[Listen to the Episode]

The scorched spine of the summer’s last heat wave snapped over the Motel Americana as the sun set, but theparking lot was still hot enough to fry a liver. Somehow it had fallen to Scalisi to show the Kid Morelli the ropes. In room 36, he told him:

Harry Johnson. Harry Wang. Just Wang. The little soldier. Willie. Captain Winkie. One eyed monster.

Yeah, that’s always been my go to, Morelli said. When I want to get a laugh you know. What happened to your face, Scales? You look like you seen a ghost. You look like maybe you are a ghost.

I’m getting to that. Rule number one: Don’t interrupt me. He continued:  The old standby, Cock. That’s an obvious one, but he gives me the— get this– the genealogy of it, this fucking guy. Says, Roosters is known for getting up in the morning. Wink, wink, like I’m in on some big fucking secret with him.

Meaning roosters are cocks.

In the morning. Cock a doodle do. Yeah. Speaking of morning, you got your Morning Wood. That’s another one he rattled off. Then let’s see, summer sausage. The wild bologna pony.

Stretching now.

Stretching. Phaw. I wish. He’s just getting started, the little prick.

That’s a common one, sure.

Yeah. No. That’s what I’m calling him, as in, This little prick’s just getting started. But yeah. He goes on. The head that thinks for me. My little pony.

Never heard a that one.

There you go. Just wait. The guy’s a dictionary.

Scales pulled from his vest pocket a small notebook.

Morelli said: Yeah. A Dick-tionary.

A dick thesaurus.

A dickasaurus.

Like a dinosaur.

A smart one but.

Soon to be extinct I’m thinking, smart or not.

Him you mean.

What?

Whether he’s smart or not. Not you, about to make him extinct.

You getting wise too?

No boss.

Scales thumbed the pages of the notebook and read from its pages:

Okay, then. Package. Unit. Tool.

Dick, Morelli offered, Like we just said.

Dick. Please. Sure. There’s Dick. But Francisco, he tells me how he’s got an angle on that one, Says he’s always preferred the wittier, Little Richard.

Long Tall Sally.

Tutti Frutti.

Was he? He was, I mean, right?

What?

A little frutti.

Little Richard? Christ, stop distracting me. You’re just like him.

Little Richard?

Francisco. God damn it. Focus.

Scales cleared some of the white film from around his eyes making two flesh saucers. He put on a pair of reading glasses and thumbing through the small notebook said, Power Drill. Jack Hammer. Pork Sword. Dork. Knob. Tube steak. Gurgle Snawf.

And what are you doing during this soliloquy?

Waiting for him to run out. I always give a guy last words, you know that. I honor those last words because I am a man of honor. These are his words. So I wait. And take notes.

I can think of a few he left out: Weiner. Frankfurter.

Okay. I see you’re hungry.

Jack-in-the-box.

Scales gave it consideration. It worked in his book so he wrote it down. That’s a good one. You’re a quick learner. Not like that last guy I had. Believe me. Caught a bullet in the eye not listening to what I had to teach him.

Frank and beans. Noodle.

Okay, okay Scalisi said, getting back to his notes: Magic Wand. Cooch cork. Disco stick. It’s endless. But he knows I know he’s stalling. And we both know that all these dicks of his are just grains of sand through an hour glass.

Morelli said: Waffle Dolphin. Volkswagen. Rubber game.

Scales countered with: Hose. Joystick. Salamander. I’m thinking he ain’t gonna run out.

Uh-huh. Sure. Scmeckle. Custard chucker.

But eventually he does run out.

Love muscle. Rumble Fish.

I see he’s thinking, but that’s it. Can’t come up with anything else.

Anteater. Bonerschnitzel. Falsetto.

I can tell. Just like that. Fresh out.

Ice cream Cone. Trouser schnauzer. Karl Rover.

That’s enough. Stop it. And he finally says, Well? don’t you get it?

Get what?

That’s what I said. Get what?

Well?

What’s in a name.

What’s in a name?

That’s what I said. I tell him, It’s a question sounds like but not one he wants an answer to.

Rhetorical, Morelli offered.

That’s what he said. Rhetorical. I tell him to just get down to brass tacks.

The Brass Monkey.

Shut up. Then he tells me, get this, A thing is a thing, no matter what you call it. But giving it so many names, that’s just a Needlemeyer’s way of trying to making a thing bigger than it really is. See? Profounding, this guy. He says, Calling something a million different things is just a desperate attempt to make something little a little more. To raise it up.

So to speak. The flag pole.

Then he says to me, Americans, they got the Irish curse, even if they’re Italian like me.

Morelli gave this serious consideration. Huh. That true?

Yeah. And he asks me if I think any of this means anything about American Society. In general.

Does it?

Lotsa dicks walking the streets, he means maybe. Least how I take it.

He doesn’t agree?

He tells me, The lady doth protest too much.

What lady?

That’s what I said! What fucking lady. Then he tells me, he says, I must feel pretty fucking special ‘cause I got more names for me than the Eskimos got for snow and they’re buried in the shit.

Meaning what exactly?

Meaning he’s saying I got a small dick. Fancy-like.

Scalisi gave Morelli a few seconds for it to settle in.

That’s pretty good for an out-of-towner, Morelli said. Big build up for a crack like that.

Yeah, pretty good. I thought so. And ballsy considering it’s the last thing the guy’s gonna get a chance to say on the planet. I tell him, all right, you had your words. You ready. And he tells me just one more thing. He says-

But Jimmy Scales didn’t finish just then because the motel room door burst open. A behemoth of a man charged in, a man Scales and Morelli knew only as the Giant. They’d seen him in action only once, but once was enough for them to know best not utter a single word in his presence.

The Giant scanned the room for something or someone. Seeing that what he was looking for was obviously not there, the Giant approached Scales and with a finger the girth of which was approximately that of a zucchini made a track in the white substance on Scales’ cheek. The Giant rubbed the material between thumb and forefinger and sniffed at it. A hint of a smirk almost materialized on the Giant’s lips before he stormed out of the room again.

Shit, Scalisi said, Shit. We’re toast.  

Morelli too was panicked. Where is he? Where’s Francisco?

What do you think I was trying to tell you?

I thought maybe you had him duct-taped in the tub.

Scales shook his head slowly.

Morelli said, Oh god. Oh god. That’s that same guy from Frankie’s in Newark?

Scalisi nodded gravely. They were both present when the Giant ripped the voice box out of Little Petey’s throat right there on top  of the bar. Scales said, Nothing we can do now, kid, except take what’s coming. Keep your chin up. Rule number one: take what you got coming like a man.

Oh god, Oh god, Morelli said. And the French guy. He’s worse I heard.

I thought he was Austrian. Or was it Corsican?

Corsican? That’s worse than French. Morelli said. Just as the Giant re-appeared, moving back into the room with the indomitable force of a tornado. Silhouetted in the doorframe behind him was the Corsican Frenchman known as Cotard.

Scalisi and Morelli both opened their mouths to plea, bargain, and beg, extracted voice boxes be damned, but they had no time to mount defenses. The Giant made a great X in the air with two forearms like hamhocks, then unsprung them as if on a hairpin outward in opposite directions. The giant fists connected with the Scales and Morelli’s heads simultaneously.

When they came to sometime later the were sitting in the wooden chairs before a table of carefully laid-out cooking ingredients, a cutting board, and an induction burner gurgling with hot oil in a pan.

Across the table stood Cotard, the man who had recently hired Scales and Morelli to track down and deliver in a vat of ice, dead or alive, the dick-spewing rat of a prick, Francisco. Cotard was a myth in America because he was a legend in Europe. He’d only recently surfaced in New Jersey and was evidently running an operation the ultimate objective of which was wholly unknown but was nonetheless the object of much speculation and conjecture in Morelli and Scalisi’s circles.

Cotard wore a lab coat and welder goggles. He or someone close to him had painted a fumanchu mustache on his face with children’s paint. When he spoke, it was with an accent of indeterminate origin. Also the source of much speculation.

The Giant stood in the corner of the room, arms folded across a great expanse of chest.

Cotard said, I brought you here to talk about art, gentlemen.

Sir, we’re sorry, Scalisi said.

We know nothing about any art, Morelli said.

This art, Cotard screamed, you swine! This art, he said, Transcends the confines of emotion. It is beyond human understanding, motives, enjoyment and entertainment. It is an art that cannot be comprehended. It is unable to be sensed by mere human perception. Gentleman, I’ve brought you here today because you are fucking with my art!

Cotard rounded the table, stood in front of Morelli and Scalisi, kneeled down to eye level, and spit in each of their faces in turn.

When he retook his position on the opposite side of the table, he asked, Are you gentlemen are hungry?

The Giant cracked his knuckles.

Scalisi and Morelli nodded, pathetically.

Cotard cracked two eggs into a bowl, added a dash of cinnamon, then began mixing with a gold plated fork.

I’ve brought you here to talk about this art that cannot be talked about. But… pointless. You are post-modern at best. Pastiches, maybe. A little Scarface, a little Godfather. Pathetic really. If you had any ingenuity whatsoever, any artistry, you would mix in some Elton John, Irving Berlin. Gangsters imitating gangsters imitating gangsters. Not worth the weight of your own simulacrum.

Scalisi said meekly, Sir, please.

Please shut up! I can’t bear the thought of listening to you! Understanding you would dismantle synapses I have constructed the way an ant builds the inner workings of an anthill. My inner workings, in fact, have been compared to the Sistine Chapel. I have listened to Cage’s 4’33’’ over ten thousand times. What have you done ten thousand times?

Cotard heaped bread crumbs onto a flat pan. Added a dash of salt.

Don’t answer that! At least with Francisco, at least he’s a man with taste. He could swish a mouthful of wine in his mouth and spit it out for what it was- Ha! Do you know what it is? A mouthful of wine? Of course not, heathen. You would sniff it because you saw somebody sniff it. Francisco, meanwhile, would order such wine just to spit it out. To refuse it. He is a man, Francisco. He would refuse even the finest pork tenderloin.

Cotard spread fine flour across a plate.

New Jersey, indeed. You disgust me. I am now physically ill. I feel as if I may have just now developed a rare form of cancer. You are good only to kill me and increase the price of my art.

Without turning to look back at the Giant, Cotard said, Henri, We’ll need a volunteer. To taste.

The Giant approached the two men and Morelli began blubbering. It wasn’t me, he whimpered, It was Scalisi. It was him, Jimmy Scales.

Scales said, You cocksucker.

Morelli continued: I was at the track, running late and he got here before I did. So whatever happened to Francisco, wherever he went, I don’t know. I swear. Scales let him get away. Before you came, he was giving me some long-winded explanation about dicks and then-

Cotard said, Shhht! And silence prevailed.

The Giant looked at Cotard, who nodded at Morelli.

Morelli said, No. No, no. Not me. Just ask him. He’ll tell you the truth because… because he’s a man of honor. He’ll own up to it.

The Giant grabbed Morelli’s wrist and brought the hand to the table, dragging the flailing man behind it.

Flour then egg, Henri. Crumbs last.

Scales looked on as egg, flour, and crumbs were chaotically applied to his student’s hand.

Cotard said, Perfect. Two minutes. A light fry. This need not be fattening.

The Giant delivered Morelli’s hand to the induction burner and submerged it in the pan of hot oil.

Morelli howled for mercy. Scales looked away. Cotard set a small egg timer.

He said, Over-cooking kills the flavor. The natural juices, they simply burn up in the oil.

Oh for the love of god! Morelli screamed, Ahh! Ahhhh!!!! Then he lost consciousness. They listened to the sound of the sizzling flesh.

Ah, much better, Cotard said.

As Morelli continued to fry, Cotard sharpened a butcher’s knife. He said to Scalisi, You see, my little philistine, my art is sacred, and when a pair of grimy New Jerseyans fuck with it, well… There is a lost book of the bible. Since I have your attention… A Gnostic gospel. Jesus sees a stone in the desert. He blesses it and leaves it. A camel, mistaking it for dung, kicks it. And it kills a princess who might have married Jesus. Since your interpretive powers are thin as the sliced prosciutto your grandmothers worshipped, this is just to say that you are the camels who ruined everything.

Time is currently my biggest problem. And Francisco was to be in hand three days ago. And what have I? Nothing. If it can’t marinate properly, it’s no good to me.

Cotard raised a hand to his mouth and kissed his fingers before flinging them outward. Poof… you can kiss the flavor good bye. That should do, Henri. Al dente, please.

The Giant extracted Morelli from the oil and slammed the hand down onto a cutting board.

Cotard patted it carefully with a paper towel.

To remove excess oil, he told Scalisi.

Then he carefully sliced a thin sliver of meat from the heel of Morelli’s thumb. He blew on the sliver to cool it. It looked to Scalisi like thigh meat.

I am not concerned with your merry little gang’s current state of disarray, or how you wound up with erectoplasm spattered all over your face. Frankly, I don’t even care how Francisco got away from you. All I am concerned about is receiving the goods I paid for. So, I must warn you, if I don’t receive them by dusk tomorrow I will be forced to resort to unsavory means to achieve my ends.

Cotard looked at the slice of Morelli quivering on the end of his fork, My art, he said, Then ate the meat. He chewed with great zeal and satisfaction.

Morelli, splayed on unconscious on the floor, twitched as Cotard swallowed the thumb meat.

As they were leaving, Cotard said to the Giant. These New Jerseyans, they’re worse than the Americans.

*

Scalisi held a gun on Morelli and waited. When Morelli finally came to, Scales said:  So Francisco says, You better answer the door. And I say Why would I answer a door no one’s knocking on. Then, what do you know. Just like that, it is knocking. So I’m careful. Just like I taught you to be. I look through the peephole and there’s Francisco’s kid. I don’t know his first name. Everyone just calls him Farberware.

Morelli said, Like the dishware.

Yeah, like the dishware. And even though I got a gun in my hand, it don’t matter because this kid’s ready. Soon as I open the door, he sprays me in the face with a fire extinguisher.

Fire extinguisher. That’s a good one.

Yeah. Sprays it in my eyes.

That would explain Francisco stalling. Also, that white shit all over your face.

Uh-huh. Then this kid cracks me on the head with the butt of the fire extinguisher and that’s that. Next thing I know, you’re shoving me awake. No Francisco. And I try to tell you exactly what happened. So you could learn from my mistakes. Like I’m supposed to do. To teach you.

Boss, I’m sorry.

Rule number one: never rat anyone out. Especially a guy’s trying to take you under his wing.

I don’t know what came over me.

And like you said, I’m a man of honor.

I know you are. I’m sorry, Jimmy. I panicked.

So Morelli, if you have anything you want to say, now’s the time. You can have your last words. And choke on them all I care.

Morelli nodded, thought a minute, then said, Dough. Bread. Greenback.

And Jimmy Scales settled in.