Rivers of Gold (25 page)

“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 deep 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

T
he 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 and 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.

This is how it happened.

The receptionist in the waiting room at
Roundup
is getting nervous. It's been almost an hour since I asked to see Marcus Chalk, and of course she said he was out. I said I'd wait and I'm still here, waiting. She's started cupping her hands over her mouth when she uses the phone to muffle her voice; by now she's probably informed the whole office by e-mail about the guy who won't leave, and would someone please call security?

It doesn't matter anymore. I'm pinned to this settee by entropy. I've got my earbuds in, and thumbed up the Only Ones' “Another Girl, Another Planet,” repeating it over and over. On my phone's screen, the front page of the magazine's Web site features a bevy of beauties arrayed behind a naked and glorious N. Wrapped around N, her gym-toned arms deployed over key strategic points, is LA, striking a pose at once provocative and proprietary. The gaudy headline in the foreground reads
EXCLUSIVE! THE STAFF GIRLS OF LE YEF
.

I don't want the receptionist to call the cops. With leaden limbs I pull myself to my feet. On my way out of the office, I catch a glimpse of Johnette as she emerges from behind one door and disappears behind another. Our eyes meet for an instant: There is no gloating, no sadistic leer, no malice in her face at all. She sees me, or perhaps through me, and then she's gone.

There's no rational explanation for why I park myself on a bench across the street from the lobby of the
Roundup
building. It's another one of those unfinished parks you see now, abandoned when the money ran out, a fitting place for my vigil. I have to see Marcus Chalk. I've got to try to explain what happened and see if I can straighten things out. Maybe, just maybe, he'll give me another chance. If I know I've got money coming in from
Roundup
, maybe I can work out a schedule with Reza for paying back the cost of the lost Specials.

And here he comes, nodding to the doormen, one of whom raises a radio to his mouth. There's a stunning woman with him. Even at this distance her confident, indescribably seductive bearing and carriage beckon to me.

I should have known. L magnificently fills out a carnelian iridescent chiffon asymmetric suspension cocoon dress, every inch the
belle du jour
. It's so decadent. So last-decade. So very, very L.

I tear my eyes away as they share a laugh and the inevitable kiss. A throaty burbling sound gives me something else to try to focus on. A valet for the building roars up in a glossy black Audi RS9. I blink furiously through my tears to make sure I read the license plate right. I have. This is Reza's machine. The valet jumps out and holds the driver's side door open. Marcus Chalk holds out a folded bill while L slides behind the wheel. I can almost hear the rustle of silk across leather, bunching between the flesh of inner thighs softer than rose petals, and even then I can't get hard. Everything's falling apart.