Even Flow Page 15
Danny sat on a beanbag in the corner, shaking his head, unsure what to do now, how to explain himself. I mistakenly thought I saw Broder enter the building. I received a tip-off from a concerned neighbor, a local busybody. The door was busted open when I got here.
He laughed at that one, but still wasn’t sure what he was going to say as he moved to the phone on Patrick’s desk and dialed Harte’s number. It went straight to his answering machine: “You’re through to James Harte’s voicemail. I’m sorry, I can’t take your call right now. You know what to do after the beep, so…do it after the beep.”
Danny hung up without leaving a message. He noticed Patrick’s university scrolls on the wall: a bachelor’s degree in English literature, a master’s in film and TV production. Photos dotted the walls, taken at wide intervals as evidenced by the changing hairstyles and clothes. Some of them had hand-written titles affixed beneath. A younger Patrick and this guy Robert: “Me and Rob after second-year exams.” Patrick as a child with a much larger, dark-haired boy: “Sandro and me start elementary school.”
Danny murmured, “Ha. Mr. Whitman, I presume.”
Another photo, of all three this time, arms around each other’s shoulders and holding beers: “The three amigos in Mexico, 2007. Too much to drink!” A few pictures of Patrick and different girls embracing, smiling happily at the camera: “Lillian and me touring BC”; “Courtney’s graduation party”; “Sarah lazing in the bath.” Danny scanned the bookshelves—a big variety of writers, styles, genres—and pulled one out at random. It was a book of twentieth century poetry, inscribed, “To Paddy, the poet of the family. Congratulations on finishing school, and never lose your love of language. From Mom, Dad, Marie, and the two dogs.”
Eventually, reluctantly, he hit the speaker button on Patrick’s phone and tapped in a number. A voice rang out: “Dispatch.”
“Detective Sergeant Danny Everard, Midtown South Precinct. I want to issue a city-wide APB for the arrest of young white male Patrick Broder—that’s B-R-O-D-E-R, Patrick, AKA Wilde. Blond hair, slim build, about six feet tall. And associates: young white male Robert no-known-second-name, AKA Waters. Sandy-colored hair, slim build, five-eight to five-nine. And Sandro—that’s short for Alessandro, I’m guessing, no-known-second name, AKA…”
“Uh, Detective?”
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, those men are, um…well, they’re on TV.”
Danny frowned. “What do you mean, ‘on TV’?”
“I mean they’re on TV, sir. Right now. They’re on Network 4 for the last five minutes. I thought everyone knew this…”
“What the hell are you…?”
Danny turned on the TV and flicked through to Network 4. The broad face and muscular upper torso of a young black man glared at a point behind the camera. The man looked a little scared but also surly, uncooperative, defiant. His face was vaguely familiar to Danny—a rapper or something, he wasn’t sure. Then he heard Patrick’s voice off-screen—not Wilde this time, but Patrick, transparent and uncovered—saying to the man, “…don’t hear any remorse in your voice, fuck-stick. You’re not getting out of here until I hear some remorse. And truth.”
Danny dashed out the door without switching off the set. The dispatcher called out, his voice sounding somehow forlorn: “Uh…sir? Hello, Detective? Are you there, Detective?”
Bobby and Johnny had both worked night security at Network 4 for more years than they cared to remember. It wasn’t exactly the dream job either had imagined for themselves in school, but what the hey—the pay was good and the work was easy. The job basically involved sitting on your fat ass for eight hours, five nights a week, and keeping an eye on things. They had a bank of CCTV screens in their small office, toward the rear of the building, and every 30 minutes one of them would make the perfunctory rounds. The greatest excitement you could expect would be rousting the odd wino who was looking for a warm place to sleep. Most of the time the work comprised respectfully tipping your cap to whatever big-shot was coming in or going out. Those souped-up assholes who worked the day shift would never stick the boredom, though. Those clowns thought they were in the marines or something. Bobby and Johnny just laughed at them behind their backs.
Now Bobby sat in the booth, feet up on the bank of screens, stretching his hands behind his head. Johnny, standing beside him, said, “So what did you say you wanted again?”
“I said I wanted a Snickers, a bottle of orange juice, and 20 Luckies. And get me a magazine too. A nudie. I’m bored stiff here.”
Johnny chuckled. “Well, you’ll be bored stiffer when you read one of those. Whaddya want? Hustler? Asian Babes?”
“No. God, no. Just get me, like, a Playboy or something. Nothing too hardcore. I like my filth to be relatively clean, if you follow me.”
They both laughed, and Johnny said, “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby… you’re just too bad, Bobby…”
Some 30 feet away a side-door hushed open and the 3W Gang, dressed in tuxedos but without their balaclavas, quietly slipped into the building. Patrick and Sandro dragged a drugged, sluggish Eye Dog between them. Robert carefully closed the door. Johnny and Bobby continued their conversation.
They quickly pulled Eye Dog up little-used maintenance stairwells, then pushed him through a door and along a short corridor, finally entering the cramped confines of Studio Two. Sandro bolted the door through which they’d entered, one of two access points. Robert stood still, hesitant. Patrick, placing Eye Dog into the presenter’s chair behind a desk, stopped and looked at Robert.
He said, “Come on, Rob. The other door.”
“Paddy, man. I don’t know about this…”
“You don’t know what? Secure the other fucking door, Rob.”
Robert hesitated again, then breathed heavily and moved to the far corner, padlocking the fire exit. Sandro stripped Eye Dog of his coat and shirt, down to a white vest, and bound him with dull-silver duct tape, arms and head, into the presenter’s chair behind a desk. He fixed a camera onto the man’s face.
Robert took a step forward and blurted out, “Listen, I’ve got a bad goddamn feeling. This is… What are we doing here, dude?”
“Jesus Christ, Robert. Not now,” Patrick said. “I don’t have time for this now.”
“Look, I’m with you, man. You know that. But this, it’s…I don’t know…”
Patrick looked at him, angry, strain showing in his ragged eyes. He barked, “What? What is the matter? Come on, tell me.”
Robert didn’t respond. Patrick continued, “You have a problem, say so. What is it? What’s the problem!?”
Still no answer. Sandro stepped between them, saying, “It’s okay, Paddy. Everything’s cool.” He turned to Robert. “Right, little man?”
Robert nodded and spoke wearily. “Right, Sandro.”
“No problem,” Patrick said. “Good.”
Sandro moved away, toward the control room, as Robert fixed on his balaclava. Eye Dog was beginning to return to consciousness, slowly, as Patrick slipped on his hood and stepped in front of the camera. He turned to Robert and said quietly, “Rob—it’s okay. I told you. Everything will go as it should.”
Robert swallowed hard and nodded. Patrick steadied himself and looked up to Sandro who gave him the A-OK sign, as Robert stood nervously by, holding a gun, a bag at his feet. A red “Recording” light blinked on—the 3W Gang had now patched into the main transmission feed and were going out live. Television viewers across New York were annoyed, then perplexed, as their reception momentarily went fuzzy, before clearing to reveal a masked man half-filling their screens. He cleared his throat and smiled.
Patrick said, in his own voice, “Good evening, citizens, and welcome once more to Karma TV. I must apologize in advance for the roughshod nature of tonight’s production—we’re going out live, so you can expect one or two…minor mishaps. But don’t let that put you off, because we have a very, very special guest tonight. Please, a warm, heartfelt welcome for rap sensation…Eye Dog.”
Patrick said, “We’ve brought you some real scumbags so far, folks, but tonight we thought it might be nice to present a famous face. A sort of…celebrity scumbag, if you will. Why not tell us a little about yourself, Eye Dog? Or may I call you Eye?”
“Wha-? What the fuck is happening here? Is this a set-up? Yeah. This is a set-up. Right, punk? You’re gonna pull off that stupid mask any second and…”
Patrick sighed theatrically. “It’s not a mask, Eye Dog; it’s a balaclava. Named for a battle in the Crimean War, I believe. And no, it’s not a set-up, either. Watch.” He pulled a gun from inside his jacket and started aiming it, back and forth, with one eye closed. “Hmm…where, oh where, to fire?”
Then he shot a hole in the presenter’s chair, about an inch below Eye Dog’s left ear. The rapper jumped, shocked, started yelling, “Aargh! Jesus Christ! What are you doing!?”
“What am I doing? Something that should have been done a long time ago, Mr. Big-time Fucking Hip-Hop Star. At the risk of laboring a musical theme, Eye Dog, it’s time for you to pay the piper.”
By the time Danny screeched his car to a halt across the street from the Network 4 building, the forces of law and order had begun amassing outside. Squad cars formed a perimeter of steel and flashing blue lights. Men in long overcoats spoke with urgency into radios. A SWAT team gathered in front of the main entrance, about a dozen of them, muscular men in bulky black jackets and reinforced helmets, throat mikes and earpieces, powerful submachine-guns held at ease in both hands. And, of course, the TV cameras were already setting up equipment and breathlessly reporting back to studio.
Danny jogged forward but was stopped ten yards from the front door by the SWAT team leader, a huge man with a bristling moustache. He said, “Whoa. Cool your heels right there, pal.”
Danny flashed his badge and said, “Detective Sergeant Everard. You have to let me through.”
The man shook his head nonchalantly. “Uh-uh. Nothin’ doin’. Nobody goes in or out until the Chief okays it. Alright? That’s a direct order from the man himself.”
Danny couldn’t believe this shit. Every cop’s worst bureaucratic nightmare made flesh. He pleaded, “I’m handling this case, for Christ’s sake. Working under Captain James Harte of the 14th Precinct. I know this man, I can talk with him, please. Stop being so fucking obtuse.”
The SWAT leader held up his hand. “Stop. Stop talking to me. I’m following my orders, alright? Take it up with your Captain Jonathan Harte if you want.”
Danny stepped back, infuriated. He was debating whether or not to call James when he heard Cathy. He turned and saw her, struggling to break through an NYPD cordon.
Cathy shouted, “Danny! Over here! Danny!”
He rushed over and, taking her hands, moved them back through the cordon, away from the front door. They stopped under the spreading boughs of a tree, oddly menacing in the flickering glow of the vehicles’ lights.
“Cathy. What are you doing here?” Danny said. “You don’t wanna…”
“Is it true, Danny? Someone said they’d…kidnapped a movie star, or something… That they’ve got him holed up inside our building, right now…”
“Shh. Yes, it’s true. He’s got him in one of the studios. I couldn’t stop him, I only found out today…”
Cathy frowned, puzzled. “Couldn’t stop who? Who’s ‘he’? …Danny?”
Danny made to speak, then stopped himself. He sighed heavily and looked away.
“What? Talk to me, Danny. Who… Wait a minute. It’s not…”
He looked at her and nodded.
Cathy said, quietly, “Patrick? You think… No. Nooo.” She laughed nervously. “You must be mistaken, Detective. Patrick couldn’t… Are you serious?”
“I’m serious, Cathy. Patrick is in there right now, with his two friends and some…guy, a rap star I think…”
“Wait. Robert? Is he involved, too? Oh my God, Danny. This is insane.” She went silent, thinking, sucking on the inside of her cheek. “The leaks. The videotape leaked to other studios. No. I can’t believe this. This is nuts…”
Danny took her in a bear hug and said, “I know. I know. It is crazy, you’re right.” He pushed them apart and looked into her eyes. “Listen—I’m gonna do my best here. I can’t promise anything…” He gestured to the forces ranked around them. “…but I’ll do my best. Okay? Patrick will be alright. Trust me?”
She nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”
Eye Dog was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Sure, he could take this punk-ass bitch one to one, any time; he could slap his ass all the way from here to Canada. But he wasn’t so sure about the other guy, the big one up high in the control room: he looked like a man who knew how to take care of himself. And besides, the punk-ass bitch was holding a gun by his side, and Eye Dog’s arms were tied down anyway.
Patrick leaned over him, and Eye Dog looked away, a curl on his lip. Don’t show any fear. You are the fucking boss of this situation. You didn’t come up through the ghetto just to get pushed around by some sissy white boy who thinks he’s Steven fuckin’ Seagal. Eye Dog looked back—the guy was still staring at him.
He said, “What? What you staring at me like that for?”
Patrick replied, “I’m waiting, Eye Dog. And so are all the viewers at home. We’re waiting for your confession.”
“My what? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding, right?” Then he remembered the gun, and thought, Play it cool, Dog. Do what he says. Let him get comfortable. “No. Okay. You’re not kidding. That’s cool, man. Whatever you want.”
“Well, get to it, then. This silence is hemorrhaging viewers; our corporate sponsors will not be pleased.”
Eye Dog shrugged, as much as anyone in his position could, and said, “Yeah, sure. My confession about what? Yo, I’m not being funny, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Seriously.”
Patrick stood back, away from the desk. “Alright. Let me refresh your memory and fill in some of the background blanks for the good folks in TV land.” He addressed the camera. “Mr. Dog, ladies and gentlemen, has a particularly—how shall I phrase this?—unpleasant attitude toward the fairer sex. And toward homosexuals. Oh, and as it happens, Jews and Koreans, too, which I think shows commendable inclusiveness.”
He turned and glared at Eye Dog; Eye Dog glared back.
Patrick went on, “Just give me a minute…ah, yes.” He raised a finger. “This is from the charmingly titled album, Bitch on a Leash: ‘Suck that dick, bitch, suck it, ho; I know you wanna suck it cuz that’s all that you good fo’.’” Patrick winced. “God, that grammar. Or how about this, from the—Christ almighty—award-winning album, FAF, or Fuck All Faggots: ‘On ya hands and knees, faggot, do what I please, faggot; Glock up yo’ ass and the trigger I squeeze, faggot.’ Mm. Yummy. Makes me feel all warm inside.” He turned back to Eye Dog. “Yeah—I’ve heard some of your fucking records. Mediocre work, by the way.”
Eye Dog stared at the ceiling. Patrick said, “Out of curiosity, do you realize the irony of a homophobe writing about, quote-unquote, ‘fucking faggots’? Does that register with you, at all?”
The rapper looked back at him and said, “Man, what are you talking about? Fuckin’ irony. Listen, let me outta this chair.”
Patrick raised the gun and strode forward to within three feet of Eye Dog. He said, “No, you listen. I don’t hear any remorse in your voice, fuck-stick. You’re not getting out of here until I hear some remorse. And truth.”
“Truth?” Eye Dog laughed. “What do you know about truth, motherfucker? There in your fancy-dress costume. In a mask. And you’re askin’ me about truth?”
“Ah. Classic justificatory behavior. ‘You’re just the same as me’, et cetera, et cetera.” He leaned forward and squeezed Eye Dog’s left ear lobe, painfully, twisting the man’s head upward. “We’re not the fucking same. You hear me
? I am not the same as you. Now talk.”
He released the ear and turned away, and Eye Dog squirmed, trying not to show his discomfort. That had hurt. He slyly eyeballed the man in the mask and then it dawned: these are the guys all the news shows had been talking about. The vigilantes. The terrorists. The masked fucking avengers. He swallowed hard and thought, This could get serious.
“Man, don’t kill me,” Eye Dog exclaimed. “Alright? I haven’t done shit, so just…don’t kill me.”
Patrick turned to face him. “Oh, but you have, Mr. Dog. And you know you have.”
“Yo, fuck you. I didn’t… What are you talking about?”
Patrick sighed. He shifted the balaclava back and forth on the crown of his head a few times. He placed both hands on the desk, the gun in one, fingers arched and tensed on the other, and said, “You’ve made a fortune out of this, this, woman-hating shit you peddle. This disgusting linguistic violence, dressed up as music. ‘Women are bitches. Homosexuals are scum. Be like me. Be a fucking barbarian in gaudy jewelry. Be a man!’” Patrick laughed. “Christ. ‘Be a man.’ And you’ve gotten rich on this shit, baby. This incitement to hatred, more or less. But you know the best thing of all? I don’t think you even believe any of it, anyway. It’s all just a means of making the green, right? Man, the cynicism of that.”
Eye Dog squirmed against his binds, his broad shoulders flexing, rippling under his skin. His expression was angry but also subdued. He said, “What’s cynical about it? I’m just telling it like it is, man. Just keeping it real. You said you wanted truth; well, there it is.”