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BLACK HELICOPTERS EPISODE
49 SUNDAY
the NINTH - In
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Forty throats replied, and then a hundred...
"Don't gimme shelter, gimme
homes!"
"Remember
the Pit Stop!" Richard reminded the older congregants of a beloved Wake
Street dive, bulldozed six months earlier.
"No fuckin’ condos!"
"Burn
the condos..." Demian proposed.
Two
hundred voices cheered back! Three! "Burn the
condos!"
The
mob, become an organism with half a thousand heads and five thousand agenda-fingers
fingering, lured the police and Turks deeper and deeper into the surviving East
End ghetto neighborhood... drab streets of tenements with shops on the ground
floors of those on the widest boulevards. Some of the managers of these had
hastily armed themselves. Before an Arabic grocery and liquor store... in the
window of which reposed a glittery sign proclaiming "Canadian Club
welcomes Coalition for a New Consensus"... the proprietor beckoned over
Reid, a customer he knew well. "Where is this trouble? What is
reason?"
"It's
a march against the Jews! Down with Zionist pig bankers! Free Jerusalem for the people. Viva la jihad!"
He proceeded east, fist pumping the air, leaving a puzzled but
undamaged merchant who, in a few moments' time, was chanting and cheering too,
unfolding a dusty Palestinian flag to place in the window and motioning his
sons inside to bring free doughnut holes and sodas to the passing fedayeen. At a
home for the elderly three doors down with a sign in the window... "This is
Not a Hotel!"... curious seniors pressed their
noses against smudgy glass as Glenn and Demian
passed.
"Raise
pensions! Stop the raid on Social Security," Glenn cajoled. "Join us!
March to end the savings tax!"
The
elderly returned forced smiles and waved back... a few even clinked walkers
against the window but, prudently, declined to go outside. Down the block, a
firebomb exploded the front window of a second hand novelty shop, showering the
sidewalk with flaming Beanie Babies and tendrils of melted, yellow Spadoodles.
And a
crowd of excited students surrounded the red Porsche owned and operated by a
local gentleman of leisure taking care of business in one of the seemingly
abandoned buildings.
"Dude riot! Dude riot! Dude
riot!"
Responding
to the undergraduates pushing it, the vintage Porsche screamed back with the
alarms and electronic voices of a decade past...
"Burglar! Burglar! Burglar!" it wailed.
"Asshole! Asshole!" the students shouted back and,
with sticks and bricks, construction debris and trashcans, began the task of
reducing it to junk. The kat dealer who owned it
skittered down the stoop of that derelict building at the sight of the
destruction of his wheels, but the vista of so many white people with weapons
thronging East Eleventh and massed Turks gathering in the middle of East
Twelfth Street convinced him to duck around the corner. There, he narrowly
escaped capture by a mixed force of local police and Guardsmen, stealthily
advancing to contain the riot. A couple of kids in noserings
weren't so lucky... half a dozen cops trapped them in a blind alley beside a
burned out auto body shop and began beating them to bloody pulp, ripping the
metal from their beaks with canine yelps of glee.
Somebody
finished off the Porsche by plugging its gas tank with a Molotov cocktail
fashioned from an empty half-liter can of ABM.
Four
black UN helicopters, surrounded by a flotilla of American drones, circled the
East End blocks only a dozen feet above the rooftops like angry wasps… blades
ominously whup-whupping as snipers dangled from their belly doors… and,
promptly, cylinders of gas burst in the street below. Clouds of bluish-purplish
gas billowed up, driving coughing, angry people down Jefferson Street - past
the Sanctuary and towards the empty lot on which the first condos had been
under construction until poleaxed by recession and the credit crunch and had,
as the Urinal reporter’d told Andy, been picked up by
Peppermill for the proverbial song.
The
black copters rose as Glenn Savitt, eyes burning,
separated from Demian, Richard and the dude rioters.
He stumbled into an alley… an artificial lane fashioned by the long-deserted
construction workers and fronting a dilapidated trailer… looking for something
to wipe his eyes with.
At a
reasonable distance, upwind of the gas, one man in a dark suit, dark glasses,
black shoes and radio tailed him, barking directions into a radio. Four surveillance drones, a mini, no bigger
than a hummingbird; the other three approximately the size and girth of
possums, hovered overhead and then took off.
Across
the street, another did the same.
Opposite
the construction site, several burly workers piled out of a white van with
smoked glass windows.
Construction
workers... with gas masks...
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SUNDAY the NINTH -
In his corner suite at the Ivona,
a rangy, pockmarked man pricked his ears up at the knock, and voice of Tom Beedle. He glanced from the door to the hotel table on which
were a Sig Sauer in its shoulder holster, radio and several cell phones,
dry-swallowed and instinctively checked the window. No fire escape.
"Geiger? This is Tom. Tom! The operation's
busted. There are law enforcement gentlemen with me and the exits are covered. Time to cut our losses."
Geiger sighed, dry swallowed and looked out the window as he dialed
one of the cell phones, then down at the carpet. He muttered a few short words,
most of them of a legal or obscene nature, killed the connection as the
knocking intensified and picked up the holster, deliberating; then placing it
on the bed before walking towards the door.
"Geiger?"
"I'm
not armed. I'm opening the door... I've already contacted my supervisor and my
attorneys. Please don't do anything stupid!" he added in a wide, flat
voice that might have come from anyplace east of Denver, west of Tulsa.
The
crew from the Masty basement, augmented by a few more
local police burst through, but after a few moments of dramatic lunging and
ransacking, the Sergeant gestured towards Geiger's electronics.
"Is
there any unfinished business we ought to take care of before going
downtown?"
"We
are downtown," Beedle protested,
but the Sergeant gave him a withering glare, so he nodded.
Another
UN helicopter passed, its rotors almost brushing the window of the Ivona.
"If
I do what you want me to," Geiger bargained, "will you get me a
Splice from the machine downstairs before I get in your car?"
"It's
one of those smart machines," the Sergeant advised him, "goes up to a
buck seventy-five a can during the middle of the day."
"I
have a debit card in that billfold," Geiger pointed, so the Sergeant
nodded, and an officer picked up one of the cell phones, handing it to Beedle's operative. "Hello! Perseus?
Ah... we got a fire in the hole. Right, that hole.
Fire…"
He lay
the phone down, pointed to the radio. Again, the Sergeant nodded.
"Legionnaire! Legionnaire! This is Scipio calling,
Scipio."
"Roger!"
a voice answered through the static.
"We
got pink elephants. Ah yeah... that's right. Elephants."
"Roger!"
Geiger
put the radio down, nodded, and placed his hands behind his back for cuffing. A
policeman frisked him, one of the FBI agents picked up the radio, glancing
curiously.
"Two
teams? Two sides! Let's have a guess... locals reporting to our Democratic
Mayor and some of the Guard working for our Republican Governor? Pink elephants? Legionnaire? Somebody didn’t understand that “Get Smart”
was a comedy, not a fuckin’ training manual?"
"You
said it, sir, I didn't," Geiger replied. "I’m a consultant. Business is business and I’m only following
orders!"
Beedle's face flushed.
"You
didn't tell me you were working for the Governor, too!"
"You
didn't tell me I couldn't! Take five for the Splice," he told the officer
who… regarding Geiger’s debit card as if it were an IED… removed cash from the
wallet on the bed, before the consultant added, generously, "...get one
for yourself, too, and keep the change!"
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SUNDAY the NINTH - 5:13 PM
From
the VIP section, Anne and Andy watched Catfish Jack Parnell approach the final
meters to the podium, waving and clasping select hands as he advanced.
"Glad you made it," Anne whispered, "gangplank's
coming up. If you hadn't jumped on board, you'd have been stuck down in that
60’s peanut gallery forever."
"I
don't know," Andy demurred. "I got responsibilities..."
"To whom? The Sanctuary? That
bunch of bums... don't worry, Jack'll see the safety
net restrung..."
"Around
our necks, he will. And if Tillerman's elected?"
"Then
he'll inject moral responsibility into public charity. After he cuts taxes and unemployment
insurance, mines the border and kicks out the twelve million Mexicans that
Trump never got around to expelling, there’ll be lots of minimum-wage
jobs. And, without all those religious
leeches hanging off the President like barnacles, like..." and she nodded,
obliquely, towards Reverend Malik, also on the podium, cheering Parnell's
approach as if the politician were the Messiah himself.
"I
don't fit into this." Andy glared at the politician, now mounting the
front steps... recessive scalp alarmingly visible (the Catfish was holding one
of those big, black Garth Brooks hats he favored in his left hand like a big, black
satellite dish, waving it at faces he recognized), then his eyes, his
politician's smile, shoulders. "I feel like the troll on the fairy
castle's lawn."
"Nonsense! You've been doing all the good work, just as
people like Glenn and I have done for years, just getting none of the benefits.
And you have a firmer sense of reality than he does, sad to say. If people of
competence and principle continue standing on the sidelines because of some
inarticulate posturing that they're preserving their moral virginity, then I
guess we really are doomed to Entropy..."
"Dunno. Maybe I'm just one of those old-fashioned Americans
after all. Revolution in the blood like Thomas Jefferson, not some half-assed
Broadway Hamiltonian reforms..."
"That
old slaveholders’ Constitution,” she snorted, “guarantees life, liberty and
pursuit of happiness. Not happiness! That's for everyone to
figure out however they can. If the bastards don't take it away from us while
we're sleeping..."
"But
he," Andy pointed, "he's the one calling for repeal of
the Bill of Rights."
"Only
as a rhetorical device," Anne shushed him. "He's only suggesting
reform like separating campaign financing from the free speech provisions...
not calling for repeal... as a way of waking people up to their responsibilities
and motivating them to organize."
"I
don't trust that Catfish," Andy glowered. "Look how he walks... is he
wearing high heels?"
"They're
not heels, they're lifts. Heels are on the outside of the boot, they'd look
ridiculous. Ross Perot wore them. Jack has the lifts inside, so most people wouldn't even notice. And it's not because
he's vain... well, mostly not... it's strategy, carefully worked out with focus
groups. Short people don't get elected President."
"James
Madison did," Andy objected.
"They
didn't have TV back then and, besides, E and R ain’t
exactly the Federalist Papers," Anne conceded. "The Coming Kill-Off” ain’t “Common Sense” either. But nobody else in DC is even close,
either... Aaron fuckin' Burr would tower over your contenders likely to be
running in either of the major parties.
Biden? Again? Hillary?
Again?
Al Franken? Clooney? The Democrats can’t fix the budget, can’t
create jobs… but the President does seem awfully proud of sending his leaky
Attorneys General out to seize properties that rent to the medical marijuana
outlets in California and using the IRS on his enemies list. Bill said he felt your pain, so cancer
patients better damn well feel theirs.
And the Repubs if the basket-case President
forgets to file? Jeb?
"Who?" Andy began to ask, but then the Catfish
turned, raising both hands over his head. "Speaking of buttons, I'll bet
your fish in high heel's short in another department."
"Stop
it!" Anne elbowed him in the ribs. "I work for his fiancée... well,
the lady who's going to be in a couple of days, whether he knows it or
not..."
"And
you think he'll go along with this?"
"If
he wants her money, he will. And he's one fried Catfish without it! Jack's a
moron, but he's not a moronic moron! She's got the papers already drawn up for
him to sign, but they'll announce just before the New Hampshire primary... or
Super Tuesday in the Deep South, depending on the polls and the viability of
that local guy, the one from South Carolina?
North Carolina? Whatever! A midnight court clerk’s signature and,
afterwards, a White House reception after the fact... if he wins, if he loses,
she'll probably..." but the rest of what she thought to say was drowned
out by the screaming and applause that rolled down from the rafters, a shrill,
confetti-garnished fog that enveloped the podium of Masty
Hall.
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SUNDAY the NINTH - 5:14 PM
The
capricious wind brought a squall of gas through the skeleton of a doorway Glenn
had taken cover in and, half-blinded, he stumbled out and up the construction
alley towards the street. One of the UN helicopters passed overhead, blades
whup whup whupping, raising up little whirling devils
of trash and smoke and sawdust... suddenly, half a dozen construction workers
with gas masks under their hard hats were facing him and, through teary eyes,
Glenn saw them lifting two by fours and lead pipes. Their foreman began walking
confidently forward, raising his right hand, in which was a cell phone.
What was
a construction crew doing out here? It was Sunday... were they on fuckin'
overtime?
The gas
swirled away, the foreman tugged his gas mask off. He
had a sparse red beard and was missing two front teeth.
"Are
you uh… Andy Morrison?"
"Hey
guys, I'm with the Convention," Glenn said, fingering his Raggedy Andy
tags… which, he hoped, at this distance, wouldn't be scrutinized. "Just passing through. Honest!"
He
looked back into the construction site... most of the gas had dissipated but a
dark man was approaching through the scaffolding. He carried a radio. As he
advanced, smiling thinly, he said...
"Morrison?"
Glenn
stepped back, looking from one to the other, turning the Convention dogtags over and over like worry beads. "No, I'm...
like, is there a cop around? Police? Shee-itt!.. Police!"
A
terrific grating of grinding metal from the street drowned him out as one of
the black, hovering UN helicopters downed by a well-aimed brick skidded by the
alley, tipping over in the street, right upon the half-completed doorsteps to
the condos. Several dazed Turks crawled out as the big bird began to throw off
smoke... Norwegians, Glenn calculated, from their hair and language, or maybe
mercenaries from one of the
The
construction workers backed off…
Half a
dozen townies rushed one of the Turks, knocked him over, and one grabbed his
blue beret. The other Unapissers rushed him and he
tossed it to another, then another... the Turks swearing in their native
language, finally one enunciating: "War crime trials, war crime! Give back
man hat!"
"Hey, UN!" Glenn ventured but, trapped between the
approaching factions, he instinctively edged back,
towards the lone man who hadn't displayed a weapon yet. The radio began to
crackle... the man lifted it to his ear, using an index finger to point to
Glenn to remain where he was. A crackling voice stuttered out... "Scipio
says he's got elephants. Elephants! Commence the procedure!"
"Roger!"
said the dark man.
"Dude
riot!" shrieked one of the locals, leaping on the shoulders of the
brawniest UN peacekeeper in the street.
The
construction foreman's cell phone buzzed, he lifted it to his ear. Glenn
couldn't hear what he said, but it couldn't have been pleasant, Red Beard
slapped it back into his shirt pocket with a curse.
"Fuckin'
fire inna hole," he shouted across Glenn to his
adversary, slapping his palm with the length of pipe he'd brought out of the
white van. "What about you?"
"Elephants!"
"See
you in Anchorage, then, I hope..."
"San
Antonio, first," the dark man reminded him, opening his jacket as he put
the radio away, exposing the handle of his gun. "Unless one of us gets
called up to Montreal for the G-10 conferences... fuckin' horns of the beast!
Fuckin' eggheads..."
"San
Antonio, then!" said Red Beard. "You," he pointed to Glenn with
the pipe, "are one lucky bastard, Morrison. Keep your mouth shut and hands
clean and you might get allowed to live."
"Fine with me!
Though I’m not…"
Glenn
turned, but the dark man with the radio was gone and, when he turned back, the
phony construction workers were piling back into their vehicle. Within seconds,
the white van was speeding off past the brawling townies and Unapissers brawling in the street, and Glenn slumped
against the aluminum wall of the Peppermill condo construction trailer,
hyperventilating. As his breath slowed, he opened his eyes... and there was
another man – this one in a Gulf War vintage Army shirt tagged
"Douglas" pointing a pistol at his nose.
"Morrison,
you killed my buddy. My only buddy!"
"Hey, man, chill!" Glenn tried to explain.
"I'm not Andy, he's with the Conks, inside Masty Hall. Hey... I don't know what or who you're talking
about."
"That’s
your name on those twinkly dogtags. Andy Morrison, right?
You killed Paulie," "
"Hey
man, everybody takes money. I didn't," he added, realizing, in the
instant, his mistake. "I mean... Andy didn't..."
"Guys
like you that think they run the world and leave the good people dead, hanged
in jail cells. "Now it's your turn, man..."
"Who
am I?" Glenn began to question, but the question dissolved
in a red flash, a shower of white sparks... then, only, blue sky...
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