Free Dirty in Cashmere by Peter Plate Page A

whatever the fuck you want me to be.”
    Doolan was beached on a velveteen divan in the room’s far corner, partly listening to Branch and me, paying closer attention to the radiation infection tunneling in his gorge. The morphine he was taking for it didn’t even dent the pain. On top of that, he’d heard Heller had gotten kneecapped by the Honduran dealer. It was only a matter of time before 2-Time got his. Doolan wanted to be somewhere else when that happened. He had enough on his hands chaperoning me.
    I wonder if Doolan forgives the contamination for killing him. Can I forgive Frank Blake for shooting me? My left leg is lame. You tell my leg about forgiveness, and it will tell you to kiss off. I’m dirty in cashmere. When the day ends, I’ll be down the hill at Eternal Gratitude. Don’t talk to me about forgiveness, not now.

 
    TWENTY-EIGHT
    The last and most important debate between the mayoral candidates was held that night in the auditorium at Horace Mann Middle School in the Mission district. An overflow audience of roughly eight hundred people was in attendance, mostly working-class Mexicans and Salvadorenos from the barrio. The two candidates were seated onstage. Ronnie Shmalker was slicked up in a spiffy blue sharkskin suit, red tie, white shirt. Babe Jones was dressed in a gray polyester leisure ensemble, yellow bow tie, and brown oxfords, his bald pate shining under the overhead lights. The moderator, a young black woman from KQED television, was in a floor-length caftan, her hair molded into a chignon bob.
    Branch and I had front row seats.
    The debate jumped off when the moderator put Babe Jones on the spot. “According to statistics, the contamination from Fukushima is still here. What do you intend to do about this issue? And what is your stance on the Life clubs?”
    He mopped his forehead with a starched handkerchief before answering: “We can’t do anything, other than supporting charities and nonprofit organizations. We just don’t have the resources. It’s a job for the feds. But the cuts to the CDC and NIH budgets don’t help any. And Life clubs generate revenue for the city. I don’t see no problem with them nohow.”
    Ronnie Shmalker was right behind him. “I agree with my opponent. The fallout from Fukushima is a concern for our representatives in Washington DC. On a local level? There’s nothing to worry about. The contamination is negligible. But the Life clubs need to operate under strict federal guidelines. Personally, I think they should be banned.”
    I slumped in my chair, dismayed by the candidates and their attitudes. Branch misinterpreted my posture.
    â€œGot a prediction yet?”
    â€œNo. Those dudes aren’t saying jack.”
    â€œThey’re not supposed to. This is just a friendly meet and greet session.”
    â€œThat’s uncool.”
    â€œYou sound like a fucking Boy Scout.” He extended his right arm, lassoed my neck and squeezed it. “I don’t want to hear your shit. All I want is the winner.”
    â€œWhat if I don’t know?”
    â€œYou’d better find out.”
    During the intermission I stood off to the side in the auditorium, near the restrooms. People milled in the lobby, talking heatedly about the candidates, nothing that I could get a handle on. Blips of conversation and forced laughter echoed against the walls, the din notching the ringing in my ears.
    I was fretting as a young blond woman in a green silk dress came over to me. An unripe lesion glistened on her pert nose. She lightly touched my arm, establishing a tactile beachhead.
    â€œI’m Ruth Dick. An aide to Babe Jones.”
    I blinked. The carbon filter mask dangling from her neck was decorated with rhinestones.
    â€œI’ve heard a lot about you, Ricky.”
    â€œWho from?”
    â€œEverybody. Doolan posted the results of the test he did with you. It’s on his Fukushima