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thewestern · 3 months

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Chapter 23

Of note, all Ari found were the front bumper of Billy’s car, a positive pregnancy test in a hamburger bag and a one-eyed cat. Little devil nearly clawed His Eye out when he lifted the lid. Dumpster diving — that’s all counterintelligence work amounted to nowadays. Analog investigation, at least. No need anymore for gumshoes. Not in the era of Electronic Surveillance. He couldn’t have deduced anything about Billy, or any of these barfly meshuggenehs for that matter, that couldn’t have been much more easily ascertained from the comfort of a cubicle somewhere, with a few deft clicks and keystrokes. Like all modern currencies, information was now being traded programmatically on a digital exchange. Millions of micro-transactions processed per second. No non-institutional intelligence broker could ever hope to keep up with Big Brother and the Holding Company. Cell phone records, email transcripts, browser histories, unpaid parking tickets, voter registration, bank statements, dating profiles, grade point averages, blood types and sperm counts. It was all out there for the taking … Somewhere In The Cloud. (The rainbow is over. Or at least you can’t see it behind … The Cloud.) Hell, even Billy’s car was a computer. That wasn’t how Ari had found it though. It was Perlmutter Agency policy to keep tabs on clients and any relevant associates. Only as a contingency. Within reason, of course. Therefore, Ari had stashed a transponder under the chassis, of both this car and its backup. They had all types of cool shit like that down at the office, despite that most of it was in a broom closet collecting dust. Listening devices, hidden cameras, a primitive pair of night vision goggles. (This particular rig weighed no less than twenty pounds, like a toaster oven hanging off your damn face. These were your classic Tom Clancy-ass, Cold War-era specs … on some Buffalo Bill shit.) Really anything you could conceivably use in the spying on and/or blackmailing of somebody. They even had an audio processor … you know, for making the monster voice. (No guns or live rounds, however. Again, agents were expected to supply their own service weapons and munitions.) Secret agent gadgets were like office supplies at Perlmutter. They were back there with the fax machine and photocopier. Nobody hardly used them anymore either.

Yes, sadly, tradecraft was a dying art. But, hey, that was no skin off Ari’s dick. He didn’t harbour any delusions about becoming an international man of mystery. Intelligence wasn’t his core competency anyway. He had been carving out his own, adjacent niche. You see, even if Ari wasn’t much for a risk analyst, as it were, you don’t need a Bloomberg Terminal to know which way the shit runs. (Downhill.) Whereas the market for information was going global, he could plainly see how good old-fashioned violence was once again being made right here in USA America. Wholesale bloodshed, manufactured in bulk. Government buildings, houses of worship, art museums, strip malls, supermarkets, sporting events and of course, schools (fucking especially schools) — potential combat zones, all. Home theaters of war. WE are soldiers. And, in addition to automatic weapons, soldiers require training. Ari would be personal trainer. Like he had been before, but not anymore at gymnasium. No longer to teach housewife fitness and nutrition. (At least, not exclusive … they are crucial part of any well-balanced threat-respond practicing.) Teaching the will to survive. The will to kill. They are same one.

However, death would have to wait, because today he was off running errands for Hildy. At least she gave him the car, for to pick up the China-man with. The airport was so fucking far, man. When he did finally get there, he had to hold a sign at baggage claim with two Chinese characters printed on Wolffenbeir Company letterhead.

Hildy had also offloaded on him the dogs. She said she needed some space. Obviously they rode up front with him, of where there was precious little. (They couldn’t well be back there drooling on this very important China-person, could they?) Needless to say, the boys were a wreck without their mummykins, and the Deep House he played in the driver’s compartment was exacerbating their separation anxiety, as well as it was wreaking havoc on their inner ear issues. (The passenger’s cabin was completely soundproof, even just beyond the thin partition. Billy could have been driving up there watching hardcore female orgasm cumpilations turned up to eleven and Mr. Wang wouldn’t have heard a damned thing.)

Having dropped off Wang the dogs, now Ari was back on to chasing Billy. Such a silly boy. How had he gotten himself involved with these silly fools? He was following them in their station wagon. Normally it would have been a difficult tail, on account of there were so many similar station wagons on the roadway. Only the girl with the boy’s haircut had drawn a penis with her finger in the dirt on the rear windshield. Ari was disgusted by this. Women should act and look a certain way, his father taught him. All the same, he could not help but admire this presumed lesbian’s athletic physique. Broad shoulders and toned triceps. Women had vanity muscles like men but they were opposite. Legs and glutes rather than chest and arms. Not her. She would be good for soldier in IDF.

(The Israeli army ranks among the global military leaders for LGBT inclusion practices, this according to a study conducted by a Dutch defence industry think tank. A far cry from a fighting force of homophobes, such as ours, here in the land of the Don’t Ask and the home of the Don’t Tell. Had Grace been so swept up in patriotic fervor following the hijacking attacks on the World Trade Center, that she marched down to her local recruiter to enlist in the forever war against global terrorism, they would have turned her away, soley on the basis that she had come out as an openly gay person three days prior. Not to mention, she was eleven.)

The large kushi boy wouldn’t have fared so well, for him. (Not only because the Israeli rank and file were markedly less tolerant of racial minorities, generally speaking.) Physical size was no more a strategic advantage in modern, urban warfare. Even in increasingly rare hand-to-hand combat scenarios, with proper instruction, sheer technique could overcome brute strength. Ari was a studied practitioner of Krav Maga, a proprietary fighting style developed by the IDF special forces, which became fashionable as a group fitness craze among civilian American women, nominally as a means of self-defense training in suburbia. Cherry-picking components from multiple martial arts, KM explicitly aims to mitigate size disparities through efficiency of force displacement. This via the shameless exploitation of one’s opponent’s physical vulnerabilities. I make demonstrate: David headbutt Goliath in groin, in repeat. Bang, bang, bang. Work combination. Alternative stomping toes with uppercut haymaker to livers. You Do Not Do That, Goliath.

(Ari couldn’t have known this, but Zeke’s size had been similarly undervalued by violent-doing elements on the home front. Perhaps in part because they lacked the same opportunity to participate in extracurricular activities as their peers at SciTech, gang affiliation among the student body at West High had reached an all-time high during Zeke’s tenure. However, certain trends allowed for him to remain an unconscious objector in such a way that would have been previously impossible for a promising young man of his considerable build. Foremostly being the surging proliferation of affordable firearms on the secondary market. Doesn’t matter how big you are, not if you’re strapped. Why would I lift weights when all I’m finna lift this nine? Lift these stacks. If anything, Zeke’s broad stature only made him an easier target. The hoppers and the corner kids had no use for a true Heavy — an old-school enforcer-type. For a fact, they all laughed at him when he passed by. Called him names, like Suge Light and Ashy the Giant and Freak-A-Zeke.

Now shout out the radio station that gave ya what ya wanted. W Boom Boom Beat, baby.

Additionally, there were the corrosive, trickle-down effects of the so-called RICO statutes. You see, before the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, the street gang economy had been a cut-and-dry oligopoly. One wherein an elite ruling class of felonious actors wielded cartel power with near impunity. Which is to say in any given market, defined be it by geographic radii or ethnic grouping, there were usually only one, two or at the upper band three competing producers for robbery, extortion, running numbers, drug dealing, whatever, what have you. In just such an environment, Zeke would have been inevitably recruited to a life of crime, itself only to be inevitably cut short by untimely death or incarceration. What RICO did via grand jury indictments was force the CEOs of these underworld conglomerates — be they the Lucchese and the Gambinos, the Crips and the Bloods, the Hells Angels and the Oath Keepers and the Juggalos — into an early retirement to be served in a maximum security prison community. However, rather than the desired upon effect of stifling organized crime from the top down, the resulting power vacuum only served to metastasize petty malfeasances among middle management-level gang bangers and cultivate a more competitive illicit marketplace, thus begetting a halcyon age of thug entrepreneurship. A free agency of chaos, call it. [For a fact, one could quite plausibly make the argument that RICO was the lone effective piece of antitrust legislation passed in the latter half of the Twentieth Century. But that’s a panel discussion for another day.] In Zeke’s hood and others like it, a kaleidoscopic network of tribalist crews and sets arose from the ashes of their absent forefathers. Known by the Sheriff’s Department gang task force to be operating in the City Public School District alone, there were the Fifty-Ninth Street Mafia, Rolling Twenties, los Gatos Ojituertos, the Bullet Hole in the Drywall Gangstas, JD & the Straight Hittas, KFBR392, the Pussy Posse, TH YNG PUSHRS, Outlaw Aristocracy, the Barrio Bourgeoisie and several others. With sundry potential suitors for his services, somehow it became easier for Zeke to slip through the cracks altogether and maintain his independent status. And that was a-okay with him. Commanding in stature though he was, Zeke was as calmly dispositioned as they came, always content to mind after his own store, so to speak. You’re familiar with the beloved children’s story of Ferdinand the Bull? All the other young Spanish bulls wanted to roughouse with one other to prove their machismo, with hopes of someday being selected for the bullfights in Madrid. (Must have been they were an optimistic bunch. In terms of a win-loss ratio, the bulls are the Washington Generals to the matadors’ Harlem Globetrotters. Of course there are exceptions, because as Maggie Thatcher can attest, the bull only hast to get lucky once. The matador, meanwhile, has to get lucky every time. Case in point, Hank had once spectated a bullfight in Mexico City at the Plaza de Toros, the largest such venue in the world. [Bienvenidos a Estadio del Cartel de Sinaloa.] That day a matador proved the old adage: you mess with the bull, you get … well, you know what you get — a belly full of horn, in this instance. Subsequently Hank took some flack from his compadres, for standing in gleeful applause as the man in the blanco pantalones’ guts spilled out there on the dirt. Que pasa? You don’t cheer for the bull?) But Ferdinand, despite being the biggest bull of them all, only wanted to have a siesta beneath the shade of his favorite cork tree and smell the flowers. No spoilers, but suffice to say that Zeke was like Ferdinand.

The black and the lesbian were led by a sad-looking caucasian male in a hoodie. What did he have to be sad about? Ari could tell from his mopey demeanor that he was American Jew. How he pitied them. The diaspora had made his people weak, as his father had so often said. No longer a sense of pride in protecting something. Nothing worth fearing makes afraid of everything. Like fear for losing identity. This, always groaning on about … Identity, this. Culture, that. Ari knew there is no such thing. Place. Only this is real. Ground beneath your feet on which to stand. Surrounded by four walls and a tall fence. Armed to teeth. Proud culture of a warrior people, fighting for homeland. Here is your identity.

Then last there was the woman who took his beer right out from his hand. Women shouldn’t drink. Especially beer. Father was adamant about this. It clots the bleeding. Old man had many opinions of the menstrations. Ari was only ordering it for cover anyway. He drank vodka. Someday, after his personal brand as self-defense influencer had scaled, he dreamt of having his own spirits brand, as side hustle. But the beer store give him idea. He had never been to a place where they made the alcohol to serve. Maybe he could make the vodka and sell it in same place, and this could combine with also dream of owning discotech? Im Tirzu, Ein Zo Agadah. (If you will it, it is no dream.)

She was driving. Typical of sad American Jew boy to be chauffeured by his lead-footed gypsy wife. On a routine tail, maintain at least three car-lengths’ distance between you and the target vehicle. More difficult in non-urban driving scenarios. Ari could barely keep up on these winding backroads. They were all four off to the foothills. Headed in the direction of the Double W Ranch. Summoned by Billy for some or other silliness. Left the foul-mouthed couple to tend the bar. Mother would never speak to his father in such way before she left home for good.

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