Even Flow

by Darragh McManus

  “I stress: claims. But you know the amount of bullshit on the ’net. Personally I’m not sure: there are no credits or smart-ass commentary like on the previous two—it’s just video footage, barely edited at all. But then again, how do we know the previous two were real anyway? And not just alternate versions doctored and released by the NYPD? We don’t, we can’t, we know, we don’t know.

  “What are you asking me for? I don’t know. Go watch it and judge for yourselves.”

  Cut to a vox pop on a chilly street, a wobbly handheld camera, the furry outdoor microphone sneaking into shot sporadically.

  A nervous-looking thirtysomething woman wrung her hands and said, “They’re criminals. And what are the police doing about it? They’re criminals and thugs. Probably part of some sort of street gang…”

  A kid with thick hair over his eyes giggled dumbly, then composed a serious face and drawled, “Uh…I dunno. Like, I think it’s kinda cool, that they’re doing what they wanna do… But on the other hand, it’s probably, like, illegal? So…I gotta say, I’m conflicted, man…”

  A florid-faced old gent, waves of silver hair and year-round tan, blustered at the camera, “My God, what is the world coming to? When respectable young men can’t feel safe in their own homes. In their own homes! Without these psychopathic terrorists invading their privacy and doing these unspeakable things. Yes, terrorists! It’s a world gone mad…”

  Then back to the male studio presenter, grinning inanely: “As you can see, there seems to be some divergence of opinions among the public on this iss…”

  Benjamin van Horne sat with his wife on the couch, cuddling, their faces bright in the soft light of the TV screen. He bit down on his lower lip and smiled at her with a profound love in his eyes; she smiled back.

  Cut to a studio debate bearing all the hallmarks of low-rating, defiantly intellectual programming: minimalist sets, sparse lighting, earnest men and women arguing their point with extravagant hand movements.

  A young man with a pleasant, sincere face said, “Well, while their methods are somewhat dubious, I can’t say I necessarily disagree with their aims, though I know that’s probably not the politic thing to say…”

  An intense young woman in a knitted skullcap and black dinner jacket came in: “Finally. Thank you. And can I just add to that, you know, one less pimp or gay-basher in the world, that’s a good thing, to my mind. Pity there weren’t more guys out there like that.”

  The oily host, feigning outrage, spluttered, “What…!? Are you seriously suggesting, Anna, that vigilantism is acceptable? That you defend this sort of behavior? I have to say, I’m shocked…”

  “Hey,” she replied, “it’s like Teddy Roosevelt said: sometimes people just don’t listen if you speak nice to them, okay? Sometimes you gotta do some damage with a big stick first…”

  Her voice carried from a TV set, fixed to a bracket near the top of the wall, in Tommy’s hospital room, as his mother sat, teary-eyed and broken-down, next to her unconscious son.

  Cut to the boyish presenter of CrimeSpot, a popular show covering major crime stories, local and international: “Again, I must warn you: the following material may be offensive to some people. It contains violence and strong language, and is recommended only for mature viewers. Okay, let’s roll the tape.”

  Coronado’s broad, strong face, taking over the screen, like his hatred and anger were expanding to fill it, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed, “Yeah, I (bleep) killed a few! You happy now, you crazy (bleep)? I beat one to death with my golf club, and I let the other die of a (bleep) overdose!”

  Then Wilde hammering the pimp’s belly with both fists, grunting, “Now what have you got to say, you son of a (bleep)?” Coronado replying, “Nah, man, you the son of a (bleep)… Those truckers, man, those greasy fat (bleep), they couldn’t get enough of that old (bleep).”

  In close-up, right in there, almost intimate: Wilde spinning and kicking, Coronado’s eyes rolling, his head jolting back, crashing to the ground. Silence. The presenter stringing the tension out.

  He cleared his throat as the camera returned to him: “Well. Clearly an extremely serious incident. Jim, if I could turn to you first…”

  Cut to a news anchorman with a smarmy, toothy smile and angular jaw-line. He said, “And on a lighter note, one gay New York nightclub is reported to have begun running what they term ‘3W’ nights in honor of, and I quote, ‘this group’s gallant defense of a gay man against unprovoked attack by bigoted enemies of society. Janet Kidney is there now…”

  They went over to Janet, a mousy woman with auburn hair, standing outside the front doors of Klub Khan, holding a microphone up to the face of a brawny man with a shaved head—presumably the club’s owner, though no identifying panels appeared on screen.

  The man smiled and said, “Yeah, all I gotta say is, too many people stand by and let this stuff go down all the time in our society. But like their namesakes, these guys showed courage, inventiveness, and belief in what was right. And, Mr. Wilde?” He raised an eyebrow at the camera. “Any time you feel like dropping by, I can guarantee you a warm reception.”

  There were hoots and hollers in the background as Janet was hugged by a big group of men; she shrugged and smiled giddily. Amy and Dorothy watched it from their apartment—Amy on the couch, Dorothy on the ground at her feet. The younger girl glanced up at Amy with a questioning look; Amy gave her a small smile and looked at the screen again.

  Cut to an interview with a skinhead in a black t-shirt, his face half-filling the screen. A name-plate underneath read, “Eric Moose—Aryan People’s Liberation Front.”

  He grabbed the proffered microphone and declared, “We at the APLF take heart from the actions of the 3W Gang. For too long our country has been over-run by unhealthy and criminal foreign elements, spreading disease, selling drugs, terrorizing decent, law-abiding citizens in their homes. Now the way has been shown for a better future for our children, the way of purging the streets of all the scum. The hookers and drug-dealers, the beggars and crooks: we’re coming for you.”

  Moose pointed at the camera and made an “X” with his fisted arms.

  Cut to a professorial-looking man wagging his finger as he made his argument on another discussion show. An on-screen name-plate read, “Jerome LaVey, political activist.”

  He said, “This is patently—patently—yet another smear campaign by the white establishment against black people. By abducting Tommy Richmond and making these allegations about him, they are making a contrived link between homophobia and all young black males…”

  The presenter, a timid, unimposing man in an ill-fitting suit, countered, “Well, I do believe that Mr. Richmond’s gang came from a number of ethnic backgrounds, Jerome…”

  “Yes, and that’s exactly it. That’s exactly my point. Why, in that case, was it the black man who was chosen? Why not the Hispanic or the Chinese or, God forbid, the white man? I see this every day in my work on the ground, at community level, and I can tell you…”

  Clifford Hudson sat with some friends around a bar table as Jerome LaVey ranted in the background. Someone had cracked a joke and they all laughed heartily. Hudson remembered where he was and belatedly joined in.

  Cut to a cheesy, grinning presenter, hovering above an onscreen graphic: “You the Jury. The 3W Gang: heroes or villains? Vote now!!”

  He chuckled, for no apparent reason, and said, “Well, there you can see it, right now, on your TV screens. Our vote of the week: ‘The 3W Gang: heroes or villains?’ As always, you decide, and it’s as easy as one, two, three—just call the number at the bottom right-hand corner and follow the recorded instructions…”

  Wilde clicked off the TV and sank back into his armchair. The headache was getting worse; he had felt alright earlier that day, but now there was a throbbing pain in his temple, spikes of pain rising and falling in time with his pulse. He rested three fingers lightly against his right temple and clutched his balaclava in the other hand. He knea
ded the garment, squashing the wool against itself.

  He stared at the black-gray blankness of the dead screen, then blinked the pain from his head, reached for his cell phone, and keyed in a message: “MESSAGE GETTIN CONFUSED. NEED 2 EXPLAIN OURSELVS PROPERLY.LET PEOPLE KNOW. SEND IT FOR 11.45 AM TOMORO.” He selected Waters’ number from the database and pressed “OK”, and his message flew.

  Chapter 9

  We wish to do an interview

  CATHY looked tired. Stealing sideways glances at her as they sat on a pretty chaise longue in one of Network 4’s hospitality rooms, Patrick thought she looked tired. Tiny red veins showed at the side of her eyeball, dark little threads against the blue-white of her eyes. She was under a lot of pressure, he knew that. But, like before, he didn’t quite know how to assuage it.

  He tried to think of something encouraging to say and then Cathy nullified the need by speaking herself. She breathed heavily and said, “Two days. Two days, and not a whisper.”

  “No more videotapes?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Two days and nothing. It’s like they’re hiding or something. Biding their time.”

  “Well, maybe that, ah, altercation with Danny spooked them a little,” Patrick replied. “You know, like they’re scared of being identified now.”

  “Maybe. I guess so. I don’t know.” Cathy paused; she twisted her fingers into themselves, stared at her upturned shoes. “Anyway, can we forget about the goddamn 3W Gang for five minutes? How have you been lately?”

  She turned and beamed a lovely smile on him, and Patrick thought, Man—the strength of a woman. Never ceases to amaze. Then he remembered that she had asked him a question and said, “Me? Uh…fine. Yeah, I’ve been okay. I feel sorta bad for you, though.”

  “Why would you have cause to feel bad for me?”

  He shrugged. “Ah, it’s just… Y’know, with all this trouble with management. Them blaming you for the tapes being leaked. All that.”

  Cathy smiled again and patted his leg—a kind, almost maternal gesture, though she wasn’t that much older than he. “You’re sweet, Patrick. Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. It’ll all blow over soon enough anyway, and we can move smoothly on to the next crisis here at the Network 4 funhouse.”

  Patrick nodded and gave her hand a brief squeeze. He wanted to reassure her, to help out, to somehow remove Cathy from this whole situation. But again, there wasn’t much he could do right now, except wait for certain things to take their course.

  Downstairs, at that moment, a bicycle courier—a thin, pale fellow who bore a striking resemblance to a young Woody Allen—was approaching Jennifer at the reception desk. She looked even more bored than usual, sighing loudly and staring into space, her head rested on one hand. She was considering her options for summer vacation—the beach or a city break in Boston?—when her receptionist sixth sense kicked in and she peripherally noticed the little courier approaching, his bowed, hairy legs showing under fluorescent shorts. Jennifer snapped into an upright position and smiled blandly.

  The courier parried with a half-hearted smile of his own and said, “Uh…yeah, hi. I gotta package here for a—just lemme check this—right, a Jonathon Bailey. Could you, like, page him for me?”

  Jennifer nodded warily and discreetly pressed a button under her desk. She said, “Uh-huh. No problem. If you could just wait for one moment…”

  Less than a minute later two brawny security men rushed into view and effortlessly manhandled the courier to the ground. He kicked with those skinny legs and yelled, “Hey! Hey, what the fuck is this? That’s not my bike parked illegally, if that’s what you’re thinking…”

  One of the security guards spoke into his earpiece: “Yeah, John? We got a courier here. At reception. You better get that cop over here. Yeah, that’s the one…”

  He looked up and caught Jennifer’s eye. He’d always found her very attractive. The security guard posed there, the courier pinioned by his large hands, like a big game hunter proudly displaying his prize. Jennifer perked up and smiled at him. He wouldn’t be bad-looking if he grew his hair a little, she thought. I wonder if he likes the beach?

  “Look, I told you already—I don’t know nothing about this package. I just ride the fucking bikes, man. I ride the bikes.”

  Danny rubbed his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He’d known from the moment he stepped into the room that this courier, this Toby Lipnicki, would prove to be an awkward son of a bitch. Danny guessed that the guy had some sort of Napoleon syndrome—the small man’s need to prove himself. He was abrasive and confrontational, and he spoke very quickly and very loudly. Danny looked back at him across the desk in a small utility room on Network 4’s first floor. The security guard, the one who’d phoned him 20 minutes previously, had ushered him into the room with an urgency that suggested one of two things: either he thought he was on protective detail for the President, or he thought he was the lead in a bang-and-boom movie about a SWAT team. Bonehead, Danny thought; brutal goddamn macho asshole.

  “I know that, Mr. Lipnicki,” he said. “But what might seem trivial to you might be of massive significance to me, so please, indulge me—run through it again.”

  Lipnicki looked around and waved a pack of cigarettes in the air. “Okay to smoke in here? I don’t wanna get arrested by youse or nothing.”

  Danny nodded. Lipnicki lit a cigarette and launched into it: “Alright, here it is—again —the delivery was paid for, in cash, this morning. I know this ’cause I was on my coffee break at the time, and I seen the guy. I can even tell you the name. Let’s see…” He rustled through a sheaf of crumpled papers. “…here it is: N R Graves. That’s all I got: N R Graves.”

  Danny smiled. “Hopefully not prophetic. What did this man look like?”

  “He was, uh…pretty ordinary, really. Youngish, pale skin; regular-looking guy. He had on a hooded top, so I don’t know about his hair.”

  “How tall was he?”

  “Mmm…not very. Shorter than you. Little bigger than me. Look, I don’t know nothing, alright? I was told deliver this package to whatsisname—this guy Bailey—at exactly quarter before noon. And that I did.”

  Danny nodded and looked at the desk. “Alright. Thanks, Mr. Lipnicki. You’re free to go.”

  Lipnicki rose, gathered his things and said sarcastically, “And gee, thank you. Am I gonna get compensated by the Police Department for my loss of time here?”

  Danny shot him a withering look; the aggrieved courier slunk away. A young uniformed officer with jet-black hair and a baby face—Norris, one of the two who’d been assigned to Danny—stuck his head in the door. He said tentatively, “Detective? We’ve checked the package. It’s clean, it’s fine.”

  “So what it is?”

  Norris stepped into the room. “It’s, like, a Dictaphone. You know, for recording voices and stuff?”

  “Yep, I know. Bring it on in, Officer Norris.”

  The officer placed the Dictaphone on the table. Thin; dark-silver rather than black; an old-style mechanical model, not one of the more modern digital ones. Danny took a breath and pressed play—Wilde’s voice rang out, tinny but recognizable.

  “Good afternoon, Detective Everard. I hope you’re feeling better after our brief contretemps the other evening. Sorry if I hurt you—you seem a good man, and you’re only doing your job. But we couldn’t allow you to catch me, or to stop us in what we’re doing. You see, we have our job to do, too. With that in mind, please instruct Mr. Bailey to call this cell number—nine-one-seven; three-five-nine-seven; four-three-seven—at exactly 12.30pm. We wish to do an interview.”

  Silence, except for a slight hissing of static. Danny frowned momentarily, a little taken aback, then checked the clock on the wall: it was now 12.10pm. He pocketed the recording device and hauled ass.

  The entire place was a frenetic hive of activity: every floor, it appeared, every room, every available space. Danny looked around and thought, Holy shit. And to think how busy the station house
sometimes seemed. Floor and technical staff rushed around, racing against time to ready the studio for Bailey’s interview with Wilde. Men in earpieces, women holding clapboards, gestures and commands, sound checks and light tests, security huddling among themselves, pointing out certain areas and nodding gravely. Danny let out a long breath and retreated to a quiet corner in the wings. The voice at the other end of his phone was being drowned in the cacophony, the noisy bustle.

  He raised his voice a notch and said, “Yeah, a cell phone. I’ve given your colleague the number. You should be able to triangulate the signal to within a reasonably small area. Gimme something workable here, guys. I’m depending on you. Hold on…” He flipped to a second line. “Yes, Tyler… I said I needed more men, godammit, not less. There’s been a what…? Jesus Christ. Alright. Alright. No, I know it’s not your fault. Look, just do what you can. And get back to me as soon as possible.”

  Danny pointed to Norris and Singh, lurking ten feet away, looking strangely bashful, like schoolboys who’ve crashed an adult party. Singh was very thin with coffee-colored skin and a persistent expression of deep concentration.

  “Okay,” Danny said. “Norris, I want you covering this floor and the top level, the management level. Singh, I want you to roam the other floors and the reception area. It would appear that we’re a little under-par in terms of manpower, but we’ll just have to manage.”

  Norris coughed into his hand. “Uh, sir?”

  “Yes, Officer.”

  “Sir, I’ve, ah… that is, Singh and me, we’ve heard that, uh, that these are pretty dangerous fucking guys, right?” He laughed nervously. “So, uh, so what I’m wondering, sir, is…”

  “You’re wondering if you’re going to be safe. You’re wondering if a bomb is going to go off and bring this whole place down. If you should phone your girlfriends now, while you still can.”