Headless

An '80's fairy tale about a girl, a guy and the New York Post

Kaplan is facing the window, scratching the back of his neck, which is already scratched up enough. When I see he's reading The Post, my gut sinks to my shoes. I shut the door real quiet, hoping he won't hear.

Without turning around he says "Wanna tell me what happened?"

I try, but the minute sound comes out my mouth, he interrupts. "Don't tell me about the stripper." he says. "The girl's not important. The microfilm is."

I go cold, my hands clench into fists. "She didn't have it." I say.

Kaplan spins his chair around, shines his desk light in my face. "Whadda you mean she didn't have it? It was in a filling! Wisdom tooth, back right."

"Yeah" I turn away from the glare.

“So where is it?”

"Wherever her head went."

"Crap." He scratches some more. "Without the head, without the microfilm, we can't connect Dom the Fish to the KGB. We got nothing on Sinatra."

"Yup. Frankie's free and clear."

"Screw me senseless and call me Sally." Kaplan pops some pink stomach pills. "All this work and nothing to show for it." He sighs, then says "Miller."

I don’t answer. Guess I've been undercover as Joey Z. for so long, I forgot my own name.

"Miller!"

"Yeah!"

"You're a putz." He spits pink crumbs. "Know what that is?"

"I can guess." I say, shoving my hands into silky pockets. I’m still wearing the Z's clothes, a skinny tie and a shiny jacket with some kind of animal print. Z’s got a punk/wiseguy style, Johnny Rotten meets Michael Corleone.

"You look like a pimp." Kaplan opens the Post and presses it flat, using his desk as an ironing board and his blotchy palm as an iron. "See this headline? 'Headless Body in Topless Bar.' Who writes this shit?"

I shrug.

He burps. "A three-week undercover operation and this is our payoff. No microfilm, no contact, just the whole operation on the front page of the frickin' Post. When the press is through with this, the Soviets'll know everything. A double agent is dead and we didn't recover the microfilm. This headline, it's ..."

"Sick?" I say. He shakes his head. "Uhh ... twisted?"

"Tacky." he says “Damned free press. This is how the Soviets win the Cold war." He points a finger at me. "The press and idiots like you."

That's when I lose it. I shout "I was trying to keep things cool! Dom was having a rough night – the champagne was flat, Two Ton Tony had no room for us at his table, and Father Mike was putting the moves on Anya."

Kaplan goes quiet, but his face is getting beet red. I know I’m in trouble, but I gotta say my piece. "I was keeping a lid on things until Fast Eddie walked in with the parrot. Well, it wasn't a parrot. It was one of those white birds with the big feathers on its head. Like on that cop show, Baretta … "

Kaplan’s face is turning into a red balloon. “Cockatiel.” he gasps.

“Wha’d you call me?”

He wipes his forehead. “The bird, stupid. It’s called a cockatiel.”

"Yeah, that’s it! This cockatiel, it could talk. You wouldn’t believe what came outta that beak. Pissed Dom off."

Kaplan shakes his head. "Stop, Miller. Just … don’t say another word.”

“But …”

“Just write it up for me. Ok?"

 I give up, I’m about to go, have my hand on the doorknob when I say, "What are we gonna do about the Post?"

Kaplan sucks his teeth, cogitates, then says "You know the bum who always comes around, confessing to every crime on the books. He can take the fall for this."

"But ...?"

"You got a better idea?"

Slamming the door as I left was the only idea I had.

---

I knew this would happen. When you go undercover, you forget what's real. All the time you're lying to people, lying to yourself. You gotta convince yourself before you can convince anyone else.

For two months I was Joey Z. Dom the Fish thought I was his long-lost cousin. I thought I was his long-lost cousin. His friend.

I stop by the newsstand for my copy of the Post. Hand the guy a C-note.

The guy says "Dafuq? I don't got change for this." He holds the bill like it's got cooties. Then I remember - I'm not the Z, I'm Miller, soon-to-be-unemployed fed. Miller doesn’t carry rolls of C-notes.

I put the paper back. Didn’t want it anyway.

An ambulance passes by. The noise gives me jitters. Still shaky after last night.

Just a few hours ago, Dom and I were at the Clam Broth House, Hoboken's best surf-and-turf joint. We were closing the place down, finishing a six-course meal plus champagne, a couple bottles of chianti, grappa. When it was all done, Dom leaned over, gave me a blast of calamari breath and said, "Think she'll like these?" He opened a little box – the pearl earrings he was going to give his Russian girl, Anya.

"They look fine. Real fine." I said. Then I checked the Z's Rolex and said it was late. In a hurry to see the topless double agent with the microfilm in her tooth. You don't want to miss a girl like that.

Dom chugged the dregs of the wine and, never one to leave anything behind, gulped the last drops of champagne. When he stood up, his huge shoulders tilted back. Drunk as a skunk. I jumped up and steadied him, good buddy that I am.

As we were leaving, I saw he'd left the pearl earrings on the table. Good buddy that I am, I let him know. Bad move.

Underneath the box, wedged between the remains of the linguine portofino and the scungilli was the pearl-handled knife Dom’s wife gave him for their anniversary. He'd taken that off after the pasta fazool, when his belt got too tight.

He hooked the knife back on his belt, grabbed the pearls and we left. He drove like a drunken sailor, his black boat of an Eldorado tacking from side to side through the Holland Tunnel. I was tapping my feet, feeling the kind of anticipation that gives you a buzz but also makes you want to hurl.   

When Kaplan first told me about this assignment, I couldn't believe my good luck. Beautiful Soviet double agent, working a topless bar. Like something out of a James Bond movie.

If Fast Eddie hadn’t brought that bird, if Dom had left his knife behind, Anya would still have her head. I'd still be playing 007. I wouldn't be a putz with his worst nightmare plastered all over the Post.

Since the operation’s over, I figure I should clean out the Z’s apartment. It's uptown, a penthouse so top-of-the-line it out-Trumps Trump -- Nagel prints, Berber rugs, anything that's not gold-plated is covered in white leather. I turn the stereo on but all I hear is Kaplan's voice in my head, saying "the girl isn’t important."

He was wrong. The girl was everything.

The phone rings. It's the Fish, mumbling and sniffing. I can’t tell if he’s crying or coked up, but it’s clear he feels like shit. I hear his voice and I'm the Z.

"I was going for Fast Eddie ... not for her." he wheezes "Eddie and that damned bird."

"I know."

"How'd he dodge me?"

"That's why they call him Fast Eddie."

"He sighs. "Didn't mean for it to happen. Caught in the heat of the moment. Y'know?”

“Yeah.”

“But you guys, you cleaned up real good. The police have no clue about what happened to her ... uh, her ... you know." He stops talking and makes a gurgling sound.

I sit up straight. "Dom, you gotta pull yourself together. Lemme bring you something to eat."

He sighs. “What would I do without you, Joey? You're like a brother to me."

"That I am." I say, leaning back on my soft leather couch.

"And Z, don’t bring nothin' spicy. I got gas."

"No problemo." I put my hand in my pocket. There’s something smooth and small wedged into the seam. I pull it out and hold it up to the light.

Anya's tooth – the key to the fate of the free world, to Miller's job, to Kaplan's respect. I see the microfilm wedged in the filling.

If I’d given it to Kaplan, Dom and his pals would be toast. Dom's dad, the old coot who sits in the corner saying "pull my finger" would be pulling ten to fifteen, even with good behaviour.

The Z is many things, but a gavone snitch he's not.

Sometimes, you've got to choose sides. When Kaplan said 'The girl doesn’t matter', I chose.

So, what would the Z do next?

I pull the curtain back and look at the empty street below. "Dom, the Post headline triggered some heat from the feds. There’s a couple guys staked out across the street. They got their eyes on me." 

Fish wheezes "Joey, you gotta take a break, forget this shit. I got a condo in the Caymans with palm trees, a tiki bar, the whole nine yards. Stay there ‘till the heat wears off."

"Sounds good. Real good." I drop the tooth on the floor and crush it with my shoes. Italian leather, very fine.

The tiny thread of microfilm sticks to my heel. As I listen to Dom coughing and hoicking, I peel off the film, put it in an ashtray and light it. It sizzles into a curl.

Dom takes another snort and says "Later."

I hang up, pour myself a scotch and go to the freezer for some ice. Dom always talked about Anya, but he never mentioned her eyes. When he introduced her, all I could do was stare. They were Bond-girl eyes, smoky, flashing fire and ice. I was in a topless bar and all I saw was her eyes. Dom thought it was funny. Anya too. But I couldn't get enough.

I open the freezer door and touch her frozen hair. It crackles.

Yeah, I can still see those eyes. But it's not the same.