Ten Little New Yorkers by Kinky Friedman Page B

constantly, half-dreaming of climbing Ayers Rock in Australia with Miss Texas. It doesn’t matter. Very little does, actually, once it starts to get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror of your late-model, four-wheeled penis. It’s only later, in your dreams, when it starts to get bigger and bigger and the wheels fall off of your four-wheeled penis, and then your penis gets bigger and bigger, and soon you need a big chair by the fire just for your penis, and you and your penis and Perky are all constantly fighting over that chair. At any rate, it was into this bucolic idyll that a note of modern-day reality intruded by way of the blower.
    â€œRear Admiral Rumphumper,” I said. “How can I hump you? I mean, how can I help you?”
    â€œYou can help me by never answering the phone that way for the rest of your life.”
    It was a familiar-sounding male voice with a New York accent. The voice carried with it a strong sense of authority. In fact, if I wasn’t mistaken, it was the voice of authority itself. It was my old sometimes friend, sometimes nemesis, Detective Sergeant Mort Cooperman of the NYPD. Now why in the hell would he be calling me in Texas? I wondered.
    â€œHave you seen the papers, Tex?”
    â€œI’ve seen the Times. The Kerrville Times, that is. I’ve seen the Mountain Sun. I’ve seen the Bandera Bulletin. I’ve seen the papers Willie Nelson uses to roll his dope with. They’re bigger than the menu at the Carnegie Deli. Of course everything’s bigger in Texas.”
    I don’t know why I always derived such unbridled joy out of irritating Cooperman. He was, after all, just a public servant doing his job. A trifle overzealously sometimes, but what the hell. Anyway, my remarks appeared to have hit home. There was a longer than usual silence on the line. Then Cooperman’s growl started once again to chew on my ear.
    â€œTex, I don’t have a lot of time for this horseshit, so pull your lips together a minute, will you? Don’t start with me, Tex, or I may have to finish with you and you ain’t gonna like it. The paper I’m talkin’ about is the Daily News, which I realize you don’t get down there in Texas but I thought maybe your pal McGovern would’ve told you.”
    â€œTold me what?” I said, playing dumb. It achieved no good purpose to get Cooperman really agitated. I just liked to tweak him a little like Tweety Bird used to do to Puddy Tat in those cartoons that kids used to watch before video games came along to suck, fuck, and cajole the innocence out of everybody’s childhood. More than anything else, Cooperman, I suppose, reminded me of Yosemite Sam.
    â€œQuite a party you guys had, according to McGovern’s story. Guy comes to your place, twenty-four hours later he’s dead and you’ve bolted town for Texas.”
    â€œIs that how you found me? McGovern gave you the number?”
    â€œI’ve always had your number, Tex. But, now that you asked, no, we didn’t get your number from McGovern. We went to your loft, just like this murder victim number four did. We thought about getting a search warrant, but then we thought maybe we’d try to talk to you first. We were just getting tired of waiting when we ran into a friendly neighbor who lives upstairs and said she was looking after things for you. She gave us your phone number down there in Texas.”
    â€œAll my little helpers.”
    â€œThat’s right. Now we need you to help us, Tex. She told us how she found the dead guy’s wallet in your loft. What gives?”
    â€œLook, Sergeant. I wouldn’t know a Robert Scalopini if I stepped on one.”
    â€œYou seem to know his name pretty well. I never mentioned the victim’s name to you.”
    â€œOf course I know his name,” I said, taking my turn at becoming irritable. “McGovern told me his name and so did Winnie.”
    â€œWinnie Katz,