicky at all. But Willy worked quickly. It only took him about five minutes to disarm Bingham’s alarm and to unlock the back door. Dicky handed him a wad of bills. Then, as Willy disappeared down the alley, he said something that Dicky took to mean “good luck,” but which to Captain Dipshit sounded more like, “I’m going to fuck your mother.”
 

Paul had come by a time or two since the night he’d first seen the rats, but had only seen a few of the rodents per visit. Most of the time the lobby was still. They had massed on that one night only, as if it had been some kind of a meeting.
 

Still, the five men came prepared. All of them wore black motorcycle helmets with faceguards, black padding and black shin guards, black sweatshirts and pants, and thick black work gloves. All of them carried a weapon. Tony and Paul carried baseball bats. Plato carried a tennis racket. Dicky himself had brought a large pipe not unlike the one Philip had used when he’d chased the bum down High Street. Captain Dipshit brought a whip. Dicky tried to protest, but ultimately decided to let it go.
 

Dicky wore a backpack. In it were two jars filled with raw chicken juices that he had left at room temperature overnight so as to give the
salmonella
their maximum chances at growing and partying and being fruitful and multiplying. He also had several large-bore syringes sufficient to deliver said chicken squeezings, several flashlights, extra batteries, a set of small tools, and a big surprise at the bottom that nobody other than Dicky knew was there.
 

The five men stepped inside and closed the door. The alarm chirped.
 

“Where’s the safe?” Tony whispered.
 

“Do the food first,” said Dicky. “We’ll get the safe on our way out. They’ve got a dolly here in case we need it. See it over there? If we have to take the safe, might as well take their dolly, too.”

“And you’re just going to walk down Pearl Alley with a safe on a dolly?” asked Plato.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Dicky.
 

He unzipped his backpack and removed the jars, which he handed to Plato, and the syringes, which he handed to Paul. He gave all of them flashlights but told them to use them only when they couldn’t see without them, and to guard the beams carefully so that nobody passing by would be able to see what was going on.
 

“You two,” he said, indicating Paul and Plato, “go back into the fridge. Fill syringes with the chicken juice and inject it into the uncut beefs, turkeys, and whatever other meats are back there. Dump some of it on all the produce. We want the vegetarians throwing up tomorrow, too. Don’t put it on the bagels, because it’ll soak in and make them soggy, and they’ll know something happened.” Then he pointed to Tony and Captain Dipshit. “You two, go out into the front and do the same to the stuff in the refrigerated make table.” Then he unscrewed the lid on one of the jars, filled the largest syringe with the viscous liquid, handed the jar back to Plato, and held the syringe up in front of his face. “I’m going into the basement to squirt it all over their plastic utensils. After that’s done, we’ll meet back here and tackle the safe. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said Tony. “How about we do the safe first, while our hands are clean and not disgusting with chicken goo?”

Dicky gave him a look. “If we have to dolly the safe, it makes sense to do it right before we leave. We’ll do this first. This is more important.”
 

It wasn’t more important to Tony, who didn’t care if Bingham’s closed down, but he shook his head and said nothing.
 

“Let’s go,” said Dicky. “Be quick.”
 

Once Dicky had gone down the steps and into the basement, Tony turned to the others and said, “I don’t know about you three, but I don’t want to be afraid to touch my money because it’s got that garbage all over it,” he said, indicating the rancid chicken broth. “He told me what’s wrong with that safe. I’m going to crack it now. I need help. C’mon.”
 

Plato, Paul, and Captain Dipshit all seemed reluctant. They worked with Dicky. They knew his temper. They’d seen some small Bingham’s antic throw him into a rage, had seen him throw bottles through windows and break chairs with a hammer. They’d seen his eyes flash when something upset him.