The Nervous System (5 page)

“Why, I know all about you, son. You think you're clever like that, that you can just disappear, young man? Don't mistake me, I salute you for your service, all that. You're a warrior. But let's call a spade a spade. Things seem to have taken a downturn for you, son. I know about Walter Reed. I know about NIH, the programs you took part in, son. Shit, I probably authorized that grant, who can remember? The grant done paid for the study, to which you so generously gave of yourself. You were the star pupil, head of the class, son. What I heard. Hell, I know about this business with the Russian gangsters and what-all, socialist no-God cracker garbage.”

The man enjoying this, darkness yawning wide behind his tongue.

“The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. How much do you love your precious library? Love is a powerful thing, I know that much. But I love the Lord Almighty, and a library ain't nothing but a pile of paper and rocks, built by the hands of men. Power of the Lord knocks it down in a heartbeat.”

My lips go cold, and a spasm runs the length of my body.

“What are you getting at with all this, Senator?”

He waves me off, on a roll, saying: “I know about this white woman from the Balkans, you dig me now? War criminal, isn't she? Sure, I know where she's at this very moment. Imagine our friends at Interpol would be interested in that too. Son, I know what you and Rosenblatt were up to, oh goodness, know all about it, every detail. And I figure I know what became of the DA Jew.”

The Senator draws a forefinger across his throat, slow. Then points it at me, cocks his thumb, pow.

“Doesn't take a genius. Fellow had it coming. Been watching. We. Know. Everything. So, young man, imagine stepping into the Jew's shoes, if you figure you know a thing or two about anything or anybody, including myself, I want you to remember the eternal words of our living God.” He pauses, breathing heavily. Then, “Recall:
A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies, will perish
. And remember our little conversation here in this room. Proverbs 19:9. Godspeed, Mr. Decimal.”

The senator rises and walks straight out the door.

Cued, black boots hustling in, the hood raised up and coming down on my head once more.

“Jesus fucking wept,” I say to nobody.

“Come again, motherfucker?” Scratchy voice.

Lips parted, in my shroud, say, “John 11:35.”

And the cocksukers tase me. Again.

_______________

O
utside the projects, midwinter. I see my breath, feel the ice crust on a beard I no longer have.

Always the same dream.

Stand before the Gun Hill Houses. Behold the architectural brutality of American public housing. Behold the banality of economic segregation.

Observe the empty playground, and the singularly ghetto debris strewn here and there: frosted forty-ounce bottles of Olde English Malt Liquor, Doritos bags, chicken bones, a stray toddler-size Rocawear sneaker.

Note all of this. Disregard it.

Enter the building. All surfaces are subway-car metallic, impervious to graffiti.

Enter the elevator to a cloud of piss and beer. Push the correct button. None of this is unfamiliar.

Exit the elevator, follow the hallway to the correct door. Take out the key.

Key in lock.

Listen at the door.

Inside: a female, I imagine, holds a trembling hand over a child's mouth, and wills this child to be silent, for mercy's sake.

And mercy is what I'm all about. It's why I'm here.

Heft the weapon. And enter on my own time.

_______________

Monday

Always the same dream.

Come thrashing out of it, fully disoriented, soldiers misinterpret my little seizure as resistance to their caresses.

“Get his legs, his legs.”

They renew their grip and I'm hefted onto cool stone. The hood is whisked away.

Eyes fluttering, focus, and I'm home, in the atrium of the library.

Little solace here, though, cause I'm crowded by five heavily armed men, black body armor and flak jackets, spooky in goggles, helmets, and foam rubber ski masks.

A particularly big guy leans over, me knowing it's foolish, but I'm saying, “Tase me again, friend, so fucking help me …”

He grips my trachea, pinches it closed. “Faggot, here's the sit-rep.” It's the scratchy-voiced dude, clearly the alpha of this crew.

I can't breathe but that's the point. At least he's got gloves on. Small miracles. Involuntary tremors from the pill withdrawal, otherwise I don't bother resisting.

Through the mask the man says, “Should've picked you up right off the street last night downtown. Had a feeling. You had us running in circles for a bit there, but we found ya, motherfuck. Yeah. Always will.” He clears his throat, continues, “Listen here. We've scoured this shit shack for any paperwork you might have regarding the senator. Happy to take this fucker apart slab by slab. Got reason to believe you've concealed certain documents, and that's government property, Decimal. Huh? But rather than wear my people out, we're going to do it like this and give you a chance to man the fuck up. Courtesy the senator is extending to you. Not me.”

He readjusts his grip, I get a quick breath in, not much but enough to keep from blacking out if this keeps up.

“I'm doubling back here in eight hours with my unit. Any intel you might have regarding the senator goes in my hands. Understand you're locked down, we got you monitored. You so much as cough, we'll know about it. All exits are covered. Produce these materials and we got no problems. Consider this eight hours an act of grace, respect for a warrant officer. Broke-dick as you are.”

There, the patch on his breast:
Cyna-corp
. The familiar circle-and-swoop logo. Contractors. As predicted. Gives me an Iveta-jolt, her file … something about her working with these guys …

Releases my throat. I'm coughing, think maybe I'll try vomiting on the man's overbuilt shitkickers, though there's nothing in my gut to puke up. Throatful of liver juice.

Guy rises. “That clear enough for you, sir?”

Try to speak, nothing but that burn, have another go, croak: “Solid copy, my man. Stay peace.”

Dude draws a ridiculously huge diver's knife from his boot and cuts my plastic cuffs. Takes the opportunity to jab his knee into the spot they've hit me twice now.

Then he's back up, saying, “Yalla, yalla,” and the crew piles out awkward through the revolving door.

The hustle bustle produces echoes, I lie here, listening to them dissipate. Dig the heavy empty space of my adopted home.

Well, well.

Gotta get to my pills. Left-hand suit jacket pocket. Please please let them be undisturbed.

Drag myself upright, and upstairs. It's not easy. Acute pain has been piled on top of the low-level hum of my body's permanent discomfort.

These Cyna-corp shitbirds go by many names and logos, and they have all but replaced the United States military … first overseas, and then domestically. Just more cost-effective. Oh, and then you don't have to concern yourselves with pesky details like international law, or the traditional rules of engagement.

Cyna-corp doesn't just do military. Cyna-corp does catering. Office supplies. Janitorial and laundry services. General infrastructure, and construction of all types.

Kick it from this angle: they get paid to knock it down, and paid to build it up again.

Funny little world.

Hey, shit, I told you blackmail wasn't my gig of choice. Witness the potential repercussions. This here how-do-you-do would be one reason why I'm just not into that bizzle.

Irony here is I never had any intention of trying to extort anybody. Did I? Fuck no. I'm just attempting to get through the goddamn day. A process that doesn't become any easier with time, now does it?

But this current beef. It's not about blackmail anymore.

Iveta threatened, though I don't take that too seriously. She can handle herself, to put it mildly. Pity the bitches that wanna come at that lady.

Hey, though. Threaten my library? Can't abide it. Won't allow it. But that's not the worst thing the good senator seemed to imply.

Nope, the real worry: yours truly facing my most profound nightmare—being exposed to myself. My true name. Nothing I wouldn't do to wriggle free of that one.

Gimping down the hall, swing into the Reading Room; the place has been tossed, no question there.

Prior to further assessment I make straight for my suit jacket, hanging as I left it, thanks be to Buddha, and shakyhand snatch the pill bottle out of the pocket. Dry-swallow one. Think again, dry-swallow another.

Scrubbing up with Purell
^TM
, I eye-sweep the room, yup, stuff scattered every which way, my agonizingly thoughtout stacks of this and that toppled. I guesstimate a week of cleanup, without distractions, and it doesn't seem like I'm gonna see a week like that for a spell.

Gonna have to clean. Everything.

A look at the dumbwaiter tells me they tried to jimmy it, unsuccessfully. When the door is closed, it's closed. Plus, recall, I jammed it.

Occurs to me: there's got to be a good reason why the devout senator didn't just have me killed straight out the gate. Then his boys could take their sugar-sweet time ripping up this spot, and not have to concern themselves further with tumbleweeds like me. I'd just blow away, no muss and no fuss.

Yup, there's a reason I'm still alive and on the scene. And I suspect it's cause these clowns are chasing their tails and don't know what's popping, or how a player like myself might factor in the mix. I suspect they reckon I might, in my actions, feed them more tasty intel, that pesky missing puzzle piece.

Which means that despite the senator's tough talk, these boys might be nearly as deep in the darkness as I am about who's fucking who. Hoping I can throw 'em a bone.

So the man of God reckons the DA was running an extortion game on him regarding a small matter of a hooker and an infant, cut to pieces and stuffed into a tub of pickled cabbage. And now the good senator is concerned that I'm picking up where the DA fell off. That I intend to run the very same racket.

Well, at least I'm getting an idea of where I'm at.

Starting to feel more like myself. Trying to Zen it with respect to the mess.

To be sure, I do not doubt that I'm on camera. And I don't want to linger here.

Get my suit back on. Paul Smith, a rusty-brown wool number (I say this like it's not my only suit—it's my only suit, okay?), a joint that's either too hot or too cold this time of year, depending, but what can you do? The high price of fashion.

Naturally, my fucking guns have been confiscated. Goddamnit.

But just a moment.

Dig in my cubbyhole, more good luck. They missed this one. Well pleased with the camouflage door, a new addition I made during a manic more-paranoid-than-my-baseline-paranoid episode.

I slide the Serbian CZ-99 into my hat and press it against my chest. Also a folded towel, within which are two 9mm magazines that will fit the 99. Note the dumbwaiter faceplate and controls in there, undisturbed.

Assuming cameras throughout the main room.

Grab a handful of gloves, an extra surgical mask. Spare bottle of pills and two four-ounce Purell
^TM
dispensers. My new laminate, and a couple small leather-bound badges. A penlight, and the night-vision goggles. Handful of jerky sticks. Wanna bring duct tape but I'm fresh out of pockets.

Head to the bathroom. Enter a stall, unfurl the towel, load the pistol, shove it down my waistband in back, drop the extra magazine in my pocket.

Take a moment. Roll my sleeve back, have a look at my forearm. Pretty well healed, of course there's plenty of scar tissue, but … what are the chances the implant didn't actually get removed? That bits remain? Do these things fragment and remain functional? Cause if that's the case and they're on my frequencies, this whole charade is moot. I'm a floating blip on a screen somewhere.

I simply gotta believe this ain't the case, otherwise …

Come out of the men's room dabbing at my face with the towel. Press on my hat.

Yeah, starting to feel better and better. Ready to bounce.

Praise Jesus. This fucking politician. The way I look at this, you can't bullshit a bullshitter. The senator knows more about me than I care to, quite likely every little distasteful thing the DA put me on to. Dangling this over my head like a guillotine. I can't have that. Worse still: ten-toone the man knows my name.

This will not do. Got to get a leg up on the senator. Have to steal some leverage.

Start with what you know. That's the way of the System. A dead, dirt-dredging DA. Dig the power vacuum therein.

A loony-bin legislator, likely the subject of extortion, looking to cover up a cover-up.

A sad-sack brother like myself wanders in ignorance straight out onto the field.

Senator, scared I'm gonna be his new tormentor. Scared, but not sure.

Nightmare team of military contractors, in the service of said senator, sent to settle my hash before I settle his.

Gotta move. Gotta move now.

Exit the Reading Room, dropping the towel in the doorway.

Midmorning sun struggles through the smoke and the atmospheric shit, and weakly illuminates the passageway.

Wing tips go clippity-clap, lopsided in accordance with my limp.

Betting these yahoos, however seriously I might take them on the j.o.b., couldn't get into the basement. Would be a surprise, as I've made some structural alterations that won't show up on an architect's plan of the joint.

Shuffle with stealth through the Bill Blass Public Catalog Room, with its collection of dead computers … hustle on down to the second floor and the Lionel Pincus and Princess Firyal Map Division. I enter and drag the outsized faux-brass doors behind me.