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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 48 SUNDAY the NINTH - 4:28 PM B-124
beneath Masty Hall differed little from numerous
gray windowless chambers where Conks convened and Anne had pulled her coup...
seeming, to Andy, like a repository for surplus school furniture. Now Morton
Scow, Rinker, Rayna Finch, a policeman, two unsmiling security guards and
three unidentified men... one spit-polish clean, the other two sweaty and
rumpled... waited for their arrival, rubbing their knuckles and tugging at
their collars. |
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Also
present, jammed into a little junior high school plastic chair (with attached
tray), was a sweaty, manifestly terrified Tom Beedle.
"Annie!"
he cried, as soon as she and Andy passed through the doorway. "Thank
God... you're here! You wouldn't believe the things these people
say about me! Lies! Lies!"
"Sorry, Tom. They're not really lies, are they? I found
out part of your scheme with the Mayor... Andy here and his folks found out
more. The rest... why don't you tell us?"
Tom
shook his head, denying. "That sharp-dressed man is from the FBI, the other's from the FEC," he pointed. "The other one
is a reporter... they hate Pinhead! They'll say anything!
You know me... I've raised millions for worthy causes. I'm on the board of
Southern California's Baby Claire Foundation. I haven't done
anything... anything, uh, illegal?"
"On
the contrary, Mr. Beedle," said the tidy fellow,
after flashing his FBI agent badge to Anne and Andy, "I'd like to ask you
about the movement of certain people and monies across state lines. But, first,
I think the Congressman ought to explain."
"Well,
to begin with," Morton Scow said, with outrage that struck Andy as having
been rehearsed; well-rehearsed and probably before some magic mirror,
"you've been ripping us off. Stealing Rayna’s money, keeping revenue from
those benefits that were supposed to go to the CNC for yourself? But that's only the tip of the iceberg, isn't
it? Gotta hand it to you, Tom, yours is an exemplary
bipartisan approach to corruption."
"I
don't know what you're talking about..." Beedle
fumed indignantly.
"Oh,
cut the crap, Tom!" shot back the Congressman. "Let's start with the
CNC funds diverted to investments in Cato and Peppermill Properties via –
what’s that place people use now that the Caymans are hot… Martinique?... as well as any number of like enterprises here and
about. I take this personally. I'm breaking my ass in
"Ain't telling!" Tom Beedle smirked, his pretense at innocence flown.
"Those were investments! Watson's the CNC's state treasurer and we
were only planting seeds to start the money growing... ask him! I want a lawyer…"
The
FBI man's radio crackled, he put it to his ear, nodded, answering only
"Roger!" Putting it down, he said: "there's trouble outside. But
Masty Hall's too well defended, so the germs are
moving into the
"That's
where Peppermill's been buying up its properties," piped up the flabby,
shabby old dude Beedle had referred to as a reporter;
the same moax who'd conversed with Andy and the
lawyers in City Hall.
Morton
Scow gave the fixer a withering glare. "I've underestimated you? Now, if
there was violence... a riot, and property damage...
well, I'll bet Peppermill's ghetto holdings are insured, no doubt. Over-insured? And that anybody left who doesn't get burned
out or looted will be really happy to get anything for their
properties, right? So Peppermill and Cato get plenty of cleared ground at a bargain
price, covered by the Coalition, government money from good ol’ Uncle Joe in
Washington and our Republican
legislature in Cap City for redevelopment... but you wouldn't
know anything about that, Tom, would you? I mean... how shitty can human beans
become?"
Rayna interrupted his train of accusations. "Folks, I've
seen enough. I have to introduce the Catfish as soon as Doctor Windy up there
winds down. Paul, Morty, I promise we'll work through
things fully now that this sleazy little episode's out in the open. I only note
the co-operation of a nominally Democratic mayor with a Republican
governor," she nodded towards the reporter. "Use that as you
will..."
"Not
to mention the Coalition's own fundraiser..." Anne couldn't help but
add. “Doesn’t Morrow still sign the
checks?”
"You
don't have anything on me. Nothing!"
Beedle insisted. "But if you're going to detain
me any longer, I demand the presence of an attorney!"
Scow
nodded with a dreamy smile. At his gesture, one of the security men opened the
door to B-124 to admit a jaunty Emil Hill, followed by Tony Manuzzo,
combing his hair as he walked. Rayna slipped out, after bussing the actor on
the cheek and a last selfie glimpse into her pocket
mirror, pink-sheathed hips twisting to fit through the door.
"My hair. My hair!" was the last
thing Andy heard her say. The cosmetics queen leveled a withering stare at
Anne. "It's awful... why didn't anybody tell me?"
"Here's
a lawyer," the Congressman told Beedle, jerking
a thumb at Emil.
"Hill? He's a crook... works for Pinhead?"
"Thanks
for the compliment," Emil said, "and the confession. Pinhead thinks
as you do, by the way. When I mentioned to him a few things I'd found out by
looking up this, that and the other, he sort of took me into the family and
explained a few of your missing details. Nasty! Even a cockroach like me has
things he won't do, not even for six hundred shares of Peppermill. And
Martinique and the Caymans… they’re bad news... you want real security, shoulda laundered your transactions through Seatopia IV. Or Malta. I was
wired, Tom. No thanks to these two," Hill added, with a wave towards Anne
and Andy, "who almost got me... and themselves... knocked off for their
troubles."
"Ain't over, yet!" Beedle snarled
defiantly, then... seeing the doleful expression on the face of the actor who'd
been his most lucrative client... lay his head down on the kiddie
desk like a kindergartner taking a nap, half groaning, half
sobbing – obscenities dribbling through his lips. There was a knock,
which the police sergeant answered. Four more armed, uniformed security people
stood in the hall, along with two tall men in the gray overcoats and black
shoes of Federal agents.
Scow
jabbed a finger at them. "Needless to say, things might get hairy over the
next few hours, what with local police, National Guard and UNAPISSERs sorting
things out... plus God knows whatever creatures from Austin's little militia
black book that Tom's been holding out from us.
It’s even worse… some of this germ’s creatures have orders to do the burning and the looting to clear
ground for Peppermill, over and above whatever damage the mob does…"
"Well
Mr. Beedle," inquired the sergeant with a sour
glance towards Andy, who’d recognized him from the Hall of Justice, "is he
correct? You seem to have imported a lot of trouble into our little burg. If
there are people out there under your control who might... might
be capable of causing injuries or property damage, you'd be held
responsible. Hollywood lawyer, eh?"
Scow
nodded.
"Big house, car, trophy wife… mistress?" Again,
Scow nodded. "Might have enough worth the taking.
Though if any harm came to our officers, I might add he'd be responsible for
that, too. Too bad they don't have the electric chair anymore," he added,
"melt enough lard off this asshole to fry up a whole mess o’fish!"
Beedle looked up. "Alright, there is a
man, name of Geiger..."
"Where?"
"Ivona Hotel. Room six oh
six," Beedle added. "He's
professional..."
"Then
he'll know how to behave like one," the FBI man suggested.
"Tony,
I'd take a long look at your contract and your investments," Morton Scow
gently told the excited actor. "The Caymans! How
Twentieth Century! Sheesh!
Coming?"
"If
I’m going to run for Lieutenant Governor of California, after the recalls,” Manuzzo worried on his way out the door, “shouldn’t I lay
off, a little, on the Grecian formula?”
“Maybe,
kid. Just don’t lose the Rogaine…”
“Is
there a better thing such as Captain
Governor I could run for, instead?” Tony queried, and then both were gone.
Anne,
Andy and Paul Rinker followed the Congressman and actor back into the corridor,
with Tillerman's cliches
still resounding out through the mounted loudspeakers.
"...
waiting, watching and waiting down there until Speedy
Gonzalez down there gives the signal to swarm across the
"Toronto, jackhole! Or what’s that other cold place… the little
one, the capital? Oughta
get that fat Commie moviemaker or those guys, kids... made that South Park
movie against Canadians! Get the rights to that blame song for the
duration," Scow suggested to Paul Rinker, who actually took out his
e-notebook and politely asked for names and numbers. "Unbelievable!"
the Congressman said, instead. "Un-fucking-believable!
Tom sold us out for money. Not some cockeyed ideal, like every other lunatic in
this asylum, but for money! Maybe Rayna was right, maybe we're already
just another part of the system... you!" he pointed at Andy, "do you know how
that deal would've gone down? Pinhead
would’ve had Governor Drummond relocate that shelter outside city limits, miles
from the nearest bus stop, given you new blankets… tell the Ind…
uh, Native Americans… about going viral!... and, maybe, a salary for keeping
your mouth shut. Unincorporated land. That's how we do
it to the waste humanity in California... ship 'em out into the burned out
forests or the desert. Slab Cities out
there for Trailervilles as never got built. Halfway to Parnellvilles
already! So... what would it have taken for you to bite?"
"Congressman,"
Andy shook his head, "no matter how that deal went down, more people would
keep losing their homes and fall into your system. The system's made
to degrade. I'd never support that!"
"Then
you're even more of an idiot than you look!" Scow seemed to be thinking, then offered his hand. Andy simply stared at it. "Good for you, boy! But it doesn't matter, you're in
the loop now, the rot’ll start from your head down
just as quickly as it did with the rest of us... sooner; you haven't been
fortified with MSG. Money, sex and
guns! Trust me! Listen to that act!
Place generates enough hot air to float a whole fleet of Texas zeppelins!"
He
pointed upwards to a loudspeaker, through which the voice of Rayna Finch came
booming. "Thank you! Thanks, Austin for your wonderful words of
inspiration! I’ll bet that Donald Trump’s rug is hovering three inches above
his scalp about now, worried that his comeback is endangered by something other
than his own incompetence with those Nazis.
And the Democrats? They’re in the water closet, doing that
watery whizzbang thing all over themselves
while their President of these United States hides in the White House
basement. So let's hear it for the next
Republican nominee for President of the
"You
work for them!" Andy scolded as Anne lagged behind the two
men in suits; Rinker, inclining his head towards the Congressman, who jabbed
the back of his hand furiously with an index finger.
"Glenn works for the Coalition,"
Anne corrected. "I work for Rayna "
"Something
happened the other night," Andy pressed. "Other than... you
know..."
Anne
bumped his shoulder, leaning her face into his ear. "Something did
happen!" she said, looking back to be sure nobody was following them.
"Rayna's priorities are... one... get Jack's ring around her finger, then
second... a distant second... get them both into the White House. As
third-party candidate under the Citizens United II campaign finance law
reforms, she'd have no leverage... just like she won't should he get nominated
as the Democratic candidate. But, to make it through the primaries and at
least appear presentable so people pay attention when he walks out, he needs
her money, and the only way she's legally able to give it to him is if they’re
married. So, this way, she's got him by the nuts, and now she's twisting! It's
not supposed to be known, by the way… just a few lines slipped into the middle
of the mulch in order to preserve our sacred two-party system; a needle in the
haystack of party protocol legislation that nobody reads… how did you
figure it out?"
"Just assumed nothing's changed over thirty years. The political's still personal – always has been, always will be!"
Then, Andy shuddered. "Doesn't he
understand what's going on?"
"The Catfish?" Anne threw back her head and
laughed. "Have you read those absurd columns of his... that book? That idiot Don Jones blog
full of numbers that go up and down but never stay anywhere? There's more intellect resident in a slab of
home-cured bacon! What he does have is this really cute, tight ass that almost,
almost makes up for his being a blockhead and a ten percent shot
at the White House, only because the alternatives are so unpalatable; the
primary polls show Warren and Bernie splitting the leftist vote if Biden rests
his weary bones, Newsome and Bloomberg the right, Kamala being squeezed out
between the polarities and – waiting in the wings once they’ve all destroyed
each other, Hillary and John Kerry and Al fuckin’
Gore… Gore and Kerry!... every mother’s son and
daughter of them over seventy! Or
eighty-something Jerry Brown... only a little older than President Joe and, as
I hear, healthy! Sort
of. No matter which donkey
emerges from the primaries, there will be so many disgruntled Democrats
starting new single-issue parties, divvying up the vote and driving the states’
winning pluralities down into the twenty-five or thirty percent range after Tillerman finishes cleaning the ex-President’s clock and
they nominate… I don’t know… Little Marco or the other guy
from Florida who hates the gays? Ted fuckin’ Cruz? Rayna wants, and
what Rayna wants, I'm paid to see she gets.
Poor bumpkin probably won’t even challenge the pre-nup!"
"By
he, I meant
Glenn… but what do you get out of
it?"
"What
are you doing for the next eighteen months?" she deflected.
Andy
coughed, hastily. "I just hope that Glenn's alright..."
"He'll
land on his feet. Glenn knows how to cover his ass... you talk to him a month
from now and he'll tell you this split was his idea, all along... it’s not as
if he’s been a Faithful Freddie all these years…"
"I
meant... you know..."
"Just
come with me," she shushed him as they reached the stairwell, reaching across
to flick her credentials so the holograms glimmered in the faint, green
fluorescence, and drape a protective arm over Andy’s shoulder. "VIP
passes!"
Andy
smiled in spite of himself. Pretty! Shiny!
At
the top of the stairs, he followed her across the back of the stage, past the
podium above and to the right of them with dozens of legs dangling from the
bleachers... Andy found himself almost staring up Rayna's pink skirt, her
ponderous thighs planted into the planks like a pair of stout German oaks.
"And
so," she was preparing the crowd, "it's only fitting that our closing
address comes to you from the man most intimately wrapped up in the progress of
our Coalition for a New Consensus. A rancher, horse breeder and businessman,
breeder of Madman K, who finished third in the Belmont two years ago, author of
“The Coming Killoff” and "Entropy and
Renaissance", syndicated columnist, board member of the Don Jones Index
and second generation political icon – the former Congressman from Kentucky.
Never defeated, politically... our final speaker served faithfully and
excellently as CNC Chairman for ten months, and we've reciprocated our
confidence by choosing him as our candidate to pursue the Presidential
nomination from the Democratic Party, and then the election in November as its
nominee, or as an independent, should circumstances dictate! Folks, it is now
my privilege to introduce retired Congressman Jack Parnell of Miller's Ridge...
a statesman, visionary and hellacious line dancer, the citizens’ alternative to
Hillary, Joe and the rest of the tired old mobsters not orbiting up in space,
up there… the man we all know and love as the Catfish! C'mon up, Jack!"
"Coming?"
Anne said, extending her hand as a security guard, noting Andy's credentials,
nodded respectfully. He mounted the steps to the VIP bleachers slowly and Anne
led him to the very top row of seats; three of which were empty, still bearing
the stickers "Glenn Savitt", "Anne Kazelka" and "Paul Rinker" as the crowd
shouted themselves hoarse, chanting "Catfish! Catfish! Cat-fish!"
as an absurdly tiny figure under an oversized hat emerged from a tunnel at the
far, opposite end of Masty Hall.
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