by Gary Starta
Deeprose motioned to the waitress, who flew over to the group and quickly took their order.
“O.K. Ah’m ready to listen to all your arguments and decide who has the stronger one. My decision will be considered final. Commence, Red.”
Red looked like he would willingly drown in Deeprose’s attention. It was pretty obvious that he liked people and they liked him back, but he didn’t seem to be especially suave with the ladies. He’d be telling this story for months to come. Carter was glad for him.
Good thing you thought to video tape that meeting, Red.
Waving his phone around while it replayed the video, he continued. “I recorded it at tonight’s meeting of the Collective. They call themselves protectionists, whatever that is, and they talked a lot about their enemies in this country and around the world. The enemy was everyone and anyone and no one. He just made them angrier and angrier about how they lived and told them their enemies had made it that way. I never heard one specific name mentioned, though. It felt like one of those radical alt-right hate rallies to me. Here’s what happened. I got an invitation by email to attend, so we went. I think the speaker in the video is a senator, but I can’t recall his name. My friends think I’m crazy.”
“And he is. Nice to meet you. I’m Linda.” A young woman extended her hand to Deeprose. She was the West Village artsy-type - no makeup, long mousy-brown hair parted straight down the middle and huge pointy eyeglasses with black rims.
Agent Deeprose shook Linda’s hand. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Linda. Did y’all see a senator there, then, or do you think it coulda been someone who just looked like one?”
Linda answered. “It had to be a look-alike. Why would an important politician agree to host a radical and fanatical political meeting that encouraged people to tear down a society of just about everyone but themselves to rebuild a better America defined by himself? I mean, the guy actually suggested eliminating “wrong thinkers” for the good of the American community. That was exactly what the man said. Am I right? It’s got to be a joke or something. Tell Red he’s dreaming if he thinks a senator would cut his own throat in public. Whoever it was, he wasn’t actually there, anyway. It could have been anybody.” Linda began to bite her nails.
“It was all virtual!” Red leaned way across the table so everyone could see better, before he pointed to the video again, for emphasis. “He might have been on a big screen, but he was there all the same and in real time. I’d know him again in a minute if I saw him again.”
Linda frowned. “What makes you so sure that he really meant all that, though? Maybe we ran out of there too soon to hear the rest of it. He could have been trying to make a point.”
“I’ll tell you what makes me so sure; I’m not deaf. I stayed until the end, and I have the whole thing on video to prove it. This man was not exaggerating to make a point. He meant it! We left because he scared us. He was really out there, you know? Nuts! What I wanna know is, what’s in it for him? What happens when some nutball takes him seriously and starts attacking people? The guy is a senator. I’m telling you, it doesn’t make sense!”
Red was way too smart and way too curious for Carter’s comfort. The agent decided it was time to step in and tell them who he was and what he was after. “Well spoken, Red. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m F.B.I. Special Agent Carter. This is my wife, Jill, our lead forensic scientist, and my partner, Agent Deeprose.”
Red looked like he was about to lose his dinner. A general commotion broke loose. Everyone began talking at once. Carter became momentarily nonplussed.
New Yorkers! Everyone talks, no one listens.
“Hey, everyone, calm down. Red, here, is a pretty smart fellow. He may be on to something, but he may not. Let’s not get excited. It’s possible this was just a giant misunderstanding. We’re talking about a senator, after all.” Carter didn’t want to alarm them unnecessarily, and he certainly didn’t want them spreading their ideas any further than this table. Red looked crestfallen. “Red, I promise you we’ll still dig around and see what there is to see.”
“Really? This is so cool! This is the only place on earth you can listen to a lunatic in an auditorium that seats hundreds, run into the F.B.I the very next night in a neighborhood dive, and see the film on Netflix by next year.”
Carter seized the opportunity to gain their cooperation while they were still all revved up. Once they went home, they’d begin to think. “Red, Agent Deeprose would like to borrow your phone and examine it. You’d be doing the city a big favor. Is it O.K. with you?”
“Sure. I mean, no.” He rubbed one hand over his forehead, flustered. “Yeah, anything dude. I thought the National Security Agency would have already pulled this info off the web and shut him down, but, hell yeah, you can look at it all you want. Just don’t let anyone know I gave it to you. I’m not entirely sure it was cool to film it.”
Having learned a little lesson from Deeprose tonight on making friends out of strangers, Carter gladly shook on it. While they exchanged phone numbers, Deeprose slid the cell phone off the table and into her purse.
Carter guided a very tipsy Seacrest back into her chair while Deeprose, in fifth gear and nearly unstoppable, rattled off ideas. Carter was proud of her and told her so. “Let’s get Jill situated. We’ll talk about all this later. O.K.?”
Seacrest shouted in Carter’s ear. “Shania met a man, tonight – the sax player! And I found him for her!”
“Shhhhhh! Stop yelling, Jill, it’s a jazz club, not a rock concert; everyone can – Wait; did you just call her Shania? How much did I miss tonight?”
Seacrest leaned over to whisper in his ear. Unfortunately, she broke the sound barrier again with a huge sonic boom. “A Lot! Shania met a man. Did I forget to mention it?”
Actually, it was nice to see Jill finally letting her hair down. Carter put his arm around her shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. He’d made a promise to himself to try to inject a little more fun into their lives when they could manage to snatch the time, and the time, apparently, was now. He pasted a smile on his face, but didn’t feel it yet; he was too keyed up.
Seacrest motioned for the waitress. “Excuse me! Over heeeeere! My husband’s thirsty. I think he needs one of those Red-Eyed Zombies.” She smiled wickedly at her husband and winked. “Your forfeit for being late is two of these, Carter. Pay up.”
One Zombie in, Carter looked around the room in a glow of good cheer. The stars drifted and dazzled in the night sky, and he could feel Deeprose shimmering; romance was definitely in the air. His attention turned to the dance floor. It was packed with couples swinging to a Glenn Miller classic. He supposed it had become tradition to sing along with the refrain. After each verse he heard the ring of an old fashioned telephone followed by four words shouted by the audience in unison…
“Pennsylvania six five thousand!”
He’d never seen a swing band or this type of energetic dancing. It was done with incredibly professional precision and great enthusiasm by old and young, alike. Now that was blowing off steam! Carter considered taking dancing lessons with Jill. He watched her as she looked around the room, taking in everything at once – sound, movement and a rhythm that drove her out of her seat.
“Whaddya think of this, Carter?”
“I think we should have done this a long time ago. Would you like to give it a try?”
“We don’t know how to dance like that! But…what the hell, let’s go!” Seacrest beamed.
As they rose, she caught the waitress’s attention. “Another Zombie for my husband, please. He has a lot of catching up to do. Oh, hell, Zombies all around. Come on, Carter; I feel the need for speed.”
When they finally sat down, sweating, exhausted, and very, very, happy, Carter toyed with his second drink to pace himself. The first one hit him hard. Seacrest was having none of that. “Drink up, my love. The purple dusk of twilight time steals across the meadows of my heart.”
“What does that mean?”
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“It means we’re not getting any younger. A toast to the night and songs of love!”
Oh boy, she’s gonna be really hung over, tomorrow.
When the band took a break, Seacrest put some coins in the old-fashioned juke box and chose several slow ones. “Shania, I see your saxophone player walking this way. Why don’t we all dance? I picked songs that are slow and timeless. Let’s all make a memory tonight.”
It was pure magic. Even Carter couldn’t deny the dreamy quality of romance wrapping him in its old, familiar embrace. He wished he could capture it in a jar and keep it on his dresser.
This is what life is all about. This moment. This feeling.
They danced to every song that old juke box gave out. It occurred to Carter that the melodies and lyrics from back then were much more direct and poignant than today’s. Those were World War II years, when lovers came together for one brief moment when they could snatch the chance, knowing they might have to live on it for the rest of their lives. Moments like those were terribly important. They were memories that became indelibly linked to a single night, a scent, and a song that said it all so beautifully.
The last song was theirs. Neither one knew most of the words, but they loved the melody and had chosen it for the first dance at their wedding reception. It was a haunting tune called Stardust, written by Hoagy Carmichael sometime in the 20’s – the 1920’s, that was. There was something about it that tugged at their heartstrings every time they heard it, and when it ended, they wished they could have heard it one more time.
Wilson, inhaled the scent of Shania’s hair, and looking into her eyes, thanked her for the dance. The club was about to close, and the next few sets would be played for the band’s own pleasure. He needed to get back, so regretfully, he placed a light kiss on her lips and said goodnight.
Carter couldn’t help but notice the bemused look on Wilson’s face as Deeprose left the dance floor. He seemed to be under some kind of spell.
Jill did something extraordinary tonight when she decided to play those old juke box records.
“Ladies, I think we should get some food into us.”
Deeprose, wearing an amazed expression, pointed at Carter. “You’re right! An’ Ah know just the place.”
With half closed eyelids and a softness of voice Carter never heard before, Seacrest asked Shania. “Would you rather stay here, honey, and wait for Wilson to take you home?”
Deeprose seemed touched by that gesture, blinking a few times. “He has my number, Jill. I’ll wait for his call before Ah consider letting him take me home some other time. Ah’m enjoyin’ romance far too much tonight to turn it into a booty call.” Smiling, she rose from the table.
On their way out, she stopped, shot a long look at Wilson, and winked. Whooping it up and finishing the last of their drinks, late night revelers shouted catcalls at her. A man in an expensive-looking tux with a girl on each arm and a magnum of champagne in each fist projected his voice clear across the room. “Oh yes, oh yes…It’s gonna be a hot time on the old town tonight!” Then he howled like a wolf. “Ahwooooooooooo!!”
Deeprose curtsied in return. Lovers in every dark corner of the club playfully booed and hissed at Carter as he inched them toward the door. He was mortified.
Seacrest kissed him. “Well, you sure know how to bring down the house, Carter.”
Outside, Carter inhaled deeply several times and then had a coughing fit. Seacrest couldn’t resist ribbing him a little. “Carter, I told you, you can’t swallow this air without chewing it first. One deep breath too many and you‘ll wind up in the hospital.”
Deeprose raised a hand to hail a cab. It came to a screaming halt directly in front of them. “Well, whaddya know? Ah’m on fire tonight! Ah just snagged us a cab in under a New York minute!”
“It seems the heavens are smiling down on you, Agent Deeprose. Where are we headed next?”
“For a New York pizza baptism, complete with thin crust, oozin’ cheese and oil drippin’ out onto paper plates. And Cokes all around!!”
Carter opened the door for Seacrest and would have gotten in after Deeprose, but she’d already scooted around to the other side of the cab and scrambled into the back seat. “Driver, take us to Ben’s Pizzeria at 123 MacDougal Street. Google says it’s a favorite late night spot for N.Y.U. students. Any campus with its own Krispy Kreme knows good food.”
The driver, used to out-of-towners, was a good natured man. From the sound of his accent, he hailed from somewhere in India. “Yes ma’am. I know just where you want to go. No problem.”
He put the pedal to the metal until he hit warp speed. Deeprose shouted, “Yee haw! Woo Hoo!” Seacrest looked a little sick. Carter’s face was so mashed up against the window, he couldn’t speak, but he thought there was a definite possibility the cab could fly.
I hate to be the one to rain on the parade, but we’ve got to start focusing on a new plan of action. Tonight. The next inning is coming up. Deeprose can’t afford any strikes, and I can’t afford to lose the game.
“We have arrived.” The cabbie parked on a dime and turned his head to smile at them.
It was obvious he was highly amused by the three contorted faces mashed up against the glass partition separating them from himself. As they worked their way out onto the sidewalk, Carter paid the cabbie in cash, something that astonished him. This time he wouldn’t have to report the tip. “Thank you, sir. Thank you!”
“Everyone’s gotta make a living. Thanks for getting us here in one piece. For a minute, there, I had serious doubts.”
The cabbie laughed. Just then, the clouds moved, and the moon struck him full in the face, revealing a face so handsome it was almost beautiful. Reverently, he said, “I love America! I am working very hard to become an American citizen, too. It’s not so bad driving a cab; I enjoy driving fast.” He grinned and took off.
“Come on, darling, baptize me. I’m a willing convert.” Seacrest was beginning to revive herself now that she’d gotten off the car-plane. The idea of eating out at one in the morning appealed to her.
***
Carter drank in the heavenly scent of tomato sauce, cheese and pepperoni as soon as they walked in. A chef expertly tossed pizza dough in the air, catching and stretching it into a bigger and bigger disk every time.
“That is amazin’!” The pizza chef nodded at them, in a gesture which clearly meant he was ready to take their order. He never took his eyes off the dough, not for a second. “Ah call that real talent! How about we all start with a slice of mushroom and three Cokes? No sense in gettin’ a whole pie if we want to try everything. Next choice is on y’all.”
Seacrest gave her the thumbs up. The chef nodded once again, still tossing and turning the ever-growing circle of dough. Carter steered them into a booth. He let out a long, slow, breath and launched into the topic he’d been waiting to discuss all night. “First of all, I want to apologize for being so late tonight. It was because I thought there might be a way to find out why our killer behaved like the wasp in Jill’s film.”
Deeprose sat completely still for a second, and then, threading her fingers together until they were white-knuckled, she leaned half-way across the table, all attention. “Ah thought Michael acted that way because of the drug we found on him.”
“That may be part of it, but drugs are never a sure thing. Here’s what I found out. In a nutshell, explosive, vicious, fanatical behavior can be ‘contagious’. A person who might never ordinarily conceive of doing something cruel or violent, who understands the difference between right and wrong and who might even be highly intelligent -is definitely susceptible to catching the excitement of a mob gone wild, even to the extent of joining in their collective behavior. Violent behavior is highly contagious when there’s a catalyst that sets off an entire group of people. There is a compulsion to let go of thought and inhibitions and participate. When that happens, they’re liable to do anything, and they don’t have to be under the influence of a drug to do it.�
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Deeprose chimed in. “Sure, it was just the same over in the Middle East with every damn fundamentalist leader and his henchmen.”
Carter recalled thinking about those bold, American World War II soldiers who risked their lives on the principle that no one had the right to persecute, imprison, deport, torture, or kill people simply because a madman said it was O.K. to do it. The unmistakable parallel of the influence the speaker had over the Collective and Hitler’s influence over the majority of all Germans hit him like a freight train. “That senator has to be found and questioned.”
Deeprose had a thought about the speaker being visible only on a movie screen. “Imagine what it might be like if that same leader gave the same performance, over and over again, all around the country, without ever havin’ to leave his own livin’ room. Then imagine having a hallucinogenic drug distributed to the audience afterward to push them into fulfillin’ his agenda. Every single listener is now a potential murderer and a suspect.”
Carter agreed, but needed to move on. “Speaking of, let’s back to Michael Santiago. I’m fairly convinced that someone else besides himself orchestrated the museum murders. We’ve got a blood sample showing trace amounts of something we can’t identify. Once the drug he was carrying is done being analyzed, we’ll know if that’s what we found in his system. We’ll also know if he took it prior to the murder. If Michael went to a meeting of the Collective that night, he couldn’t have known he’d be in for anything else but an ear load of crap. Suppose the speaker got them there and then gave some or all of them that drug to make them willing victims and perpetrators, all in one shot. Nice and neat, except for one thing - Michael needed, or wanted, more of it after he made his kill. That’s why I think he had an unused vial on him. I think he stole it.”
Deeprose spoke through a mouthful of pizza. “So, the speeches are only a way to get the audience into a place where they can connect with other like-minded individuals and a speaker who seems to understand them. He whips them into a frenzy and then either gives them the drug or has them drugged without them knowin’ it. But why? He’s got a pre-meditated plan. What is it? Michael didn’t even know the old curator, so we can assume the murders aren’t personal. That’s what has me stumped. If Michael didn’t even know the victim, why did he kill him? Why kill a little, old man who worked in a museum his whole life?”
