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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 16 THURSDAY the SIXTH - 10:22 AM Leo
Goldman squeezed his wheezing Kia into the handicap zone in front of City Hall,
put a wheelchair-users’ placard on the windshield, and the hospitality
delegates piled out like so many bozos, home from clown college. "Trick
knee..." Andy inquired, "...from Seattle?" and the lawyer
nodded in a way that could have meant either yes or no. |
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"Once
you're in the computer they just keep spitting bennies out," Leo defended
himself. "Hey, it's not like I use it for frivolous journeys, like to the
mall," he added, nonetheless seeming to acquire a limp before Andy's eyes
as they mounted the steps at City Hall. They passed through metal detectors,
surrendering their keys, belts and spare change; following Leo's admonition
Andy, Richard and Marty had left their knives in the car. Taped to the guard's
desk was an ancient placard: "EFFECTIVE
APRIL 1st, ALL VISITORS TO CITY HALL MUST SHOW CERTIFICATION OF VIRUS-FREE and
DRUG-FREE STATUS per RPA." "See
your tax dollars at work, while you can. We tried!" shrugged the ACLU
attorney, “but Congress won – the President had to throw them something to keep
his infrastructure reforms alive and breathing, even if on life support, so he
appointed their pet German Shepherd as Drug Czar over the protests of the
states who wanted to keep their pot shop profits, and now the Feds are back to
busting up blue state dopers for possession of a gram of pot and collecting
piss again.” A big, basset-hound of a
man in a shabby tan suit nodded his greeting behind the devices that shrieked
when anybody walked through, requiring a guard to pat them down and wave a wand
from head to toe before letting them pass.
"Nuhgonna bother me,” he shrugged, with an unjovial smirk. “I'm
jus’ a drunk!"
"Speaking
of piss, folks, this is Jack Cochrane from the Urinal; Jack these are some
people I'm representing on another matter... Andy here's a resident of that
neighborhood we're looking into."
"Huh!"
Cochrane stepped back. "What kind of gun you carry?"
"None
of your business," Andy replied.
Cochrane
shrugged, motioned with a wagging index finger, and they headed towards a suite
of offices whose gold lettering said PROPERTY TAX
ASSESSOR.
Marty
drew Andy aside. "This motherfucker wrote that kiss-ass piece on Ratso last year."
"I
know Cochrane. Another pig..." Andy said, and looked around to be sure
that Rael was not behind them, listening in. "Look, Leo knows what he's
doing, maybe, so let's not bust his pork chops unless we have to, OK?"
Inside
the offices, Leo and Cochrane commandeered one of the computer terminals
designated for public use. Goldman removed a piece of paper from his jacket and
opened it to a list of numbers, which he began entering on the keyboard.
"Block
and lot numbers," he explained. "These are property transactions in
the South and East End over the last year or so. Have a look at some of these
names..."
"Oh,
there's Henri!" Cochrane recognized without the lawyer even having entered
the data, “bought that metal fabricating shop, went out of business, turned
into lofts for so-called artistes with
trust funds. Didn't figure him for a slumlord, interesting. Bet Tillerman would love to know that! All those Peppermill
Properties...” the reporter squinted, now looking at Leo’s list. Isn't that the bunch Pinhead's old law firm
represented? Mmmm... our
Public Utilities Commissioner! About a dozen building inspectors condemning
houses and kicking the homeowners into the street... Fourth Amendment be damned! And Bernstein, from Water. Well... it seems as if our local
donor class, not to mention a number of civil servants, have… contrary to the
law or, at least, conventional economic wisdom… dipped their beaks into East
End real estate over the last year, and hey!
Welcome to Ukraine!"
"Can
you find out who owns a building from a street address that hasn’t been bought
and sold within the past year?"
"Takes
a little longer," Leo said, but Andy gave him the address for the
Jefferson Street Sanctuary and the attorney punched in the coordinates.
"Nobody
owns our sanctuary!" Rael objected. "It's
abandoned."
"Ah..."
said Leo, "no, that's not quite the case.
Everything has an owner… Peppermill again! Bought it out from the City
probate court, year ago last June... if you believe the title transfer fees,
which are always a little dicey, they picked it up for twenty-one thousand. Not
a bad deal," he smiled, "even for Jefferson Street. Next question's
why."
"Morton
Scow's legislation?" Cochrane wondered aloud. “Makes sense.
Assuming the Saudis play nice with Russia and naughty with Iranians in
those shootouts around Basra, wrecked tankers piling up in the Straits of
Hormuz and the gas price hits six a gallon, you got your East End wasteland
suddenly looking tasty to all those folks out in the burbs. During recessions, you can keep your squats
and shelters, but once the economy picks up and twenty or thirty mile commutes
get costly… even in another artificial boom… well, people get hungry for
cleared land near where the jobs are to put their condos onto.”
"Perhaps.
By the way," Goldman continued, "when I began to run into Peppermill,
I sent up to the Capitol for more information. Had to go through four dummy
holding companies, but I got some names..." and he passed another, folded
piece of paper to the reporter. "Looks rotten with Conks, from the little
I can make out..."
"I
know this guy Jason at the Capitol Observer, has experience in how to put a
trace on shit like this," Cochrane said, patting his breast pocket.
"Believe I owe you one, Leo."
"I'll
collect," Goldman replied, "but not today. We've got to get upstairs
to Permits."
The
reporter stepped back. "Oh," he chuckled, tiny piggy eyes widening to
scan the peanut gallery, "you're representing that so-called hospitality
committee trying to legalize the anti-Conk demos! Anything you'd like to
share... no? Well, good hunting! Call me
if you’re going to do something violent – I’ll see to it a photographer’s sent
over, the black guy…"
Goldman
shut off the computer and moseyed towards the door while the others followed,
at a discreet distance, then made for the ornate staircase of City Hall. Noting
a temporary absence of police or even City Hall security, Richard Reid stopped.
"Hell
of a place! Not even as many cops as in those riots in Washington year before
last. We ought to just sit down, here!
Now!"
"What
would that prove?" Marty asked.
"That
we care? That somebody cares... you saw the face
on that reporter; we ain't getting any permits, not
even for the U, most likely. They know we're coming. But what
they don't know is that we could just sit down here, before the cops came, and
they'd have to drag us out."
"Look
around," Andy said. "Not only are there no cops, there aren't any
people either, even that fuck from the Urinal scarpered out the door and down
to the nearest bar. No... that lady behind the glass in traffic operations,
I'll give you her, she might be watching like those surveillance
cameras over there..." he pointed to a red light blinking high up on a
wall, “…and there, and there…”
And
Richard's hand with its yellowing fingernails rose to scratch a spot behind his
ear; a Masonic overture perhaps – or insect bite. Tinfoil!
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THURSDAY the SIXTH - 10:31 AM
"This
President knows that his gig's been up since Kabul and Kyev,"
Morton Scow shook his head, “that’s why he’s on cruise control until he can
hand the reins over to Kamala-la and let her deal with those animals in
Congress. Or maybe Trump stays on the
sidelines but funds some third party upstart like that Puerto Rican girl or old
Bern to split the liberal vote and squeeze in somebody like Winston or
Cruz. Or bestow his blessings back upon
Saint Ron, fer Chrissakes,
for a pardon and a prayer! Then he can retire, so to speak, start collecting
his fees for speeches, manage his so-called cable network, write books down in
Mar-a-Lago and grease the path for Representative Don
Junior in twenty eight. Since all the opposition contenders spoke so clearly
about not imposing import duties, all our so-called allies are going to slap on
export taxes. The French, the Germans… they've hated us since Iraq and they'll
give away the store to get the Asians on board. They'd be fools not to! If they
can hold together, like the Arabs, Russians and Venezuelans sending oil prices
back up, we’d have to…" he pointed down to the table, "...pfhhht! I tell you... this President means well, but good
intentions don’t cut it anymore. It’s
the new normal. Uncle Joe really cares
about the judgment of history. So he'll fight the battles they let him win,
like ramping up vaccine production for next winter’s Covid
strain, climb up on that cross for the good of the country. Let the competition circulate videos of
Taliban beheadings and Ukrainian firing squads, of old people dying in nursing homes and nominate the Jebusite, or any crazy Christian but the former Veep or somebody from Fox, maybe, even, that former
Attorney General. Even if they don't win, they drag the country even further to
the right. After he writes his book blaming other people for the
Russian takeover of Latvia, prolonging the quagmire as enabled those neo-ISIS
fellows and the Iraniacs to carve up Iraq in all but
the legalities or burning women alive in Kabul for the crime of being women. then sweeping up the mess, people will blame on all the
names on his hit list from the Kenyan to Slick Willie and his spouse on back to
the dope from Delaware.”
"And,
in the process, thinking he's leaving a clear path for a whole fuckin' parade
of bipartisan monarchists who come after him..." Glenn suggested. "If Junior can’t cut it, Jared? Those Bush twins, the ones with alcohol
problems... they were born in what, '80?
What about Chelsea? Still leaves
a gap, unless the other bro’ can get those Silverado bank problems off his
record... anybody want to put money down on Neal Bush versus Roger Clinton in
2028?"
Tom
Beedle thrust his pugnacious jaw forward, smirking.
"If Slick Willie can pardon Mark Rich and the Kenyan can pardon that
trannie traitor and Trump springs Roger Stone, the incumbent can do the job for
Hunter, Armie Hammer or Harvey Weinstein, too. The
liberals can't pack the courts or change the Constitution fast enough to allow Elon Musk into the mix... Republicans, with or without a
vote poaching Independent - they'll hold the South and a lot of the Midwest,
even if they lose, and they pull the center a bit more in their direction for
some Trump lite if the donkey boys toss up another
Socialist... right Morty?" he nodded towards Congressman
Scow. "When LBJ said the Civil Rights Act of '64 would turn the South
Republican for a generation, he was a fuckin' optimist," and he opened his
arms, clenching first the left fist, then right. "Democrats... and
Republicans. Doughnut politics, just the way Jack says. Now there's nothing
holding the center together and everybody's blown around by their own
ambition... candidates and the money. You got your oil people, Hollywood, Wall Street, the unions are all divided, right?"
"That
may be so," admitted Burt Weston, sourly, “given the ongoing street
fighting between the anti-vaxxing refuseniks
in MAGA and antifa tribes people and Julian Castro’s
brown blocs – or is it that other one, the brother, now that they’re both
pointed towards twenty four and pouring bleach into the wounds those false flag
Halloween race rioters ripped open – plus the so-called Independent rapper Bannon’s holding back to move onto the checkerboard. Four percent of the vote, IPSOS says, nearly
all of it black and coming out of Sleepy Joe’s butt.”
But
Beedle was rolling, now. "Government here and the skilled trades
there... Teamsters sidling back to the GOP over the offshore issue now that
their UPS settlement’s in the pocket and Canadian mandates, joining up with oil
nabobs to get those last three barrels of crude under that bird sanctuary up in
Alaska before we have to send the troops in to take over Greenland; nobody
standing for anything except cutting the other guy down. Plus all the shrapnel
from he last two elections still flying round, I can see us finishing second in
the popular vote, maybe even first, though it's a long shot... you'd have to
see whatever sacrificial lamb the Dems raise up get MeToo’kered
after the heartland demolishes Harris, like in ‘twenty, or Jeb’s laundry
tumbling out of the washer… well, after what President Trump’s done probably
nothing stops that train. Bloomberg,
then minorities dumping the Democrats for Al Sharpton and those
pictures of POTUS and Roseanne causing a few of those Melania-loving
commie Christians to split off and form their own party, like over in
Europe..."
"They're
Christian Democrats, over
there," Ratso pointed out, apropos of nothing at
all, as it turned out, "...you must mean they'd split off from the
Republican Party."
He
nodded towards Paul Rinker, but Tillerman's representative
failed to snap at the bait, simply smiling and nodding with the placidity of a
man with all the time in the world.
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THURSDAY the SIXTH - 10:42
AM
"Coming?"
Leo called back, halfway up the stairs, and the occupation of City Hall was
over before ever being implemented. He waited for them in front of a room
numbered 215, holding the door open while they trekked in, found seats on
uncomfortable, expensive Eurochairs and waited. Andy
thumbed through a two-year-old copy of the city magazine that had folded during
the plague, boasting about coming redevelopment in the depressed South and East
Ends, as people had been looking forward to for fifty years, now. By and by the
secretary picked up her phone, whispered a few words and, a few minutes later,
a small, dapper African emerged from the room behind the door, eyeing the
incoming gathering with bright, suspicious eyes before beckoning them
forth. Leo and his posse followed him
into another government room to their left, similarly furnished, though
somewhat bigger - reminding Andy of one of those Russian sets of dolls, reversed... each one within being bigger and with
more expensive trappings than that in which it was contained.
"Sylvester?
Believe you know at least some of these people," Leo introduced,
"Andy Morrison, Rael, uh...."
"I
know all people who break their promise," Sylvester declared icily,
wagging an accusatory, ringed finger at Andy. "Mr. Disson
received a most threatening call, this very morning at his residence, just
after nine o'clock. We have been with the police. You, Mister Morrison, speak
of violence to the Director's person."
"Wasn't
me," Andy shook his head. "Ask Eddie at the shelter, or any of these
people. I couldn't have, don’t got a cell and there's
not a working pay phone in the East End!"
"Of
course - you use what they shall call the burn to spoof police, but they hear
noise of bums… many bums, like in Jefferson Street, holding their bum-arguing
in your background. We have people investigating you! Mr. Goldman, it is agreed
that you and this... this menagerie...
have ten minutes with the Director. There will be no press. You will not tell
the press anything. You, I believe, are an attorney, you understand what I
mean?"
"Sure!"
Leo spread his hands. "Why would I do anything otherwise?"
"So,
we have personal agreement." Sylvester rewarded Andy with a venomous
glare, then marched rightwards to the door to Disson's inner office, knocking, then throwing it wide.
"So... the Director! He sees you
now!"
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THURSDAY the SIXTH -
The night before, after Andy had left their suite in
the Ivona and before Anne pulled him into bed, Glenn Savitt had drafted a nine-point-plan of his own... little
ink comments in a folding notebook (to prevent hack attacks by the Russians or
other undesirables) that he took the opportunity to snap open during one of the
rare silences at the Conks' pre-Convention conference. Number three.
"Also," he spoke up, "we ought to run numbers in case it's true
there turns out to be a gay political party as part of the opposition to that
Constitutional amendment Congress is pushing and they can wedge Tran-Sec Pete
away from his job of shuffling blueprints for bullet trains nobody will
finance. That will drain money from the Democrats, not so many votes, but if
Don King and Sharpton can get a big-name singer or athlete fronting for them in
the black community... a Michael Jordan, Bruno Mars, Charles Barkley or the
Rock, that gay vote could swing New York, California down into the
twenty-somethings assuming the right and left wing populists bolt after the
conventions... what about your district, Morty?"
Scow
shrugged; Beedle, however, bounced back fighting.
"We're on top of that, absolutely," and pretended not to note the
ghost of a smile that rippled through Rayna's formidable jowls. "Locally
we'll meet with anyone, we'll support some local and regional candidates... the
Catfish came out for gay marriage way back in '04 when Kerry and Edwards
and Uncle Joe waffled, remember? He’s always been unconditionally against AIDS
quarantining, and he's been on top of that genetic patenting mess for penguins
since it broke out of the gate. He made the case for gay marriage being a
conservative issue, like diverting the flag issue into repealing the First
Amendment, playing politics... it's simply understood," he appealed to
Paul Rinker, "that we're not letting any special interest
group front for the Coalition and," he smiled himself, an unpleasant
smile, Anne intimated, "we're not letting those special interests ram
their agenda down the throats of real Americans. I mean... if it costs us
Vermont and Hawaii, so be it!"
"I
can live with that," Rinker said, pretending to brush something off his
cuff. "For now…"
"Right!
Right!" Glenn exhorted. "Look at the demographics! We are viable. We're not the
ones out in the street, protesting and waving signs the way that the same old
losers have been doing for a half a century, we're here to win!"
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