The Nervous System (27 page)

I am alone with my city in that ungodly hour, the hour of the wolf, when even an all-but-abandoned metropolis takes on yet another dimension of strangeness.

Fucking ghosts hound me all the way downtown, howling, making demands I do not understand. I'm reeling, spinning. Pedal fully depressed, and I don't dare look back, not for an instant.

Despite having not slept, or perhaps because of it, and despite the urgency of it all, I possess a certain tranquility, and I honor the System by choosing the correct routing: Bronx River Parkway to the Bruckner Expressway, exit to Bruckner Boulevard, cross the Third Avenue Bridge and onto the FDR Drive, which will carry us to the Brooklyn Bridge.

Mindful travel. I force a peaceful kickoff to a day that will very likely plunge me into some fresh abyss.

I wear my unremarkable gray suit, as if headed to an office job. Shoulder holster under my jacket with my freshly cleaned CZ-99, a fresh fifteen-round magazine. At my belt I carry the diver's knife. Ankle holster with the P290, six rounds in the clip. On the front passenger's seat I have my bag with the senator's file, retrieved from the air vent, and all accompanying digital media.

Meditate on the transient nature of corporeal existence. On the impermanence of our institutions, our monuments to ourselves. Certainly, I have seen a great many of these massive shrines to our ambition fall, dissolve, be reduced to ash.

After the rickety UN underpass and at about 39th Street, I look west at the lights of the Chrysler Building, and I experience a profound rush of sadness, accompanied by the realization that, as the Buddha teaches, a denial of one's true nature and clutching at perishable and changeable things can only result in acute suffering.

Y'all think I don't suffer? Oh I suffer, acutely, and shower this anguish on all who come near me.

Spiritual reconstructive surgery is required, should I survive the next few hours. My next big to-do, on my extremely short to-do list, which at the moment looks a little something like this:

1) ORGANIZE BOOKS AT LIBRARY ACCORDING TO DECIMAL SYSTEM

1A) DON'T DIE

2) TBD

But fuck such musings. Can't afford waxing philosophical now. I gotta stay good, I gotta stay gold.

Spark a smoke and keep tight on the road. The ghosts hang back, perhaps sensing my resolve. Headlights hit the sign for exit 2:
Brooklyn Bridge/Manhattan Civic Center.
It is necessary that we pass this up, and come back around, in order to avoid violating the no-left-turn edict of my System.

Attain the on-ramp. Screetch-slide the Volt to a sideways halt, at the head of the bridge. Above what I know to be the appropriately named Rose Street.

Let's do this thing and get it done. Move. Lean over, grab Howard's papers. Hop out, toss my cig, smooth my suit, quick-check my tie. With the file under one arm, I jerk open the rear door, produce the diver's knife. Kathleen bug-eyed like I'm gonna slash her. Stuff the file halfway down my pants.

“Senator Koch, just behave or I'll cut you,” I say, slicing her legs free and hefting the woman out of the car. “We're going to meet your husband. If you stay cool we should all be going home this morning, and I promise you you'll never have to see my fucked-up face again. Understand?”

Kathleen affirms this, hair a modernist sculpture, all that spray holding it fast in a gravity-defying shape. Her soul-windows unfocused, but black with … what? Loathing? That would, at least, make the woman human.

I leave the duct tape on her hands and mouth in place. Don't need her crazy lip.

With my back to 100 Centre Street, where but a few days ago this action jumped off. Picture myself on the nineteenth floor that day, with a pair of vintage binoculars, observing my progression now, lugging Senator Kathleen Koch. One of her heels has broken, so the both of us hobble like a pair of gimps up the wooden walkway of the great bridge.

As we draw nearer to the Gothic tower, I admire afresh the symmetry of the structure. Dual traffic portals like a pair of colossal bullets. The structure is lit up from behind by an unseen source. Two relatively new American flags hang from the top of each portal.

Ahead, beneath the central column, I can make out several figures.

Set it off.

“Pardon me, Senator Koch.” Stow the knife, pull the CZ, cock the hammer, and place it against her temple. Correct my breathing; easy, circular.

A stairwell connects the promenade with the Manhattanbound roadway, where I observe a parked limousine. Beyond the massive structure, I note a helicopter, engines off, positioned on the walkway, with a large spotlight directed skyward, illuminating the immediate area. Parking the chopper any further out would prove dangerous, as it's unlikely the wounded bridge would provide needed support.

Can't see faces, but I make out figures I assume to be Nic, Senator Howard, and Rose, who wears the orange jumpsuit I saw her in earlier. Nic and Howard sport wool overcoats, the senator leaning his large frame on his famous cane.

Check the spires and lattices, structurally compromised as they are, for signs of snipers or hidden gunmen. There: I note one solo soldier, crouching on the very same cable upon which I observed the potential jumper. He or she cradles a rifle of some kind. Motherfuck. Make that two, there's a second shooter on the opposite side.

I can also assume we have personnel in either the limo, the chopper, or both. Despite this I proceed, pound forth, gripping Kathleen. Wanna end this.

“Godawful time of day, son,” calls Nic. “Had to set an alarm—”

“Did you misunderstand me, fuckwad?” I lift my damaged shoulder in the direction of the shooters in the latticework. “I said no extras.”

Flash on Rose, who looks scared but okay.

Nic spreads his arms, makes a what-are-you-gonna-do gesture, indicates the senator, who speaks now.

“Son, I take responsibility for the security. I found your conditions to be unacceptable. I apologize if this is disturbing to you and I hope you will consider that these measures are for all of our protection. Understand that you have the advantage, and please forgive the liberties I've taken.”

I stopped about thirty feet from the trio and re-up my hold on Kathleen. Shift the pistol to the right of her eyeball. She makes murmuring sounds.

“Senator Howard, sir, you gotta understand that if I detect more bullshit I'm gonna shoot your loony-ass wife, no problem. Be doing the world a fucking favor. That's my promise to you. Can you dig me?”

The senator has placating paws out. “I believe you, son, and indeed I have strong faith that we, all of us, given our differing views and perspectives, are honorable people, and can find light in the darkness here, which will lead us to greener pastures. Now, may I speak with my wife?”

“Tell your shooters to back up on out of here.”

The senator offers me a tight smile. “I can't do that, son. Now, I ask you kindly, might I have a word with my wife?

“No sir,” I say. Proceeding gradually closer. “What happens first is you all release Rose. Once Rose is with me, you and your lady can slide back to your Sugar Hill crib and burn miniature crosses and spew crazy at each other as y'all see fit. Deal?”

Nic watches all of this, tense. His eyes flicker back to me.

I am close enough now to make eye contact with Rose. Once-over my girl … handcuffed, hands front, but otherwise unbound. She starts blinking rapidly … dig a pattern … short-long-short, Morse code? I crinkle my brow, are you okay? She seems to get this, bobs her head subtly.

“Son,” begins the senator, “as Galatians tells us …”

Nic wades in: “I think what Senator Howard is trying to say here—” interrupts himself with a smoker's cough. I size up Deluccia, the man is as nervous as a stray dog in Hanoi. Him knowing I know. Me thinking: I got you, motherfucker.

An eyelid spasms on the old man, him saying, “… is that he needs a show of good faith coming from your side, you know—and hell, only way to make your … commitment to a peaceful resolution here is to just let Kathleen go now, that's the way I see it, son.”

I shift my grasp on Kathleen. Tighten it. “Both of you all best stop calling me
son
. It's irritating. You cut Rose loose, you get Kathy. Simple like that.”

The older black and white men make reassuring noises, though nothing about our configuration changes. Senator saying, “Of course, of course …” like anything else would be unimaginable.

Which is to say: bitches running a game on me.

“Am I failing to e-nunciate proper? Did you all not savvy the fucking deal? Last time. Rose goes first, she comes to
me
, Kathy goes to
you
. Done, now do it!”

Nic saying, “Let's just dial it back a couple notches. Simmer down. We're gonna,” throws an eyeball at the senator, the gunmen above. “We're gonna talk this thing through.”

That zinger makes me smile ugly. “Oh, we gonna
talk
. Let's talk about
this
then, Nic. Just so everybody is clear with each other from the jump.” I'm enjoying the man's clear discomfort. “I assume you've come clean with the good senator here?”

Senator Howard looks slowly over at Deluccia, with interest. Nic grimaces.

“Not totally sure what you're referring to there, young man,” answers Nic, his upper lip nearly writhing off his face.

If I was shooting in the dark a bit prior to this moment, I see all the affirmation I need in the man's twitchy mouth. Me saying, “Oh, so perhaps this is something y'all would prefer to discuss in private then. Talking about blackmail, some shit like extortion being a serious matter and all …”

Kathleen's head slowly comes up at the word
extortion
, and she watches her husband. The senator's ears are perked, and he looks over the older white man as if for the first time.

“What would this gentleman be making reference to, Nicholas?” posits the senator flatly, brows arched.

Nic is grinning unsteadily at everybody. Looking from face to face. Figuring he's fucked. Then he looks back out at the river.

“Aw jeez …” he starts, as if it's a damn shame, and makes the move I'd make in his position. Producing an automatic he draws Rose to his chest, places the gun at her neck. Planting the girl between the two of us. “Ya know …” he says, grinning again, “I never did trust you black motherfuckers. Oh, I
worked
with you. All these years …”

Rose has her face set, looking resigned. She closes her eyes. Fuck me. I'm doing the math, counting all the guns. Press mine firm against Kathy's skull, saying, “Nic, man. Happy to kill the good Missus Senator here, kindly unhand—”

Howard cuts me off, attention locked on Deluccia. “Nicholas.”

“Okay,” says Nic, bobbing his head. “Black motherfuckers. I regret having just said that. I spoke in anger. My point being … you people think you've had it tough? I'm from
Staten Island
, goddamnit. My pa gets kicked off the force for being a drunk bastard, goes to work at
Fresh Kills
, for Christ's sake. I come from
garbage
. From hunger. Kill myself getting out of it. Had to prove my worth every goddamn day, but I did it, hell if I didn't do it. You all think you're the only ones had to climb that fucking ladder?”

The senator shifts his weight, taps the cane on the ground. Looking disgusted with Deluccia, with the world, deeply inconvenienced.

“Nicholas,” he says, “that is neither here nor there.”

“Every goddamn day on the force, I had to listen to the crap, this
racial quota
stuff. Sensitivity training. Endless crap I gotta listen to, you think I never dug a goddamn hole?”

Cry me a fucking river. Count two shooters up in the railings. Think, Decimal. Saying lightly, “Does anybody, anybody at all, give a shit about this here white lady?”

“Nicholas,” the senator intones, holding up a hand to me, getting more Southern-fried church-ified. “Friend, are you going to address this young man's assertions or are you going to have yourself a prideful pity party over there, talking nonsense and putting both of these women in harm's way like a damned coward?”

Nic doesn't look at the senator. Peering down a tunnel at me. “Everybody know who that young man is right there? What he is? Murderous ghetto trash. A stone killer. I
saved
you, son. Nobody ever did that for me, oh no. I picked you up out of the gutter, boy. You weren't on anybody's radar. Woulda been dead or in the joint serving twenty-tolife like the rest of your buddies.”

It cuts, I won't lie. Coming from Nic. He can still burn me like that, and it's a fucking drag to acknowledge this. Mouth open, primed for snappy comeback, but generating zilcho.

Nic carries on: “I gave you every possible tool you needed to rise above your shit-assed station, and this is the kind of thanks I get in return? This is the
respect
I deserve?”

“The way I hear it,” pipes in Rose, her voice rough but steady, “you'd've never made chief had this boy not broke that child-killer case for you back in the—”

Rose with the tight research. Nic pulls her closer and places the gun across her lips. I tense even further. If I paste Kathleen … but then I got nothing …

“Keep your fucking buckethead mouth closed, miss. You're in enough trouble as it is, and you should be smart enough to not talk such nonsense.”

Clarence's mouth spreads into a grimace. “Well, there's some truth in there somewhere, Nic. But let's not dwell on such matters.”

I keep my split lips zipped. Nic is wild-eyed, unhinged. Letting dude bury himself, flecks of spittle popping out his mouth.

“With my bare hands, Clarence. I built everything. And now I gotta stand here and be insulted by you fucking—”

The senator smacks his cane on the wood of the walkway. “You will at the very least curb your language, in the presence of the ladies!”