The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (45 page)

Jubilant crowds mocked them, inviting them to join in a new game. Surely they could deploy their self-proclaimed superior attributes and regain their status; after all, they were the best and brightest. Their natural gifts should carry them. But the faces of those now evicted from their extravagances showed no signs of confidence.

“Seventh — and last!” shouted Brian Stahl. “A new governmental system will be established, based on principles to be set forth in a new and appropriately modern constitution, written by the people who live in this new world. The people who live here now. Open to all who care to contribute to a collaborative commons and a Direct Democracy.”

Brian Stahl could no longer restrain his glee in watching the rats desert the sinking ship. He raised both hands, mocking Bishop Hendrix, and shouted, “And that shall be the content of thy cup.”

* * *

V
irginia McWilliams Hendrix
scuttled across the sculpture garden in a panic and came to a screeching halt upon seeing Petey’s greenhouse barges headed for the open sea. She had not anticipated any of this and it took her some time to comprehend Petey’s betrayal. One he’d obviously been working on for some time, right under her nose.

Mahesh Murthy, having discounted every option that might leave him less comfortable than he believed he deserved, did what he had always done— he ran to Virginia Hendrix. She stood in her crazy hat on the granite docks staring after Petey’s barges steaming toward the harbor. For once in her life, she was absolutely speechless.

P
etey stood
in the pilot house of the ocean-going tug, scanning the harbor with binoculars. He was ecstatic, but not yet out of the woods. His escape had gone off without a single hiccup, but until his flotilla crossed the harbor, the victory celebration was on hold. His coal barges-cum-luxury-island only drafted sixteen feet of water, so he’d had security lower all the mines between the UN Complex and the Atlantic Ocean to eighteen feet.

With two tugs, the flotilla quickly accelerated to twelve knots. At this pace, they’d pass between Battery Park and Governor’s Island and into one of the deepest natural harbors on earth in less than two sphincter-clenching minutes. A time to reflect?

Petey had listened to Brian Stahl’s screed on shortwave radio and laughed himself silly upon hearing that Tuke’s big weapon was the dissolution of the dollar. A currency transaction. Once again, he, Petey Hendrix, had anticipated his opponent’s every move. Meticulous planning and unscrupulous play had again proven him the better man, and most worthy of total victory. His final move had been buying the Central Bank, trading his now worthless dollars for their gold. The ultimate short. A subtle joy enveloped him as he declared himself the winner, just as his flotilla caught the harbor current. A sense of dominion, as self-ordained as any article of faith, filled him with pride. The great scorecard of wealth and power proved the truth of his faith. He was the winner, and the sore losers were now knocking the board off the table. Pathetic!

The flotilla cleared the tip of Manhattan at the stony battlements of Battery Park, and picked up speed as the Hudson River swept them into the middle of the harbor. Only one hurdle remained, Governor’s Island, home to the East River mine layers. If the insurgents had taken Governor’s Island, he might be in trouble.

The Island lay off their left side, so all hands were dispatched to the port gunwales to watch for mines. The captain made a right turn, towards New Jersey, steering away from Governor’s Island and into the middle of New York Harbor. As Governor’s Island moved off their mid-ship line, Petey exhaled and declared victory.

He had for a lifetime been planning the party of a lifetime, just for himself. He set his binoculars down on the vinyl-padded dash, nodded his approval to the captain, and left the pilot house. Across the patchwork of aluminum gangways he trotted, reassured by the rock-solid stability of his vessel — five barges abreast and seven abaft. He smiled serenely and opened the door to a barge with
3 of 35
painted on its bulkhead.

3 of 35
was, as were all the others, thirty-five feet wide and two hundred feet long — seven thousand square feet of floor space each. But there was only a small path along the forward bulkhead inside
3 of 35
. The rest of it was packed with gold bars, stacked wall to wall in a bed three feet high. They’d have stacked it higher, but this was all the gold the Central Bank had, their entire reserve. This was what it all came down to: ten percent of the nation’s debt. That was all that was left, and it was in gold. This, and his floating city, was Petey’s departure bonus. A true golden parachute. Well earned, as he saw it, numb to the fact that it had come from the stolen prayers of people who actually worked. And that, according to Petey, was how it should be. As Natural Law dictates. What idiots.

And right on cue! Down the stairs danced three leggy women, chosen by Petey according to his tastes and the need to populate his newly minted world. A blonde, a brunette and a dark woman of indeterminate ethnicity, certainly the most exotic of the three, approached. They were dressed in lavish outfits and carried bottles of champagne, trays of canapés and a bucket of barbecued ribs. They smothered Petey in kisses, then arranged everything on the solid gold bed. Glasses were filled, niblettes of caviar and Kobe beef were stuffed into hungry mouths, and the good times were underway.

The brunette grabbed Petey and pushed him up against the bulkhead. She put her glass out and the blonde overflowed it with champagne. She tipped it back, spilling most of it on herself, then put her lips to Petey’s and filled his mouth with champagne from hers, much of which spilled down his face. Interlacing her fingers behind his neck, she stepped back against the sweeping bed of gold and slowly lowered herself onto it, Petey in tow. She spread her legs, revealing a prodigious arrangement of piercings, and wrapped them around his waist.

The blonde snuggled up behind him and reached around to unbuckle his pants. The exotic girl pulled his head up by his hair and smeared an entire rack of ribs across his face. He snatched it from her as his pants dropped over his shoes and tore the flesh from it with his teeth. He hurled the bones against the wall, rubbed his saucy hands over the reclining beauty’s belly and breasts, then commenced to lick off every drop. The blonde had Petey’s member in hand, in preparation for some very smooth sailing, but he was only at half-mast . . .

The tugboat captain signaled the crew to stand down from the port side watch, now that Governor’s Island was no longer an issue and they were safely in the deepest part of the harbor. The first mate entered the pilot house, took his position next to the captain, and picked up Petey’s binoculars. He looked straight ahead, out beyond the Verrazano Narrows and into the Atlantic, all clear. He lowered the binoculars and looked up the Hudson. “Oh, my God,” he said, “those fuckin’ Leprechauns.”

The mine-string Jon Replogle and Captain Banjo had set adrift wrapped itself around the flotilla. An explosion unlike anything this ancient harbor had ever seen sent Petey’s party to the cold, cold bottom of the harbor.

Virginia and Murthy stood in a putrid cloud of their own absurdity watching the barges gurgle under, her radiant gown pale in the pure light of a new sun, head buckling under the ridiculous cube-hat. Murthy’s silly man-suit and monstrous wig were reduced to the arrogant residue of insidious extravagance. These two were as ossified as any of the statues that Petey had left behind. Neither noticed the self-renounced former Representative Al Thomka as he entered the far end of the sculpture garden.

Al searched and quickly found the object of his redemption — Mayor Abraham De Peyster. Now that Abe was down off his pedestal, he was able to embrace him in a warm and manly hug. He shivered with delight, and said as if to an old friend . . .

“Oh! Have I got a story for you.”

* * *