Norris laughed again, even more embarrassed. Singh remained silent and watchful. Norris said, “Well, uh…yes, sir. That’s pretty much it.”
Danny leaned toward them and said, “You can calm those fears right away. Okay? This gang hasn’t used explosives of any sort, or targeted more than two people at a time, up until now, and I’ve no reason to suspect that’s going to change. I’d be amazed if they even come near this place today—hence their use of a cell phone. You, and Singh and I, are just…insurance. Just in case. Alright?”
Norris nodded, obviously relieved. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Now go do your jobs. And stay alert…” Danny smiled mischievously. “…just in case.”
In the center of the studio Bailey’s make-up was being touched up. He stretched his face into funny shapes as Cathy stood nearby, arguing with the station manager, a barrel-chested egomaniac called Murray Helmore.
She said, “I still think this is a really, really bad idea. It’s just giving them what they want, and I have to express my strong disapproval to…”
“Duly noted and remembered, Cathy,” Helmore replied. “But you know the rationale behind this: if we go out live, someone listening, someone in their car or walking along the street, might overhear the mysterious Mr. Wilde as he talks. Right? So this whole thing could be ended by lunchtime today. Besides which…”
Bailey said to the make-up girl, his voice slightly distorted by the upward tilt of his jaw, “Do you think you’re almost finished there? I really should… Hello! You—guy behind the camera light. Could you redirect it, please? It’s right in my goddamn face, I can’t see…”
“Come on, Cathy,” Helmore continued. “Think of the ratings. This is the nearest modern equivalent to getting Oswald for an on-air tête-à-tête.”
Cathy threw her hands in the air and stalked away, angrily shaking her head. Helmore turned and saw Bailey. He smiled and made the shape of two pistols with his fingers, pointing them at the anchorman.
“Heeyy, Jonathon. How you feeling? You ready for this? Your biggest moment in 20 years, baby.”
Bailey said dryly, “Sure, Murray. Can’t wait.” He swallowed what felt like a thick clump of dust in his throat. The light was still in his face, and he couldn’t see a damn thing.
The hands on the large, white studio clock moved round slowly: 12.25pm. Patrick and Cathy stood on the sidelines, waiting. She chewed on a fingernail, which seemed so out of character to Patrick that he almost laughed out loud. 12.27pm. Danny stood on the other side, tensed and ready to roll—in what direction, he wasn’t sure. He just knew he’d have to be prepared for anything, at the same time convinced that that wasn’t possible. He absent-mindedly checked his holster, feeling the reassuring, familiar shape of his gun under his fingers. 12.29pm. Now there was an almost palpable air of expectation, an electric charge of anticipation crackling through the studio, through the entire building. A communal intake of breath—holding it—unsure glances from person to person—a reassuring nod, a disconcerted shrug.
Then the clock swept past 12.30pm and the red light blinked on. Bailey looked around for a second, like he didn’t quite know what to do, then took a deep breath and began talking to camera.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Network 4 news. It’s 12.30, I’m Jonathon Bailey, and as you’re probably aware by now, we’re able to bring you, live today, an exclusive interview with the leader of the so-called ‘3W Gang’ which has been making the news headlines over the past week. I’ve been instructed to call a certain cell phone number to make contact with the gang’s leader, codenamed Wilde, so…” Bailey keyed in the number, milking the moment for all its dramatic potential, and paused: a dial tone was heard. “We have a dial tone, and…”
Then a voice was heard, saying, “Mr. Bailey. Very punctual.” The reception was slightly fuzzy; a swirling, outer space sort of crackle.
Bailey said, “Uh…thank you. So, uh, Mr. Wilde… Should I call you that, or do you have a first name?”
“Wilde is fine. No ‘Mister’ required.”
“Wilde. Alright. Should I, uh, dictate the course of this conversation, or are there particular questions you want me to ask you?”
“Ask me what the public wants to know; what you want to know. Help explain this to people.”
Bailey frowned. He thought for a moment then said, “Alright… Well, I suppose the first question the average viewer would like to ask is: why are you doing this?”
A long pause. “We’re doing this…to make a point. That’s it in a nutshell. To make a point, and make a statement.”
Bailey said flatly, “A statement.”
Wilde said, “Simple as that.”
The camera operator zoomed in on Bailey’s face, slowly, his heavy features enlarging, filling the giant screen which rested high above the counter of an East Village bar. A disparate group of people stood around, holding drinks, uneasy and intrigued. Bailey stared blankly at the watching audience as Wilde’s voice rang out over the low background notes of bar chatter.
“We feel…very strongly about certain issues,” he began. “But they’re what might be termed vague, or ‘soft’, issues—not, we felt, the sort of thing around which one organizes protest marches or letter-writing campaigns. These are more…subtle, and nebulous; less easily defined. This isn’t Ban the Bomb or Free Nelson Mandela; it has a different dynamic.”
Bailey said, “Different. Uh-huh. So what, precisely, are these issues?”
“In probable order of immediacy: misogyny, homophobia, general chauvinism. And then the more involved threads which fan out from that: the destructive hypocrisy of this whole ‘whore/Madonna’ way of thinking, domestic abuse of women, the propagation of violence against gay men, the glass ceiling for professional women, among other things… Have you read The Beauty Myth, Mr. Bailey?”
“By Naomi Wolf? No, I’m afraid not.”
“Well, in that book she talks about…”
Danny crouched down on the studio floor, speaking softly into his radio. “The sound’s fading in and out a little here—I’m guessing they’re in a vehicle somewhere… You got that too? Okay, okay, get back to me…”
He crept around the long way, reaching Cathy, touching her arm. She started a little, then smiled in greeting. Danny whispered, “Does it sound funny to you? His voice. Does it sound strange, or…different in any way?”
Cathy shrugged. “I couldn’t really say. I mean, it’s distorted, isn’t it? Some sort of gizmo…”
“Yeah, I know. It just… It’s probably nothing. Forget about it.”
They both turned toward Bailey again. He had loosened his tie a fraction; a sure sign, to Cathy, that he was genuinely interested in the subject. For a fleeting moment she felt mildly impressed by her boss. Numerous staffers cloistered around the floor, ignoring the no-smoking signs and intently watching Bailey.
He said, “…you’re saying is that these things are endemic in our culture?”
Wilde laughed. “Of course they are. Jesus. No offense, Mr. Bailey, but you’d have to be a blind imbecile not to see that.”
Bailey pouted, embarrassed. Wilde continued, “Look, the whole point is that we’re the normal ones here, with the normal, rational, well-reasoned Weltanschauung. Those others—the gay-bashers and rapists and casual sexists? They’re the ones who have problems, whose way of perceiving the world is illogical and vindictive. And terribly screwed-up.”
Bailey snorted, “Oh, come on, Wilde, please! You’re seriously suggesting that it’s…normal to go out and send people to the hospital because you disagree with their—how did you phrase it?—‘Weltanschauung’? To dress up in suits and masks and…”
“Balaclavas and tuxedos, actually. They work far better together. No, it’s not normal to do those things simply because nobody has done them before. What we’re saying is: maybe it should be.”
Bailey sighed, exasperated. “I… Really, I find it hard to…”
A nervous-looking Singh patrol
led the upper floors, his hand lightly resting on his gun-butt. The sound of the interview poured out of dozens of TV sets throughout the building, in stereo, in multi-stereo. The cumulative effect of the sound made Singh feel almost nauseous. That, and the sour knot of fear in the base of his gut.
He shook droplets of sweat off the palm of his hand and heard Wilde say, “Look. I’m not gay myself, nor are either of my colleagues. I’m a regular, straight guy. I like sports. I like sex. I drink beer, you know? I look at a pretty girl on the street and, yes, I think of her in a sexual way. In the common parlance, and excuse my language, I think, Wow, I’d like to fuck her. It’s natural and biological and harmless.”
Bailey winced, a crease of mild panic filling three-quarters of virtually every television screen in the greater New York area.
“What you have to understand here, we’re acting on a point of principle. This isn’t Hollywood, okay? There was no convenient trigger. You know, nobody close to me has been raped or beaten up or trapped in an abusive marriage, and thank God for that. This isn’t about personal revenge. I know that would be easier for you to grasp, if there was some dark event from my past, compelling me to do this. Well, sorry to disappoint. I had a nice childhood, caring parents, different girlfriends, all that. The usual stuff.”
Singh gulped, steeled himself. He tried to picture having dinner with his girlfriend that evening, cooking for her, and continued his patrol.
Captain Harte leaned forward, following the interview intently, listening as Bailey said, “You say it’s not revenge. And yet you seem so…committed.”
Wilde gave a little laugh. “You wanted to say ‘zealous’ but you were too scared, right…? See, that’s my point. You shouldn’t need personal experience to get angry or passionate, to feel the pull of a moral obligation. It was like a gradual political awakening for us, the very same as for a socialist or Civil Rights activist. The same fundamental sense of justice and fairness, period. That’s all there is and that’s all you need. You know, I mean, Lenin wasn’t impoverished. He was middle-class and he overthrew the whole class system. White people marched for racial equality. You don’t have to be a victim of something yourself to empathize.”
Harte picked up a pencil and began twirling it absent-mindedly in his fingers.
“And we—as a group and a society—have to draw the line somewhere,” Wilde said. “For a man to deny a woman her humanity, simply because she works as a prostitute, is unacceptable. For a group of men to kick another to death because of his sexuality is unacceptable. Every time we hear words like ‘slut’ and ‘tramp’ and ‘fag’ is one time too many. And these are only the obvious manifestations. The subtleties, those cloaked methods of control, they’re almost worse. Because nobody seems to recognize that they’re there. Or if they do, they just don’t care. This is the greatest human rights crime in history, and no one gives a shit.”
Danny’s body tensed as a communication came through on his earpiece. He said, “Yeah, go ahead. Right… How difficult…? A prepaid phone; right, I expected that. Okay, look, just keep on it. Another few minutes.”
Wilde said, “…have been brainwashed into considering themselves lesser beings. Maybe not even consciously, but it’s there. It’s there every time one woman calls another woman a slut or a whore. Which to me, you know, that’s like blacks calling each other ‘coon’, or Vietnamese talking about ‘gooks.’ It’s just… It makes no sense. It’s there every time a woman reads about a rape trial and says, ‘Oh, maybe she asked for it.’” He laughed, humorless and bitter. “Jesus Christ! What other serious crime puts the victim on trial as much as the aggressor?” Another long pause. “It’s like, in some ways women are their own worst enemies. But ultimately, they’re not. It’s us. It’s men. We’re the ones who are doing this, who’ve brainwashed them. And we’re the ones who have to stop it.”
Danny tuned out Wilde’s voice as another message was relayed. He listened and said, “Yes, I’m still inside… Good. Good. Within four blocks. Excellent. Stay with him, I want his location narrowed down to the nearest ten fucking yards if possible.”
He began walking back across the studio, quietly, feet light on the tiled floor.
Wilde’s voice carried across the space on wall-mounted speakers: “…opposed to an unjust war, you damage jump jets with hammers or march on Congress. But how do you protest an attitude? What’s the recognized symbol for anti-homophobia? It’s…vague and complex, a misfiring neuron hardwired into the consciousness. The normal rules of engagement do not apply.”
Bailey gave a non-committal grunt in reply; it almost seemed like he was unwilling to break the flow, the smooth outpouring of angry philosophy.
“And this situation, here it’s even more ambiguous than, say, racism or anti-Semitism,” Wilde went on. “Racism is recognized by most right-thinking people as unjust, simply wrong. Yet the same doesn’t apply to misogyny or homophobia. Why? The same people who would abhor the Nazis or apartheid, on the other hand it’s all ‘fags’ and ‘bitches’, it’s all hatred and contempt.” A thoughtful pause. “I don’t know. Maybe people should think of women and homosexuals as a different race! Right? Maybe then they might stop and think, ‘It’s not right to treat them like this…’”
Danny reached Norris and tapped his shoulder, making him jump.
“Sorry, kid,” Danny said. “Listen: this guy is close, and coming closer. I’m going outside—I won’t attract as much attention as you fellas in uniform. Stay in contact. And Norris: you’re doing great. Keep it up.”
He checked his gun and earpiece. He exited the studio as Wilde continued, “…ideal solution would be to re-engineer the way people think. Not just scare people into behaving, but actually change our society. Our thoughts, and the language we use. Because you know, Mr. Bailey, the effect of language. Deep down, in the back brain, it shapes our attitudes and behavior. But let’s face it: we’re about 3000 years of evolution away from that point. People aren’t gonna change overnight. We know that. We’re not naïve.”
Now Danny got the surround sound effect as he strode briskly downstairs, Wilde’s manifesto bouncing and rebounding around the ether, the volume rising or falling as he passed different speakers. Danny grit his teeth and checked his weapon yet another time.
Wilde declared, “Enough dialogue. Here it is: we believe society needs balance—a sort of enforced karma. Individuals must be punished for their mistreatment of others. Individuals picked at random. And please, don’t bother to tell me that it won’t stop this behavior. Because I already know, and that doesn’t matter. What matters is this balance. An even flow—psychically, socially, culturally, and emotionally.” He paused. “It’s science. You know the physics theory: for every action, there must be a reaction. Well, we didn’t start this; we’re just reacting. Redressing the balance.”
Danny exited the building, out into bright, searing sunshine. He blinked, waited for his sight to adjust, then paced around and back, within a 30-yard radius of the front entrance, trying to look inconspicuous, to blend in, as he scanned for likely suspects making phone calls. He saw a guy in a parked car, a skateboarder, an obese businessman: all on the telephone, but none who fit the bill. Danny badly craved a cigarette. He slowly backed in the outer door, through the entrance into the lobby, still watching the street in front, cursing the inaccuracy of the tech team’s triangulation…when they buzzed through again. He almost knocked the earpiece from his head in his eagerness. Danny said, “Yes… Where? Within the building or just outside. But that’s…”
He whirled around and came face-to-face with a young man with shoulder-length hair. Nondescript features, not ugly but not especially memorable. The man smiled pleasantly—Danny reached for his piece.
“On the floor,” he yelled. “Now! Down. Move it. Face down.”
The man raised his hands in a gesture of submission, and lowered his body to the floor with exaggerated slowness, lying on his front.
Danny crouched down, saying, “That’
s it. Face down. Don’t fucking move, kid. Just…stay…exactly…like…” He patted the man’s sides, around his torso, and between his legs, ran a hand inside his pockets. Nothing—no phone, no weapon, nothing. Danny could feel his skin tingle with embarrassment; he suddenly felt very stupid. He holstered his gun and reached out a hand.
“Here. Grab my hand.”
The guy hoisted himself up. Danny mumbled, “Sorry. Um…look, I’m really sorry. My mistake. Thought you were…”
The other man shrugged and smiled, then gestured to the door.
Danny said, “What? Yeah, yeah. Shit. Sorry. Yes, of course. You’re free to go.”
The long-haired man stepped briskly out the door. Danny stood there, frustrated and extremely tired. He looked to his left, where the woman at reception raised her eyebrows and smiled encouragingly. Danny weakly returned the smile.
He gently thumped a fist off his forehead and said to himself, “Fuck. Fuck.”
Upstairs in the studio it was obvious that the interview was coming to an end, Wilde’s voice rising in urgency and passion as he delivered a closing spiel: “…way past time to reclaim that term ‘a real man.’ The use of power defines the powerful. A real man isn’t someone who’s violent or misogynist, someone who drinks whiskey and smokes filter-less cigarettes and wrestles longhorn steer barehanded, or some other macho bullshit.”
Bailey raised a hand and opened his mouth as if to protest the bad language, but Wilde just cut through him, even more vehemently: “Someone so fucking small and scared that they have to dump on others to compensate. A real man is brave and honest and feminine. And willing to do whatever needs to be done. You know that line from Ulrike Meinhof? ‘Protest is when I say: this does not please me. Resistance is when I ensure that what doesn’t please me occurs no more.’ This is Karma TV ending transmission—for now.”
The line went dead: a moment of nothingness, then the pips indicating a broken connection. Bailey sat there with a stupid look on his face. The on-duty floor manager belatedly realized that Bailey wasn’t saying anything, that dead air was going out, ironically live, to millions of viewers. He issued hurried instructions to cut to a commercial break, before rushing in to confer with Bailey as to what should follow. Nobody, it seemed, had thought that far ahead.
Even Flow Page 13
