The Nervous System (21 page)

“You can get a feed going, right? And you can roll it out on a frequency so anybody monitoring video is gonna pick it up, am I right?”

Dos flutters his eyes impatiently like this is the most elementary jazz he's ever been consigned with. Take that as a yes.

“Hot,” I say. Look at the screen showing Times Square. Military vehicles amassing. My stomach drops, I glance quick at the front door. Getting paranoid.

“You absolutely positive none of that computer shit is traceable back to this here address, Mac?”

Dos nods his head. “Yo, I wouldn't be doing it otherwise, even for a good friend like yourself. Got it directed so that if you pulled on that rope you'd find yourself somewhere outside Kuala Lumpur, then pinging back to a spot in San Juan. So no worries.”

Nodding, I gingerly prod the back of my neck again. Think about putting some Purell
^TM
on that very spot, but what good would it do?

On the other hand, what's it gonna hurt, so that is exactly what happens. Dos just surveys me, no judgment there. After I've swapped out gloves again, and done up my hands, I rub it in there thoroughly.

“We do this,” I say, “and then I'm gonna need you to sort though that video I brought by.”

Dos inclines his head.

Pop a pill. Just to maintain. Need a fucking painkiller, my shattered claw throbbing.

Grab that Paul Smith box cutter.

“Lemme have a couple minutes with her first. Then I'll give you a signal, and we'll go ahead, go live with this jammie.”

Dos has his eyes half closed and doesn't respond. That's his work mode. Man'll do whatever I need him to do.

Head for the soundstage, removing my jacket as I do so. Don't wanna stain that smart shit, not so soon anyway.

_______________

She hears me enter, blindly snaps around, and just launches right into it. Unreal. Comes muffled through the plastic: “Oh jeez, this is a fact of war on American soil. Ya cannot deliberately hold an American citizen against his or her willingness, in accordance with the old Michael Mann Act of 2001. Homeland Security—”

“Ma'am, I'm going to take this off your head. If you move you'll get cut and that will be your fault, not mine.”

“Oh Lord, let Yer mighty hand cast this terrorist Devil outta Yer servant Senator Kathleen Koch, so this freedomhater may no longer hold captive this person whom it pleased Ya ta make in Yer body image—”

“That's absolutely right. Move and you'll get cut.”

I run the box cutter up the side of her head as she blathers on, very cautiously of course, she yelps as I inadvertently nick her cheek what with all her twitching around. I'll admit my hand slipped a little.

“Uh-huh. Told you not to move, lady.”

Tear the remaining plastic off with my gloved hand, stray tape pulling out some of her hair in the process. Another indignant noise, but she's trying to not give me the satisfaction.

What does she see? A concrete room. A wraithlike, dark-hued mongrel of a man in a nice suit, wearing a surgical mask, gloves. Holding a semiautomatic and a box cutter. Behind the black man, a wall full of deadly looking dildos, whips, unidentifiable leather objects. A cheap card table is all that separates her from the evil-looking gentleman.

I'm pretty sure it's scary.

Set down the gun, and crouch so I'm level with her face.

Points for moxie, she's aiming for stoic but it's clear she's shitting in her Jackie O. wear, terrified, seemingly only now grasping the reality of this situation, Kathleen squawking: “You are Holy Gosh WOW so damn dead, mister. Kill ya! Capital offense already. My team'll find ya. Oh yeah. America's best, heroes … Not that, ah, maybe there's a some kinda deal thing we could get going for ya. I just have to make a call. But you wanna play this the wrong way, you … insurgent? My team will getcha. Getcha good …”

And so on. I let her exhaust herself. It takes a minimum of fifteen minutes. I consider her mouth, her hair, the whole construction. Highly engineered. To a particular purpose, this is a woman who is considered irresistibly attractive to a certain segment of our old society.

It strikes me that there's something creepily robotic about Kathleen Koch. She's exactly what a right-wing money person would build for themselves, not just as a sex partner, but to send out into the world, get through doors they otherwise couldn't penetrate.

After this period of time, I note she has stopped speaking and is just bobbing her head silently. I clear my throat, and say calmly, “Kathleen Koch. You are in an extremely unfortunate position, and I want you to understand where you stand very clearly. Are you listening? I need you to listen and not say anything.”

I pause. She appears to be unresponsive. Rocking back and forth. She has begun weeping. Good. I carry on.

“Can I call you Kathy? Great. Your reputation is that you are not very intelligent. I'll give you more credit than that and speak to you like an adult. Kathy, this is a oneway conversation. I need no information from you, so you are useless in this respect. That's number one.”

She starts mouthing something. I can't hear her and don't care either which way, so I continue: “My constituents and I have no allegiances to any organized group, construction firm, corporation, or country. We have no associations with state or private military, nor is there a political dimension to this.”

She's fucking praying aloud. This is rich.

“The Lord is my shepherd. I will not want,” mumbleth Kathy. “He feedth me from fine pastures and delivers us from the axis of evil …”

Wow. Almost artful how she mashes up texts.

In my estimation she's playing at crazy. It's strikes me as completely contrived and therefore not even pitiable. I can't help but say it: “My personal belief that you are a charlatan, an opportunist, and a sociopath has bearing only in the sense that there is no part of me that is the least bit concerned for your continued well being. You are here as a hostage, not as a guest, and you will not be allowed basic comforts such as food, or trips to the ladies' room, et cetera, so there's no percentage in requesting for such luxuries.”

“… don't negotiate, never surrender to servants of the Islamist Illuminati …”

“You are alive only because your husband and his business associates have wronged my associates and me in a profound way. You're just a bargaining chip, and if it doesn't work out, it's no sweat cause we have other angles. Look here, Kathy, I will indicate two cameras: one there, and one there.”

I point them out but Koch doesn't look up. She's making shapes with her mouth. Wacko stuff. I won't lie, I'm enjoying this.

“Shortly we will make sure your husband and/or one of his representatives sees you. Your only function is to be seen. You may say two things and two things only, which are, one: that you are relatively unhurt for the moment; and two: if the senator does not cooperate, I have assured you that I will kill you at my whim.”

Kathleen is tripping out. She commences gnashing her teeth, rolling her eyes, etc. It's a lame act and it's pathetically transparent, so again I ignore her behavior.

“Do you understand what I've just told you?”

Kathy is now speaking in tongues. It's some snakehandling kind of shit. Spit fills the corners of her mouth. Her thickly applied mascara streaks her cheeks.

Sweet Jesus. But it's good. She is appropriately fucked-up looking. But what bullshit, all these cheap-ass theatrics.

“You need to believe that I will kill you Kathleen. Do you believe that?”

More spittle, more nonsense. Please. Basta. I pick up the pistol and fire just to the right of her ear.

That shuts her the fuck up quick-fast in a hurry. Booya, Kathy.

Let her digest what just happened, and repeat, “Kathleen Koch, have I succeeding in conveying the speed at which I will kill you should you not participate? If not, let me simply say I'll kill ya slow cause I'll be having a good time doing it. Believe me?”

She flips her head around. Gets coherent.

“I … peed. On myself,” croaks the senator. “If I could get just, ya know. A towel.”

Aiming a bit tighter in this time, I fire just past the other ear.

She starts shrieking like this particular type of monkey I saw a show about on an airplane going to or fro some hole of Hell. The lady has a little seizure.

Again, I let this settle down and it resolves itself into deep sobs, which strike me as much more authentic. More good stuff.

Among other things Kathleen says is that she cannot hear anything. Which is fine too.

I step forward and lean in a bit. “Again, you just need to be seen. We're turning on the cameras,” I say, louder than necessary. “And again, I think you're smarter than your image would suggest, so I do hope you follow the guidelines I've laid out. I suppose we'll see exactly how much your husband values you, Kathleen—that should be informative, if nothing else.”

I signal Dos. Slide my metal chair back out of frame.

“I'll be right outside,” I say. “Just play it natural and you'll maybe get through this. Remember that I am not invested in you in any way, and would gladly have the next bullet go in your mouth. M'kay?”

She wags her head, eyes darting between the cameras and my gun. Her teeth are chit-chattering audibly. Christ, she fell apart pretty quick there. I had thought she was a warrior, a proper tiger.

“Hey, Kath.” She's spacing out. “Kath,” I repeat. Her eyes swing in my general direction. She vibes drugged but the terror is still there too. “Kath, just since we're chatting, curious about that seven-hundred-dollar nail job they rattled on about a couple years back. Where you got … what was it, diamond-encrusted American flags …?”

That rouses her a touch. Kathleen seems like she's trying to regain some dignity. But it all reads android to me. I wonder if we have that technology. The ability to build something like her. That would be some deep tech.

She serves me the schizo boilerplate on this one, it's like she's reading off cut-up cue cards, her voice monochrome.

“Fair use of American tax money. Ah, I successfully litigated five lamestream journalists 'bout that, see, cause which is a matter of public record, so I have no comment. Aw jeez … aw jeez … my head is … I get migraines, bad ones …”

She trying hard to stay on message, but even at her most coherent, her message is a whole tangle of mad crazy. So it's hard to tell when she's losing it. Blame it on the migraines, that was her mantra as she exited the presidential race, the headaches, the headaches …

Jesus, but she's tacky as fuck. Can't contain myself, say, “Well, who said white-lady politicians couldn't shine on? Blingtastico. Ghetto stuff, the nails. Showing anybody can be a hood rat. It's inspirational. And another thing you've driven on home, Kath. Genderwise. You sure enough broke the glass ceiling on being a fucking scumbag. So congrats on that, Kath. You're a nasty piece of trash like the rest of us.”

Senator Kathleen Koch, encased in a plastic bag and duct-taped to a chair, commences weeping.

_______________

Doesn't take long, Dos saying: “Yeah. Skype account I have tied to this feed is blowing up already. How do you wanna handle this, player partner?”

I don't think I know exactly what Skype is … damn, that Internet thing was a bunch of bullshit. One big advertisement for itself, and somehow you paid to watch the same ad over and over.

“Skype, is that text-based messages and whatnot?”

Dos considers me. “How old are you, my mellow? Text, yeah, if you want. Or video-conferencing kinda thing.”

“No, let's do it like text.”

Dos taps a couple buttons, has a look. Starts whistling something.

“All right, here we are. Lemme just filter out … We could make some money here, Librarian, we got folks offering real cash for this video. People making suggestions as to what we do next … Ha. I'll bypass those.” Dos nows starts singing under his breath, “
Till you just can't boogie no mo …
Okay, this looks like something. Oh, I'm singing that fuckin song! User name is
BOOGIE_OOGIE_OOGIE_MAN_2
—”

My stomach drops. Cut him off: “Lemme read it.” Peer at the screen.

In a little yellow bubble I dig:

DELUCCIA HERE. LET'S DO THIS WITH SOME CIVILITY. ROSE HEE WILL MEET AN UGLY END IF YOU DO NOT HAND OVER SENATOR KOCH UNHARMED. KINDLY ESCORT THE SENATOR TO THE STATEN ISLAND FERRY WHITEHALL TERMINAL, SECOND FLOOR, AND AN EXCHANGE WILL BE ARRANGED. BE UNARMED AND COMPLIANT. 12 NOON TODAY. ACCEDE AND WE GO EASY ON YOU. RSVP.

“Does that seem legit?” comes Dos.

I look at the clock on his computer. 9:18 a.m.

“Yo, Dos, help me out, how do I do this?”

Dos again peeps me askance. “Just type the shit in. How did you miss the fundamentals, man? My kids were doing this by the time they were four.”

Hate to touch the keyboard but I'm typing. I'm a singlefinger kind of typer. Painstakingly, I manage to eke out:

AGREED 2, W CAVEATS. 1) I WILL BE ARMED, + 2) WEARING BODY BOMB ATTACHED 2 EKG SO IF HEART RATE DIPS BOOM. U R FOREWARNED. I WANT 2 C U IN TH FLESH, ALONE, NO FLUNKIES, I SPOT A FLUNKY DEAL'S OFF. SEE U @ NOON.

“That's … kinda thin, yo,” comments Dos.

“I'm under duress, man.” He's right though.

Dos shrugs, I make jazz hands at the keyboard.

“Then what?”

“The computer? Press
Enter
, prince. Jesus. What up with this bomb jive?”

There's a silly sound, a digital bubble, as I see my message appear in the main field.

“Suicide bomber, it's a straight classic. Never watched
24
?”

“You are solid old-school, holmes.”

“I am that. Message sent, right?”

Dos exhales. “Yeah.”

“Then that's me jetting,” I say, reaching for my coat. “Kill that video feed. Gonna move Koch. Can you slap me together something that looks … bomb-ish? And if you could have a go at that data I brought in …”