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BLACK HELICOPTERS EPISODE 8 WEDNESDAY the FIFTH - 10:15 PM The lobby of the Hall of
Justice was, per usual, a madhouse of cops, perps,
lawyers and B-list mediots – enhanced by out-of-town
scavengers; bloody demonstrators trundled in and out of custody amidst a
handful of confused or bemused common felons. Andy, on arrival after an hour
of hurrying, scurrying and bumming bail cash from weary patrons, had been
cornered by one of his least favorite people: an oft-institutionalized,
certified-paranoid, self-designated street fighter Marty Lesh
in his soiled, reeking canvas raincoat and week-old, emphatically
un-Hollywood stubble... after a quick glance inside, both retreated to the front
steps to smoke and await one or another of the lefty lawyers who haunted
post-demo moppings-up like piranhas circling a
burning cruise ship. |
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The two he was first to
encounter he'd known for years... even if he hadn't, their profession was
draped round their clothes like the cheap tobacco fumes that made Andy one of
The People.
Marty probably knew them too, but his
brain was fried, so Andy muttered "Leo! Leo Goldman, ACLU,” he added out
of the corner of his mouth. “Emil Hill," he added, in a less welcoming
tone,
"The TV
ambulance chaser?" Marty Lesh deduced,
squinting at the bus stop bench across the street, or possibly even remembered.
Andy kept his opinion to himself.
"How bad?" he asked the lawyers as they wormed their way back through
the metal detector at the door and out of HoJo.
"They're not finished processing;
last I heard was seventy misdemeanor and forty-something Revised Patriot Act
felonies." The fortyish Leo, whose receding hairline had retreated like a carbon-stomped
glacier towards the vicinity of a skullular Siberia,
still projected the outraged intensity of a younger man.
"Felonies?" Marty jumped.
"Fifteen year slugs… and for what... assaulting the pigs' nightsticks with
their heads?"
Hill, who possessed a majestic crown
of pomaded, dark-dyed Elvis hair, despite being well past fifty... and a
majestic beer gut, too... laughed "oh, better, better! Except for about a
half dozen assaults and some goof who brought down a surveillance drone with an
empty Bud longneck, the rest are for conspiracy," he winked, waving the
printouts he'd obtained from the booking officer, one of his drinking buddies,
for a small financial or, more likely, libatory
consideration. "Conspiracy to
commit misdemeanors – that’s a felony, under state law."
"And, just coincidentally,"
Leo piped up, "everyone on the structural end of planning your CNC demo
just happens to have been deemed part
of this vast conspiracy. Rolf, Deena, Fil, Tara, Virgil..."
"...Lemoyne, Tom and Damien, Burghardt..." Hill continued before Andy could speak
up in objection to the designation of the protests as his.
"And so on. So much for all those
pious post-inaugural words from President Joe about the Patriot Act amendments
only affecting foreign terrorists, subway pushers and the rare, occasional Tony
Taliban from Tonawanda! Meaning you're
out of business. Shut down," Goldman said. "Every so-called
responsible member of the host committee... present company excepted... will be
in the jug for weeks. Maybe win one-way tickets to Git'mo.
And the flakes all walk." He shot a short, non-committal glance at Marty Lesh.
"Shit," Andy declared and
started past them grasping a sheaf of government papers, marching through the
metal detector and back out the door, down the steps and towards the row of bailbondsmen's offices across the street, with their red
and indigo neon blinking and sputtering like the signs out in front of low-end
strip clubs. "Of course you'll be filing complaints," he accused
the struggling, puffing attorneys as they caught up with him on the sidewalk.
Emil Hill fairly grinned as he slapped
his briefcase. "Had a couple hundred retainer forms and complaints made up
this morning, don't know why. Must have been those University CopyBot prices, eight-ninety-five a hundred, did you know?
That's with the coupon in the Urinal..."
He swatted a parked police car with
more rolled-up printouts as they jaywalked to Tony Nick's.
"Speaking of which," Emil
growled, "you deadbeats still owe me my thirty-eight large for the Costa
Rica demo fines and bails, and the busts at the closing of the West End
Community Center. Oh... and the Clinic takeovers. When are you going to put
together some of these benefits you're always mouthing off about?"
Andy halted before a neon-festooned
door. "When the damn cops, the Conks and the rezoners
get the hell out of our face. When Washington stops sending its corrupt
accountants up here to incite n’ provoke the citizens. And when... oh hell,
just chalk it up against all those big settlements you promised, like for
Jefferson Street."
Emil held open the door to Tony
Nick's. "Can't help it if Supremes like RBG got picked
off by God and those Appeals circuit riders by so-called lone wolf gunmen. And losing their Senate majority on account
of the plague carrying off two of those old fossils in Congress, the House
going next and, since the President nearly died of the imaginary plague
himself… those Democratic primaries will be just like they always are, circular
firing squads. No backbone! I'm lookin' at two
cases, by the way – one Baltimore, one Phoenix... they're trying to short
circuit the appeals and take cases direct to the World Court, which is one of
the unintended consequences of Protectorship. Now if
you guys were to get clocked by UNAPIS..."
"Never happen," Marty shut
him up. "They're pussies. UNAPUSSIES!" he snickered and the quartet
ducked in, out of the sun.
The short, balding bailbondsman…
Tony Nick, himself… grunted through his cigar at this
strange, but not unexpected, apparition.
"What happen?" he asked them
innocently. "I seen the news... been waitin' fer youse guys…"
"How much did you
raise," muttered Goldman in Andy's direction.
"Just a little over seven
hundred. Hey... don't look that way at me, we already got expenses for this
Coalition thing. Nobody asked us what we thought of inviting the Fed
Reservists and Conks, and all the heat and crazies they attract. People get
tapped out."
"Which would ransom… maybe…
fourteen dead souls?" Hill calculated, scanning down the sheets of
printout, making brief notes with a pencil while a snake on the television’s
nature program devoured a squirming baby rabbit.
"I love this part,"
Andy mugged, making approvals or corrections to the names of
misdemeanants Hill was checking off with his pencil stub. "It's the
only time I get to play God, a damn fucking street God with the power of life
and death! This one. Him! Holly can stay in the can and get the
Variant Seven plague, or TB from the Russians, he's
been asking for it. Rodrigues..." He began to whistle something, but so
many old songs clashed and clamored in his brain against the animal adventures
announcer intoning, now, how ants follow occult pathways towards baby birds
that have fallen from trees. What fell out of Andy's mouth was a tuneless tune
that only made the others edge away, casting their own surreptitious glances at
the Hall of Justice printout.
"Victor?" Marty finally
spoke up, pointing. "You're not bailing Victor out?"
"The hell I am not! He owes me money."
"That's why I'd bail him out," Marty argued. "What if he dies in
there? Gets murdered, poisoned, AIDS, whatever people get in jail. Plague! Disneyland measles! Estonian encephalitis, like in that prison
they shut down in Alabama? Plus, of course, the usual lead poisoning or shank poisoning…"
"You want Victor?" Andy
replied, refusing to admit the logic, shrugging, and making a fierce little
mark on the paper. The telephone rang, and Tony picked it up with an epithet.
Andy continued down the printout, trying not to listen too obviously to the
shouting woman easily audible at six feet distance as a President ordering his
vassal to bribe some Ukrainian banker.
The bailbondsman
held the phone away from his ear like something dead that not even the ants
would touch. "OK, I think I get it," he finally replied, grinning at
the politicals and motioning them to listen in.
"You thought your ol' man was foolin' round, you
call East End station, say he took the television, which you hid under the
sink. They come and toss his place, only instead of the TV they find his shit
and now you wanna... yeah, I know, you were drinking
that Olde English, hey, I don't care, it's still two-fifty. Cash, yeah! Don't care. Well, then,
you come by tomorrow morning, someone's always here. Lemme
see... probably that kid from law school, Pete knows him. Do him good to spend
the night thinkin' about the way he's gonna rearrange
your face once he's out. Yeah, you shut the fuck up too... go over to Ace, if
you think Rodney will cut you a better deal. Fuckin' Jamaicans are hardass sons of bitches, too, oh... you..."
He slammed down the receiver, the four
visitors pretending, dutifully, not to have heard. "Thinks that she'll
pull that race shit on Ace, give a sistah a break...
still ends up payin' two-fifty and probably gets
talked into letting Grosvenor take the case, which gets Joe a habitual charge,
for certain..."
"Hey,” Emil protested, “the Groz did get somebody off... I think, once, back in
'98..."
"Who are these people?" Andy
asked Leo, pointing to a cluster of names with intake symbols attached; stars
and pound signs and exclamation points. "Never heard of them.
Students?"
"Let me see that," Goldman
snatched the printout, adjusting his black, cracked horn-rimmed glasses, held
together by black electricians' tape. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Non-citizens... I
know him, that's the Australian documentary film producer, he called me. Independent moke, no company to pay his
tab. Probably thought he'd blow
into town early, get some footage he could sell. That one – Salvadoran. ICE-bound and hopeless. These others with the star signs, they're
minors." He lay down the bust list,
shrugged…
"Fine," Marty said.
"Let mommy and daddy bail them out."
Leo turned, two pudgy fingers planting
the printout to Tony’s desk. "These two don't have a mommy or a
daddy. Or if they do, there's a good reason why they're not at home. I know
'em. They crash with Reverend Malik, sometimes, but what do I know... they're
just kids. A week or two in an adult jail, hey maybe it'll improve their
character, like that good ol’ Man o' God would say if they asked him
for bail. At least flexabilize
their buttholes… now if Mister Morrison here were to kick in a bit of all that
money he made at the stab lab last Tuesday…"
"Sweet, Leo, sweet," said
Andy. "Well there goes Victor again! And that leaves uh, Fitzpatrick
Brown, himself… he could use a little drying-out interval. And I don’t have a dime… forgot to tell you,
the plasma people stopped paying cash, now they use these debit cards that only
work at a couple of the big box stores on the turnpike out past city
limits. And when I called them on it,
they got sort of nasty, so here…" He passed the printout to Tony, sat down
in one of the wooden folding chairs and removed his papers and tobacco.
"Gotta
love this new software," grunted Tony Nick. "Takes all the fuckin'
guesswork out of processing, push a button, comes back good risk, bad risk.
They check everything," the bailbondsman added
reverently, "Interpol, insurance dossiers, Facebook,
Taleo psych profiles, medical, cookies if they use
computers... everything! Even taps into the FBI's list of a
couple million pornography customers, morons who speak up at town council
meetings, lefty and righty, so-called “patriot” blog downloaders
and furtive clickers who think nobody knows what they’ve been doing. Palantir
people! You could use one of these
programs," he propositioned Emil, "I got a guy sells them straight
from Taipei. Six hundred bucks marked
down from two thousand, and that's with all the features they say they wouldn't
let get put in the originals on account of the stripy-pants sprouts in Brussels
that guy Vanser, Prancer,
the one Biden appointed and then kicked the bucket, allegedly, playing deep
state possum. We're talkin'
NSA, Moral Majority, they even got East German police stuff on the
CD…"
"KGB?" Emil sniffed.
"Workin'
on it. GRU for sure.
Definitely next edition, soon as the pirates and the President work
things out over there. But do it now and my guy says thirty percent off
upgrades for life, that's what the fuck is it..." Tony stumbled, "I
can't use my calculating programs while I'm runnin'
this shit."
"Forty-two dollars left,"
said Marty Lesh.
"You trust him?" the bailbondsman looked up. Emil shrugged. "Forty-two it
is, then! And, by the way, Vanocur ain’t playin’
– he is dead. Somali plague, kinda like Corona but
different. Gone to that Bilderburg in the sky…"
“Gone to the frozen head zone,” Hill
scoffed. “I read it in InfoWars – so it’s gotta be
true! All those sorts… they’re being
kept in hermetically sealed chambers in Wyoming, underground… Reagan and the Bushes, Ollie North and his Russian Natasha, Haldemann, Erlichmann and Nixon,
too. Warren Beatty! Warren Harding! Come the real Revolution, like the original Tea Party one, they got thawed
out and pop up again – tanned, rested and ready to be attached to the body of
some healthy drifter as picked up the wrong hitchhiker…”
“Nixon,” Andy said, “was a fuckin’ Social Democrat compared to the gangs running the show today.”
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