Tongue tied

6 AM.

The rain was coming down steadier now, but I needed to get moving. Using the bulky classified section of the Times as an umbrella, I headed west on Seventy-seventh and let myself into one of the older, well-kept brick apartment buildings interspersed among the brownstones on the leafy block just east of Riverside. Two friends, Susan and Liza, who lived in the building, let me keep not only a set of spare keys but a toothbrush and a change of clothes in a closet near their foldout couch.

Susan and Liza designed outdoor display lighting for tall buildings, and they were frequently in Jakarta or Kuala Lumpur. In New York, one of their jobs was choosing and installing the colored lights used on special occasions in the tower atop the Empire State Building. Both were in Salisbury, Connecticut, for two weeks, lighting a new Indian casino's full-scale replica of a Las Vegas reduced-scale replica of the Eiffel Tower-the developer had made it clear that he didn't want the Parisian tower, but

"the Vegas one"-so I had the apartment to myself.

It was just before two when I undressed, turned on the shower, and switched on the radio in the bathroom to the WINS all-news station. The traffic and weather reports had shifted to "moderate" and "warm with showers," and the J-Bird report had changed too, but not for the better.

The news announcer said, "Police have stepped up their efforts to locate Jay Plankton, the talk-radio personality who was abducted Saturday afternoon. Rescuing Plankton turned even more urgent tonight when a package was dropped off at the newsroom of the New York Post. Inside the package was a note and an object in a refrigerator bag. The note claimed that the object was Jay Plankton's tongue.

"The note also said that since Plankton had convinced the kidnappers that he could never be 'reeducated,' in their words, he would have to pay an even heavier price. The next piece of Plankton to be sent out would be 'an even more important part of him,' the note said. It was signed by the FFF, or Forces of Free Faggotry, the radical gay group that had been harassing Plankton.

"Police were not certain that the package was sent by the real kidnappers, or if the object inside was an actual human tongue. The package and its contents are being ana-lyzed, a police spokesman said, and NYPD is taking the threat very seriously."

Next was an update on negotiations over an upcoming Bush-Gore debate, but I didn't hang around to listen to it. I postponed the shower, dressed again, found Barner's cellphone number, sat at Susan and Liza's desk, and dialed.

"Barner."

"It's Strachey. I heard."

"This is bad."

"Does it look legit?"

"They think so at the precinct. The tongue thing's at the lab."

"Are you still in Brooklyn?"

"For now. The assholes aren't back yet. I'd have every cop on Long Island looking for them if I knew what they were driving. Diefendorfer's truck is still here, and no vehicle is registered to a Samuel Day in the state of New York."

I said, "I'm coming back out there. I think I know who's got Plankton. It's not Day or Thad or any of them."

"Oh yeah? Then who is it?"

"Lyle, you don't want to know."

"Gotcha. I do but I don't."

"It's Dave."

"Dave who?" It was as if he hadn't heard me.

"Dave Welch, your beau."

"That's bullshit." But he hesitated just perceptibly before he said it.

"I'll explain when I get out there. I'm coming out. Can you get me a ride?"

There was a silence, and then Barner said, "Have you had a couple of drinks, or what?"

"No, just get me over to Williamsburg, and you'll see."

"You're crazy, Strachey. You're nuts."

"Uh-uh. I can explain it. You're smitten with this guy, but you're smarter than you are smitten, and you'll get it. You're not always a smart gay man, Lyle, but you're a smart cop, and that's the Lyle Barner who will see it right away."

"This is nuts. You're nuts."

"Can you send a patrol car for me? I'm on the Upper West Side." I gave him the address.

He said, "No."

"No what? You won't even get me a ride?"

"Nah. Uh-uh."

"What if they saw Plankton's dick off? It looks like that's where these dementos are headed next. Do Dave and his pals get high? What do they use? They couldn't be com-miting atrocities like this stone cold sober. What all do you know about Dave Welch that you haven't told me, Lyle?"

The line went dead. Barner had hung up.