I’m angling for the RFK Bridge. Gotta ditch the whip. Slow it down a smidge, and set the cruise control for forty mph. Hard right into the RFK underpass at 125th Street. Go, go. I pop the door, scoping the stack of sandbags . . . fuck, my suit.

  At the last second I snatch up my trousers, but that’s all there’s time for, the window is closing as I roll out the door, come down awkward, but the bags essentially make a comfortable landing pad. It’s a move I wouldn’t have made without the exoskeleton, believe me.

  The hot car carries on, bouncing off the safety walls, onto the Harlem River Drive, over the guardrail like a toy, and into the tainted East River.

  Too late, I’m thinking. There goes another suit . . .

  _________________

  “Dewey Decimal for Senator Clarence Howard.”

  Leaning fast westbound on 125th in Cyna-corp regalia, eyes on the rooftops and windows.

  It got dark in a hurry. Relentless drizzle.

  More than 50 percent of the buildings have simply been torn down, leaving me with the impression that I am moving through my own mouth, the wasteland of my dental-scape. The thought makes me wanna pop a pill, which causes me to reach for the PurellTM . . . then I recall I’m encased in this CC exoskeleton.

  Consider taking a minute, to strip down and lather up. Consider my situation. Gonna have to wait. The sand locked in here with the rest of me.

  “Dewey Decimal for Senator Clarence Howard.”

  Frequency flipping on the head-com. Switch to the next channel, say it again. And repeat.

  Spent a half hour in the old MTA building with the striped city buses, hulking and dark. Once the birds floated off I bounced out the back door. As to the effectiveness of the paltry smoke screen I’m tossing up, I don’t have the least clue, but hey, I’m making an effort here.

  Harlemworld. Looks like everywhere else now. Gray, gray, gray, and blank.

  Keep peeping back at a white Suburban creeping down the wide road, about a block behind me. Don’t like that at all. Otherwise traffic is super light—buses and the occasional military transport. The Suburban is having a tough time blending in.

  Maintain fucking with the radio, and trying to avoid Cyna-corp’s frequency. I got the code for the Saudi kids off of those two chumps I dumped, they flossed tough but at gunpoint they spilled all right.

  The code. It’s cheesy as fuck, you ready?

  The Saudi prince and princess are known collectively as “Gemini.” Get it? Like “twins”?

  How hood is that? I mean, I reckon it’s descriptive enough but it vibes ghetto to me. Sounds like a rapper . . . Shit, it probably was a rapper. Definitely was a rapper. I stopped paying attention back when all my waking energy got diverted into ducking the dirt-nap.

  “Dewey Decimal for Senator Clarence Howard.”

  Doesn’t take too long to raise somebody. Didn’t expect it to.

  A tight, small voice comes back at me: “Mr. Decimal, your ears must be burning. How can I help you?”

  “Yeah, gimme the senator, not trying to talk to some flunky. Who the fuck’s this?”

  “Tim Young. Chief of staff for Senator Howard. We’ve, ah, met.” The distaste is audible. Oh, sure, I remember this Negro. Snooty Millhouse type.

  “’Sup, Tim? You that fancy brother trying to get down with the plantation massas at the Cosmos Club?”

  There’s a crackle, and Tim comes on again: “Mr. Decimal, you should be aware—”

  “Tim, man, you gotta know those crackers might let you in the front door, but you’d best forget about getting in on that private poker game in back. That’s a whites-only kinda jam, feel me?”

  Pause, another long set of crackles. I casually do a moving turn . . . there’s the Suburban, just drifting along. I don’t like that. At all.

  Tim repeats: “Yes, Mr. Decimal, you should be aware that listening in we have representatives of the FBI, the NSA, the Arab League, the Saudi Royal Navy, the Saudi ambassador,” he has to take a breath, “as well as representatives of Mossad, OPEC, and the Abdulaziz family.”

  Cough into the mouthpiece. “That’s a whole lot of bodies. Mental picture of all y’all motherfuckers jammed into a shitty little conference room. Coffee and bagels. Hummus and whatnot. Sweaty little carrots—”

  “Yes,” says Tim, “I inform you of this for legal reasons.”

  Me thinking, Why bother?

  And Tim continues, “There’s unanimous concern here, ah . . .”

  Pause. On the other side of the street, beneath a huge set of letters reading, DR. JAYS, clock a set of hazy figures, youthful, headed the opposite direction. They slow up, regarding me. Gotta keep my eye on them, but I stride forth.

  Tim saying, “. . . deep concern regarding the whereabouts of Princess Haifa Abdulaziz and Prince Khalid Abdulaziz, who arrived in Manhattan this morning on a diplomatic—”

  “Na, man. You people sent me down to meet and greet them, I’ll remind you. Right, Tim?”

  Crackle, then: “Yes, I can confirm that with my office.”

  “And I don’t think it’s a state secret that I, personally, set up and ran the whole operation, right, Tim?”

  “That’s what we understand.”

  “What you understand? So I’d agree that there’s concern, right, cause some very highly organized folks attempted to eliminate the royals, their entourage, and myself. If I understand things correctly, they were successful in hitting the decoys, and I took basic evasive measures to ensure the royals’ safety, and my own. There’s nothing controversial about that, is there, Tim?”

  More crackle. “I have to inform you that abduction of—”

  “Hold on a motherfucking second. Ain’t nobody got abducted. Trust that I know when I’m abducting a motherfucker cause I’ve done it plenty before. Na, I pulled those two out until I could recon with your office, which is exactly what I’m doing now. Cousin, I contacted you!”

  Tim saying again, “The abduction of foreign nationals, and particularly dignitaries and heads of state, is an international criminal offense which—”

  “Hold up. And I know for positive that at least two of y’all on the line right now know exactly what went down this morning, if not all y’all.”

  “. . . sir, you . . .” Tim saying, me talking over the boy, “If y’all didn’t organize the shit directly, which is, just looking at the facts, huh? Extremely likely . . .”

  “. . . are instructed to surrender yourself to any federal or international agency. And if you do so, providing the location and secure return of the prince and princess, I am to add that the Abdulaziz family will consider waiving the capitol option . . .”

  Fuck this. I flick the radio off. And hasten my gimp. Lope faster. And set out on a lurching run. Glance back over my shoulder.

  Stitch-up central. It’s an abduction now, is it? Having played the fucking fool more than once, I told y’all I smelled a rig . . . Sadly, this ain’t crystal clear till after the fact.

  Me. I abducted the twins with wicked intent, thereby endangering the balance of the free world. Making me if not Public Enemy Numero Uno, certainly vaulting my sad ass into the top ten.

  Another look backward. Sure, there’s the vehicle. I put my head down and move. The Suburban picks up its speed in accordance with my own.

  Dewey Decimal, once again, is in the wind.

  _________________

  - - - LLO, reads the landmark theater’s yet-to-be-razed marquee, and I’m amazed it has that much to say.

  125th Street. Those storefronts that have not been demo’d are all metal gates and a latticework of two-by-fours.

  Nothing remains, really, to indicate that this was once an area with character at all. Though through one of the barricades I see a folk-art illustration of Malcolm X in flight, another black superhero, near a childish rendering of a boat with Marcus Garvey’s outsize head poking from the top. Also a faded stencil on the pavement: 9/11 = INSIDE JOB. Which at this point, though no longer important, looks more and more likely to this brother. There was a period where I would have given deeper thought to this—but that is long past.

  Peek east: don’t see the Suburban. Though this is no consolation. No choppers either. Only the sound of my respirator, and remote industrial activity to the south.

  Cut through the husks of the Hancock Place houses as 125th peels off to the northwest . . . reckoning if I can get down to Morningside, then cut east again through the Jungle via CPW . . . I’ve had pretty good luck with the parks thus far as temp cover.

  Group of kids crouched on the cracked court. A couple stand, there’s some chatter, I will them to mind their business, but no, they take interest in yours truly. Rather than step to them I figure I’ll just loop back. Though it’s a strange moment for this to occur, I realize I used to play ball here . . .

  Stay up, Decimal. You’re a motherfucking boss.

  Who are these children? Why would they linger here, with no visible food source, no construction site around which folks tend to congregate? I have the sensation that I’m hallucinating these punks, or am caught in some kinda time-travel jammie . . . but this is not the case.

  Decide to back it up and turn it around. Rather than deal with hood children. It’s just too depressing, sci-fi shit like I’m about to go back to pop a variation of my younger self.

  Spin and realize my supreme fuck-up.

  Another grouping of hoodies has floated out of the darkened corners and effectively blocks my double-back. Amongst this crew I see the shadows who have been tailing me on foot down 125th since way east. Me thinking, C’mon, fuck, the grand irony.

  Having been weaned and shaped by the ghetto, having made an epic escape from its orbit once in my life, would it not be perfect if I were to perish here? Fucking cosmic justice. Plus, what will become of Haifa . . . and the books . . .

  “Wheresya clique, hooah?”

  Wearily I rotate toward the speaker. “Don’t, son, for real . . .” I start, but he’s amped up, the kid saying: “Up here by yourself trick-or-treatin like Iron Man out this motherfucker. Whereza X-Men? Weird space suit–wearing motherfucker.” Dig the glint, a handgun being withdrawn from a waistband. “Yeah, you best just give ALL your nice shit before we cut you up, Power Ranger.”

  Sigh. Hand on my weapon, but don’t pull it. Open my mouth to set these children straight . . . And the white Suburban is suddenly curbside, driver leaning over the top of the car . . . he whistles once, a sharp ascending tone, and casually hoses off the air with machine-gun fire.

  Homie with the niner is looking like he wants to engage, but the other kids scatter pronto, and with that the kid opts out of the hero biz. Though he takes the time to sneer, flexing hard . . . then swivels and follows his people. Loping medium quick, gangster lean, no running, showing us he’s nobody’s bitch. I dig his stones.

  The passenger door flops open.

  “Good evening, Mr. White.” Buttery, masculine voice out of a woman’s throat. Accent: Mideast? Israeli? North African? All I register re: the driver is she’s a sizable mannish female in a dishdash mishmash and keffiyeh whatchamacallit.

  And I’m thinking, White?

  Then I recall Chip White’s Secret Service badge . . . in my chest pocket.

  “Locals come back with bigger guns. Others will find you, and soon,” she says, relaxed-like. “All your action so far, clumsy. Amateur. You’re fucked without assistance.”

  I open my mouth, au contraire, white chick cuts in: “This is best option. Get in. I am independent kinda fucking girl.”

  I can see her big teeth by the light of the dashboard. Israeli, yeah. And hell, I don’t know what that means. Me saying, “No thanks, ma’am. I appreciate it, though. Need to stretch my—”

  Short burst of bullets on the sidewalk near my feet.

  “Nope. Come on, in you go.”

  Those teeth. Healthy teeth. Not a local.

  * * *

  Lady-man tosses the SS badge across my lap, into the wheel well on my side. Lean over to scoop it up.

  “You, Mr. White, are most certainly my contact. So let’s proceed, eh?”

  Westbound at a clip. I’m going to ride this out and see what shakes loose.

  “Ari Only.” She releases the short-barreled Colt Commando and offers her hand, dry and a touch scaly. Short, solidly built little woman.

  By the interior lights, I dig her close-set eyes scampering back and forth, lizard-like. I read her as all kinds of crazy. Peepers land on my compromised mug.

  “Took beating bad, eh?”

  Roll my eyes. Does every motherfucker have to make a goddamn comment? “Yeah. Wouldn’t give up the nuclear codes. Caught some enhanced shit.”

  “Ha. My kind of soldier. It’s all mental strength, yes, you just . . . Ah, see, they’re back!” she says happily, looking up and over the steering wheel.

  Ari flips it south off of 125th onto Broadway, I crane my neck and sure enough, there they are, though the choppers have to get fancy to dodge the elevated track that used to service the 1 train.

  “Recognize these?” she asks. Sounds amused, but I figure that’s just her default state.

  Shake my dome. More concerned with the fucking nutcase piloting this machine than the security forces at this very moment. “Nope. Not a model I’ve seen. Your name rings no bells, hon, what’s your angle here?”

  Ari ignores my question, bobs her head enthusiastically. “It’s all new, new, new. Stuff from the Scandinavians. New weapons, new times, new rules. Out with the old. We must adjust, eh?”

  “My vibe is wait and see. I’m old fashioned, don’t like change. What’s your racket? You Mossad, right?”

  Ari laughs pleasantly at that, spits out the window. “Ah, no. No longer. But I carry on their traditions, you know, the business they’re too weak to handle.”

  The Suburban weaves in and out, avoiding the gaping craters in the road.

  “Politicians? These guys? None of this two-state, let’s-talk-about-it shit. They cave to Shariastan, eh? Ari Only is on the one true mission.”

  “Fill me in, Ari, what’s your big gig here then?”

  She glances sideways at me, eyes flashing, her mouth an ortho’s model of how to do it right. Laughs. “Kill haji. Save the fucking world from dogs of Islam. Same as the American soldier, isn’t it so?” she chirps, winking at me.

  I allow that to coast. Recalibrate my language to commune with a fanatic. “Yeah, sure. Kill ’em all, let Allah sort it out. Now serious, who you with if not Mossad? I don’t like not knowing what kinda people I’m talking to, I was told—”

  “I’m with you, Chip.” With her pronunciation it comes out Cheep. “And you’re with Ari. Or you’re against Ari. To quote a great man, eh? Best American leader, Mr. Bush.” She relishes the name, pops the B. My assessment: cray cray.

  I let it all one drift, stay tight-grill. This is a postpolitical world here. “How’d you get in the country?”

  Ari laughs again. We bump and bounce downtown, despite the expensive suspension.

  “Came on the big ship with the Arabush. Got a slot in security detail, been with these animals for a month. Deep-deep cover, you know, very good, all the way.”

  “You passing for an Arab?”

  Ari shrugs modestly, grinning.

  “The fuck. You’re a straight pale-face. Snowy like Salt Lake, sugar. Plus, you’re a lady.” More or less, I think, but don’t spit it cause I’m a gent.

  Ari wiggles a finger. “Ah, but you should see me work. My tan, it fades now. They had the tanning beds on the boat. Very convincing as a man, you know?”

  Won’t argue with that. “Lemme hear your Arabic.” I’m playing for time here.

  “My comrades! Let’s watch both Sex in the City films again, God willing. Then a hot tub, salt rub, and some ‘foosball.’” She rattles this off, pitch-perfect Arabic. There’s no Arabic for “foosball.”

  I’m impressed and I say so.

  Ari twittering on, “Plus, these guys, you know, come on. Dilettantes, eh? They’re half asleep, Mr. White.”

  “You talking about Saudi military?”

  “No, no, royal’s private security. Very elite, you know. Ha. All they do, these guys? They slap around their hookers, smack! Do some coke, talk about jet-ski. TV, lot of romantic comedies, Jennifer Aniston, some action stuff, all American garbage, you know. Respectful. I like romantic comedy too, just not with this Aniston. She has that nose, this I don’t like. Not funny anymore like Friends. These men, though. You know. Soft as can be, no core, no foundation.”

  “No doubt. Cut to it, Ari, what’s your racket?”

  “I’m here for the royal twins, friend.”

  “Makes you think I know where they’re at?”

  Ari bunches up her lips. “Let’s not fuck this around. Okay? We’re meant to be working together, eh?”

  Goddamn, I hate being in the dark. Think on it . . . the Secret Service badge . . . play it cool, play it coy, amass intel and act accordingly. “Miss lady, I’ve got to disinfect. I’m gonna get out some hand sanitizer.”

  “Sure, sure, it’s your pleasure,” she says, distracted by the choppers.

  As I pull the PurellTM, I’ve successfully worked the C-4 egg out of my sleeve with it. Palm the egg in my bad hand, which is tricky cause I find it difficult to estimate weight over there, and am therefore liable to drop stuff if not paying attention.

  Offer some sani to the lady: “PurellTM?”

  She looks askance. “What is this?”

  “Hand sanitizer. You want some?”

  “For which?”

  “Fucking . . . for everything. Shit is filthy here. That steering wheel alone, Jesus. Kills germs, can only help you in every conceivable way.”

  She looks at it again and contorts her brow, no.

  Some people, I don’t understand it for a moment. Are they content, comfortable, just ferrying around feces and bacteria and God knows what else, like fucking livestock?

  I’ve got the C-4 in my other hand, working it open, bit clumsy . . . And above all, I stay nice and cool. Raise a shoulder. “Suit yourself. It’s a dirty town, s’all I’m saying.”

  “You know the location of the twins? Give me the location, we head right over?”