motherfucking exhausting that for the time being Iâm happy to take the transcripts at face value.
Peep the disc sideways, hold the penlight to it. Could be holding data too for that matter, itâs been awhile since Iâve seen one of these.
Nic Deluccia? Think. This skull of mine. Sealed-off sections, vaults, like Al Caponeâs: maybe containing a stale absence ⦠maybe choked with radiant gems. All I can dredge is a televised news conference ⦠Gotti-era mob sting?
I go deeper. A blue-uniformed Nic Deluccia at a podium, brass buttons, a bouquet of microphones ⦠and Jesus, if I have the perspective right, Iâm up there too. Among the uniforms. Deluccia or somebody saying, â⦠what we can accomplish when working in cooperation with local communities.â Held aloft is a New York Post , headline reading, âBronx Baby-Grabber Nabbed.â Scattered applause. I must be a kid, cause everything seems outsized, too big. Flash cameras going off. Nic is turning toward me, headless, and another flash wipes the scene.
Itâs in there somewhere. I know this man. Iâd have to run a more intensive scan. Let that simmer. Iâve learned I canât force it.
Also learned I canât trust it either. False memory a distinct possibility.
Bite my penlight. Back to the papers, the big picture. Rosenblatt was a world-class bullshitter, and he must have known that some of this here is pretty thin, but gut level says itâs real. With highly dubious and circumstantial aspects, but real enough.
I replace the file and rise, wincing at my fucking knee. Automatically shake the pill bottle in my pocket, pop it open, and drop one down my gullet.
Well, Clarence Howard, I do believe Iâve seen enough to make an initial assessment.
What nags is that all this material is so frickin old. Given what the public and private sectors have had to struggle through postâ9/11 and particularly postâ2/14, I find it hard to fathom why the whole narrative couldnât just be dismissed. Who gives a shit, really? We got fresher fish to fry, all of us.
But itâs a profoundly ugly story. And the senator seems very anxious to kill it, even at this late date. I sense movement between the lines.
Listen here: I fear no man, save myself. Power has been redistributed with the upheaval brought about by 2/14. The playing field leveled. The agents of Babylon, they no longer hold the best cards. They may have more men, more bullets, but when it comes down to it, instinct and mojo trump cash money.
Itâs a knife fight out there, intimate, cheek-to-cheek. And I was raised on that tit.
Flow proactive.
Happy minding my own, but if the senator wants to raise a ruckus, Iâm only too willing to oblige. Smack me, and I smack you back. Thatâs real.
This dude concerned about exposure with this nasty hooker cut-up? Weâll give him exposure. Realness: on the street, you hit first and you hit hard cause you never know what the other guyâs got.
Fucking threaten me, man? Fucking threaten the New York Public Library? The books are eternal, nigger. The books, theyâre bigger than all of us.
Plus, Iâm not into hurting the ladies. Donât countenance chopping up kids.
Next moves. Starting points. Scare up some Koreans, and see what shakes loose.
On the back of the folder is a Post-It, a couple phone numbers, which do me no good, as landlines are a thing of the past. Hell, as are cellular networks if youâre not military, and even then â¦
But we also have a couple loose addresses:
Club Enduring Freedom, 8 West 32nd, suite 602
Bubble Teen Tea + BBQ, 38 West 32nd, ninth floor
I peel this off, and take the page detailing Promise Land and the Executive Comfort Lounge. Commit the moniker âK-Manâ to memory, easy enough though my memory is spotty.
Did I mention this?
Shoulder everything relevant to the good senator. Down a couple aisles I deposit this pile
Peep the disc sideways, hold the penlight to it. Could be holding data too for that matter, itâs been awhile since Iâve seen one of these.
Nic Deluccia? Think. This skull of mine. Sealed-off sections, vaults, like Al Caponeâs: maybe containing a stale absence ⦠maybe choked with radiant gems. All I can dredge is a televised news conference ⦠Gotti-era mob sting?
I go deeper. A blue-uniformed Nic Deluccia at a podium, brass buttons, a bouquet of microphones ⦠and Jesus, if I have the perspective right, Iâm up there too. Among the uniforms. Deluccia or somebody saying, â⦠what we can accomplish when working in cooperation with local communities.â Held aloft is a New York Post , headline reading, âBronx Baby-Grabber Nabbed.â Scattered applause. I must be a kid, cause everything seems outsized, too big. Flash cameras going off. Nic is turning toward me, headless, and another flash wipes the scene.
Itâs in there somewhere. I know this man. Iâd have to run a more intensive scan. Let that simmer. Iâve learned I canât force it.
Also learned I canât trust it either. False memory a distinct possibility.
Bite my penlight. Back to the papers, the big picture. Rosenblatt was a world-class bullshitter, and he must have known that some of this here is pretty thin, but gut level says itâs real. With highly dubious and circumstantial aspects, but real enough.
I replace the file and rise, wincing at my fucking knee. Automatically shake the pill bottle in my pocket, pop it open, and drop one down my gullet.
Well, Clarence Howard, I do believe Iâve seen enough to make an initial assessment.
What nags is that all this material is so frickin old. Given what the public and private sectors have had to struggle through postâ9/11 and particularly postâ2/14, I find it hard to fathom why the whole narrative couldnât just be dismissed. Who gives a shit, really? We got fresher fish to fry, all of us.
But itâs a profoundly ugly story. And the senator seems very anxious to kill it, even at this late date. I sense movement between the lines.
Listen here: I fear no man, save myself. Power has been redistributed with the upheaval brought about by 2/14. The playing field leveled. The agents of Babylon, they no longer hold the best cards. They may have more men, more bullets, but when it comes down to it, instinct and mojo trump cash money.
Itâs a knife fight out there, intimate, cheek-to-cheek. And I was raised on that tit.
Flow proactive.
Happy minding my own, but if the senator wants to raise a ruckus, Iâm only too willing to oblige. Smack me, and I smack you back. Thatâs real.
This dude concerned about exposure with this nasty hooker cut-up? Weâll give him exposure. Realness: on the street, you hit first and you hit hard cause you never know what the other guyâs got.
Fucking threaten me, man? Fucking threaten the New York Public Library? The books are eternal, nigger. The books, theyâre bigger than all of us.
Plus, Iâm not into hurting the ladies. Donât countenance chopping up kids.
Next moves. Starting points. Scare up some Koreans, and see what shakes loose.
On the back of the folder is a Post-It, a couple phone numbers, which do me no good, as landlines are a thing of the past. Hell, as are cellular networks if youâre not military, and even then â¦
But we also have a couple loose addresses:
Club Enduring Freedom, 8 West 32nd, suite 602
Bubble Teen Tea + BBQ, 38 West 32nd, ninth floor
I peel this off, and take the page detailing Promise Land and the Executive Comfort Lounge. Commit the moniker âK-Manâ to memory, easy enough though my memory is spotty.
Did I mention this?
Shoulder everything relevant to the good senator. Down a couple aisles I deposit this pile
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