Rivers of Gold

by Adam Dunn

  “Problem?” McKeutchen asked around the wad of gum in his maw. It was apple-flavored, his favorite, and the smell made Santiago feel sick.

  Santiago slammed the printout on McKeutchen’s desk hard enough to make the lamp bounce.

  McKeutchen stared at the paper for a good thirty seconds, saying nothing. He even stopped chewing.

  “What is he?” Santiago asked, trying very hard to keep his voice level. He was angry and hurt and confused, and for the first time in many years almost felt like crying. He would admit this to no man.

  McKeutchen looked sullen and pouty. Santiago put his hands on the desk, leaned over into McKeutchen’s face, and just barely managed to growl “WHAT IS HE?” before recoiling from the awful reek of apple gum. He sank into one of the visitors’ chairs on the far side of the desk.

  McKeutchen sighed. “Force Recon.”

  Santiago felt the room slowly beginning to rotate. “Explain.”

  McKeutchen laced his fat fingers together. “Uncle Sam’s worried about our situation. He views it as something of a dark time in our august city’s history, what with riots and EARgasms and the wholesale breakdown of society. Little things like that. Since he went broke bailing out every industry in the country, Sammy’s now looking for someone to bail him out. Now, to do that requires a shitload of money, and since our own isn’t worth much anymore, we have to get it from outside the country. When you mix government and money, two things will happen: (a) the government will fuck everything up royally, and (b) wondrous opportunities arise for bad guys all over the planet who have buckets of dirty money that they need to wash clean.

  “As far as I’ve been told, and I damn sure haven’t been told everything, somebody thinks there’s dirty money mixed in with the clean money flowing in from overseas, mainly from sovereign wealth funds. This somebody knows very well that there’s no legal way to do anything about this, since said funds aren’t subject to the laws of our great nation, and since they are under no obligation to disclose their investors. How do you audit a foreign country? Never mind that the first account you ask about is a lawyer who tells you to get fucked in every orifice, in triplicate.” McKeutchen paused to let this soak in.

  Santiago felt dizzy and nauseous. Speaks, drugs, dead cabbies, and fucking sovereign wealth funds. Spooks in DC and batshit marines in cabs. Maybe he should have stayed in Traffic. No. Fuck that.

  Santiago wasn’t in a graduate program at John Jay for nothing. “The Posse Comitatus Act keeps the military and law enforcement separate.”

  McKeutchen pointed both index fingers at Santiago, his hands still laced together. “Wrong. The PCA was a product of Reconstruction. After the Civil War, the Army had garrisons all over the South, where they had bushwhackers and the Klan and other upstanding citizens exercising their constitutional right to be assholes. It was bad enough that the Army was stretched so thin, but to make matters worse, the civil policing it was forced to carry out meant it was getting sucked into dicey political situations that Congress figured federal troops had no business being in. The states had to police themselves.

  “The PCA itself is a statute from 1878. Title Eighteen, look it up. It is not a constitutional provision. It’s supposed to keep the military from prosecuting civil law enforcement, and to a large extent it does that. But the military can and does get involved, and it started long before Nine-Eleven and the Patriot Act. It’s not like there’s no precedent for it. Federal troops have been deployed on U.S. soil two hundred times in two hundred years. Today we’ve got marines on the border with Mexico and Army BCTs garrisoned around the country as emergency first-responders. We’ve got whole corridors of U.S. airspace designated for use by military aircraft only. The Coast Guard does drug patrol offshore and the National Guard gets to clean up after every hurricane, mudslide, and brushfire, not to mention every major riot except our own, since so many Guard troops were still in Iraq. See? There’s no boundaries anymore.

  “There’s been enough court rulings over the years upholding military involvement in civil law enforcement, providing it’s a ‘passive support role.’ Since the pendulum’s now swung back to the right, somebody in DC probably thought they could squeeze an operator like More through. Shit, by the time the Defense Authorization Act was passed in o-six, the PCA was pretty much gutted anyway. Who’s to say where an enemy is anymore? We got homegrown whack jobs sending anthrax through the mail and flying planes into IRS buildings. Whether it’s drugs, terrorism, WMD traffic—it doesn’t matter. The battle’s not just over there, over there anymore. If shit goes down here, or if somebody at the top of the food chain thinks something’s going down here, the military can get involved. And it does. But not like this. At least, not until now.”

  McKeutchen moved his laced hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, which creaked and groaned and cried for mercy beneath his weight.

  “We’ve arrived in a realm,” he continued, “that makes me ever so slightly anxious. The system always made for a clear distinction of duty—troops for overseas, cops here at home. That distinction no longer applies. It’s not just that military units are training for domestic deployment, now they’re being deployed domestically. It’s not just in a support capacity anymore, it’s operational. Using somebody like More, buried in the biggest police department of the biggest city with the biggest financial center in the country, is a logical step up from what came before, but it’s a big one. I don’t know what the legal grounds are for this operation, if there really are any, and I can’t say I like it. More says he won’t make any arrests, question any suspects, or show up in court. From what I’ve seen and what you’ve told me, he’s kept his word.”

  Santiago’s head was swimming. His vision blurred. “Why More?”

  “He’s Recon. Actually, he’s MARSOC, Marine Special Operations Command; they finally came up with that back in o-six for Afghanistan. They needed someone who could get into places quietly, gather information, and pounce when the time was right. More’s background is deep-penetration covert reconnaissance, with an attack component built in. He’s career military, and my guess is, he probably got loaned out to the spooks once or twice, too.”

  Santiago’s hands were shaking; he clenched his fists. The light in the office seemed too bright. “And ESU?”

  “It was easy for them to embed More into our ESU. They cross-train with military instructors anyway, and with all the troops coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan and no jobs around, a lot of ex-soldiers become cops. The elite troops, the hard cases, they tend to gravitate naturally toward ESU, it’s their kind of work. For More, it’s perfect camouflage, if anyone’s watching.”

  Sweat stood out in beads on Santiago’s forehead. “Are they?”

  McKeutchen frowned. “Dunno. This thing today with Treasury, I don’t know why they were on you. Maybe you’re poking around in something they’ve got going on. Maybe it’s something they don’t want anyone else knowing about. I don’t know. I keep asking but they don’t tell me shit. Command chewed my ass out today, but aside from that they’re being very cagey about this. Most of them don’t know about More, and I for one would like to keep it that way as long as possible.” McKeutchen nonchalantly raised his right leg and unleashed a growling, low-register fart. The smell of his apple gum neutralized the odor, but was even worse. Santiago gripped the edge of McKeutchen’s desk.

  “Why you?”

  McKeutchen’s eyes drifted over to the single portrait photo he kept in the office, of a young marine in full dress blues. The marine was McKeutchen’s only son, Michael, from his first marriage, which had ended before Santiago was even born, and he had been killed along with dozens of his comrades in a suicide bombing in Beirut in 1983.

  “I’m a friend of the Corps,” McKeutchen said, his voice soft. “They helped me over the years, and once in a while, I help them.”

  Santiago used the desk to help lever himself to his feet. His legs felt rubbery and his eyes drifted in and out of focus. He took a dee
p breath.

  “Cap,” he said in a shaky voice, “I want you to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on. But first ditch that fucking gum.”

  D E M O L I T I O N E D M A N

  The Prince and I are drinking our appetizers in Bar Blanc Bistro, trying to figure out what to do next.

  I don’t know how this place stays in business; they must have a lease that runs for centuries. They’re serious about their security; the screening area juts out of the front vestibule onto the sidewalk, where the windbreak entrance used to be. Or maybe Reza’s taken it over. Sooner or later, we all end up working for Reza.

  The 3B is a well-stocked hunting ground tonight; besides the Prince and I, the only other male customer is some middle-aged geek at the end of the bar with his nose in a book, otherwise it’s all women. As usual, the Prince is seated with his back to the wall in the last banquette on the left, facing the front door, so he can see the new trade walking in. I’m trying to keep him focused on my problem, but I’m competing with every size six that sashays through the door.

  A few weeks ago, this would have been pretty close to my vision of Paradise. But right now I’m not even paying attention. Jossie and that little bitch Meghan are gone. I can’t get hold of N, or even L, and I’m not sure what I’d say to them if I could. I don’t want to eat and I can’t sleep. I can’t even fucking masturbate. Nothing, not my private pictures of N, L, or any other woman I’ve photographed in flagrante delicto can stir me, not even the madonna of Redtube 721 can hoist my colors. What’s happening to me?!

  It doesn’t help that Prince William’s so calm about all this. Granted, he didn’t just lose a big chunk of a shipment of Reza’s on top of blowing a Roundup cover and getting stuck with a twenty-thousand-dollar equipment fee and getting screwed—literally—out of the other portion, which would have at least helped to cover the loss. I still don’t know how the Prince knew about the dead cabbies or Reza’s war with LA—or even whose side he is on anymore.

  The Prince doesn’t know about the remaining Specials I’ve got stashed at home, and I see no reason to enlighten him. I don’t trust him anymore.

  He signals for another round of truffle-oil infused Absolut 100 shots. I put up with his nonchalance because I need his advice, and because I can’t afford the drinks, and because I need money, fast.

  —She’s still not answering her phone? he queries, his face a handsome mask of innocence.

  —For all I know, she’s ditched it by now. I went by her house first thing and no one answered the bell. They’d pretty much lifted off by the time I left; who knows where they wound up.

  Most likely, they’ve already left town. Maybe to Joss’s parents’ place in Wainscott, maybe back to Meghan’s school. What difference does it make? Joss is loaded, she’s got plenty of plastic, and they’ve got a box full of Specials—my fucking merchandise—at zero cost basis. Face it, boyo, you got played by a couple of white-bread, private-school, trust-fund bunnies. Renny, you stupid fucking amateur!

  The Prince purses his lips and pretends to be deep in thought. He’s enjoying this, the sadistic bastard; there’s nothing he likes more than watching someone else impaled on their own hook.

  —Have you told him yet?

  Oh yeah, sure, I told Reza I lost his goods, I can’t make payment, I’m in debt up to my eyeballs—of course I told him all that. I knock back my appetizer and glare at him silently.

  The Prince takes on the air of an older, wiser man counseling a wayward youngling. He sips his drink leisurely, savoring the moment. He smacks his lips and says:

  —I’ve seen this kind of situation before, and there’s two directions you can take. Either you tell Reza the truth and throw yourself on his mercy, or you find another way to replace what you lost.

  For a second I’m too dumbfounded to speak. It doesn’t last.

  —What I lost? You were there at Le Yef with me when LA jacked the cab. You can get hurt by this too.

  Of course I’m undone the moment the words leave my lips. Reza doesn’t care about who loses what; all that matters is getting his money. The Prince could easily make up the difference on his own. This is his aloof way of asking if I’m ready to get off my high horse and handle powder, and I won’t. The stakes are too high, all around. It occurs to me that as experienced a swindler as Prince William could come up with any number of ways to compensate for some product gone astray. It also occurs to me that if he’s been slinging powder and rocks for so long, he’s probably been supercharging his profit margin with paco, garbage made from garbage, to be consumed by garbage. Maybe this is the real reason the Prince is never short of money—he’s got his own private revenue stream, pushing the by-product of Reza’s product. Since he’d just be repackaging the junk that Reza’s chemists would most likely throw away anyhow, it would be the perfect skim. No flies on Prince William; as long as Reza gets his money, why should he care about the Prince’s sideline enterprise?

  Then again, he might like to know. And maybe, just maybe, I can use that to my advantage. Knowledge is power. And at this point, what exactly do I owe the Prince, anyway? A cheat and a liar and a dope dealer is he, par excellence.

  My friend.

  But I say:

  —I’d have better luck throwing myself on the mercy of Marcus Chalk.

  Prince William’s eyebrows rise; he hadn’t considered this. Roundup is the legitimate side of the street, way off his patch.

  —Not a bad idea, that.

  —Oh come on. He’d humiliate me.

  —Reza would do far worse, he replies evenly.

  Could it really come to that? Reza would have me work off the debt; he wouldn’t actually kill me over this, would he? After all I’ve done for him? A two-tone text message alert sounds from the lapel pocket of the Prince’s jacket. He pulls out his phone while I turn and signal for another round to keep my hands steady. When I turn back he’s frowning at his phone.

  —That was Arun. There’s been another one.

  —Who?

  —Raj.

  One of the cabbies in Arun’s group. LA’s taken the offensive in the taxi war.

  We sit there, not looking at each other, not liking the news. I’m not liking how calm the Prince is while I’m coming apart. I’m not liking the fact that Arun told him first that another cabbie’s been killed.

  Most of all, I’m not liking how fast my pool of options is shrinking.

  In the dictionary, prevail comes before pride.

  I’m in Mangia across the street from the Nine West building wringing the last drops from my debit card when someone says:

  —Hey, Renny!

  Jesus! It’s almost enough to give me a heart attack. I turn to face my old roommate and partner-in-crime from college, Brian. It’s already been three years since we last saw each other and swore we’d always keep in touch. And we have. E-mail and Cloaca are the primary ways of my generation to say we’re catching up with each other, without the actual catching-up part. Ah, the memories. Setting up Bar Bobcat on the top floor of the library. Three-A.M. condom runs to Sixth Avenue. Bluffing our underage way into Any Orifice night at Crash Site. Tag-team sessions with C, M, Y, and K … but that all changed when Brian met Jeannie. I will never understand the depth of their attraction. Jeannie’s a frumpy, dumpy thing with bad skin and a spine-rattling laugh. But once bitten, Brian was a goner. Upon graduating, he went straight to Stern. And I, having seen my prospects shot down one after another, went to work for Reza. Now they’ve done the dance, house in Mamaroneck, he takes the train to some office somewhere, she works close to home and makes the daily round trips to school for the monkeys. This was the sort of thing we once laughed at. I’m hoping he didn’t see me put a cup of coffee on plastic. Then again, he might be someone I can tap for a loan.

  I’ve been tuning out most of the backstory Brian’s been giving me about the past few years when he says the thing I least want to hear:

  —And I can’t rock the boat now, since Jeannie’s pregnant again a
nd we need to finish out the basement for the—

  For the kids. I already know where this is going before he finishes. There’s no point in asking him for anything now. Trying to mask my creeping depression I absently wonder aloud where he’ll find the time to be young.

  —Young? Young? Renny, this is being young. I needed to lock down the house while I still have a full-time job so I could get a mortgage. At least we’ve got the place and can fix it up while we still have paychecks coming in. Who knows what’ll happen tomorrow? You have to be old in order to be young.

  I don’t know what to say. I wonder when they figure they’ll find the time to enjoy their children, or even if they will, but I keep my mouth shut. For all our differences, it’s good to see him.

  —It’s good to see you, I manage.

  —You too, man. Hey, I gotta go. Keep in touch.

  —Right.

  Watching him run out the door I can almost see the dark cloud of my situation roll back in like a malevolent fog. This cup of coffee is probably the last thing I’ll be able to charge. My cards are all maxed out. Everything I owe I’ve put on credit. Where did it all go? (On you. On everyone around you. On those who used and abused you.) I never thought about saving, never thought about putting money into the things Brian did. Well, I did want to buy my apartment, but I was depending on Reza for that, and unless I can make up for the shipment LA took, fast, I doubt he’ll be in an eleemosynary mood. Looking at all the panini on display behind glass, my stomach growls. I’m starving, but I don’t have enough left on my cards to buy myself a meal. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve called a box of Carr’s crackers dinner.

  This is how it happens. Right when you’re at your lowest, the friend you once thought was the brother you never had pops up and shows you everything you did wrong, by showing you everything he did right. Then he vanishes like a ghost, and you know in your bones that’s all he is now, and all you are to him, evanescing memory.