Singled out as being pivotal to cracking the case is an anonymous 12-year-old male who provided key information that led to Dubois’s apprehension. The boy is also believed to be one of Dubois’s intended victims who managed to make a dramatic escape and lead the police directly to him.

  “The entire City of New York and particularly the residents of the South Bronx owe this brave young man a debt of gratitude,” Captain Deluccia said yesterday in the press conference from One Police Plaza. “He has shown tremendous strength of character for an individual of any age, and it’s especially impressive in such a young kid. He’s truly a hometown hero, and we applaud him.”

  A private ceremony is being held today where the 12-year-old (whose identity is being protected due to his age and pending testimony) will receive the Citizens Service Medal from the mayor. He will be the youngest recipient of this honor in the award’s history.

  “If there were more youngsters out there like this individual coming forward with information,” a spokesperson for the mayor’s office said, “we’d be living in a far safer city for everybody.”

  * * *

  Captain Nick pulled me out of the ghetto gangs. And into a new uniform . . .

  _________________

  Twisting the flag pin in his tie, Senator Clarence Howard repeats: “Said, son. Last time. What happened to your face?”

  And even a huge individual such as this is dwarfed by the massive pair of flags, yet more fucking flags, that flank the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, creating a pretty frame for the unscathed Chrysler Building uptown, hazy and lit up like midnight, even at two p.m.

  “Told you, big boss. Slipped on the stairs, boom-bam. Looks worse than it is, ya heard.” I ain’t a rat. After-school beefs I can handle on my own time.

  Clarence is clearly pissed, and neither does he buy what I’m selling . . . but he’s tired and more than this, the big boy is trying to stay Christian.

  I change the subject. “How’s the lady senator?” I grin, knowing we don’t discuss Kathleen Koch. “Still up at that facility? Recuperating okay?”

  Howard flips it back like he didn’t hear me mention his catatonic wife, herself once a firebrand archconservative senator. Till she ran into me. Howard will not touch this one, cause her unraveling was as much his responsibility as mine. So he rumbles on, and even as the man himself is shrinking bodily, his boomy preacher’s lungs seem all the more energized.

  “Because if I get wind of any . . . tensions between members of my security brotherhood, it . . . concerns. We should live as brothers! He who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, who he has not seen. That’s John 4:20. You should have stayed in the hospital with that face, son.”

  He is not wrong. Hairline cheekbone fracture, a fair amount of tooth loss. But this is me saying, “Fuck that. I’ll lean on the spirit, look to prayer. Praise his motherfucking name.”

  Love to goose his big ass. But the senator is not a man for banter. He’s a man for monologue. He regards me for a spell, seems to let my nonsense drift, and carries on, talking loud like he’s addressing a sizable congregation, or a chamber of politicians.

  “AND the good LORD saw fit to put bounty in the earth for man to harvest. Fit to fuel his engines, build the machines that would raise great monuments to glorify Him . . .”

  It might be the painkillers but I have not got a fucking clue what the big man is on about. Got my mind on things microbiological . . . also contemplating this trouble with Scratch.

  He knows, Scratch. He’s that funny kinda dumb-smart you find so frequently in the military. Animal instincts are right on, could live in style for years in the desert—but the dude wouldn’t make it five minutes at a cocktail party.

  Baby steps.

  Dragging my dopey attention back to the senator. He’s always been loco, but my sense is the man’s starting to lose the plot in a fundamental way. I wade through more of this verbal fog.

  “. . . and lest we forget the selfishness of those who stray from His grace, folk who once did set the foundation for the Tower of Babel, well, sir, we see what that got them. Ruins, Decimal. Total collapse. You cannot build on the shifting sand of disbelief.”

  Does a horizontal hand-jive, those big paws wiping at his desk’s aura in what I assume to be an imitation of shifting sand. His gaudy Masonic ring blinks at me, momentarily catching the light.

  I PurellTM up. Touch my eye cautiously, wondering if it might be compromised too, what with the cheekbone. Can’t stand it any longer, and my face hurts like a bitch, so I try to get things moving.

  “Let’s . . . let’s get to it, yeah? Assume you gotta be talking about the squatter situation. Listen now, sir, with respect to that there—”

  “Point being: the very earth beneath our feet belongs to the Lord and the Lord alone. So those who wield the sword of righteous belief have the moral obligation to see to it that the Lord’s things are put to godly use. To whit—”

  “Na, I get it, boss. It’s all prime real estate, ain’t nothing free, no free rent.”

  Howard frowns. “You misunderstand me, son.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, “and I can get biblical too, like this one here: Blessed is he who is generous to the poor.”

  “And again from the Book of John, praise the living Word. Today is John’s, honor him.” He pats himself down, pulls out a Montblanc with the great US seal, mumbles to himself as he jots a note, “Today we must closely study the Book of John . . . all of the apostles, for that matter.” I know I’m fuzzy, but is the man wrong about John? Fuck it. Wait till he returns his attention to me. “You were saying so eloquently, son.”

  “Uh-huh. And what I’m trying to communicate is these people got nothing. It’s kids up there, the elderly. The vibration is not political. It’s about some noncombatants trying to flop is all.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re recommending, son.”

  “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. See, I own a Bible or two myself. What I’m saying is live and let fucking live, boss. Let ’em live.”

  Clarence is showing me his noble profile, brow furrowed.

  “I will . . .” he begins slowly. “I will make note of your observations here and take them onboard with respect to any decisions, going forward.”

  “Fuck does that even mean? This ain’t a press conference, Howard, that’s some misdirect, that’s a non-fucking-answer.”

  He swings his mustache back to me. “Mind your wicked tongue, son. Peter and his apostle did say: We must obey God before the counsel of men. I serve only God. And his nation, the United States of America. And His allies. So it’s to God I ultimately defer, not the testimony of man.”

  “Yes, Lawrd,” I reply, countrified. Pushing my luck. Truly I dislike this Bible noise, it’s never more than a cheap smokescreen for a sinister fucking agenda.

  The senator shows his capped incisors. “Mock all you want, soldier. Mock like Lot’s wife.”

  “No mockery over here, Senator,” I say, fingering a cigarette. “Just praying to pretty lil’ baby Jesus we gonna wrap up this mano-a-mano so I can get something popping today. Salvage a scrap or two.”

  More ivory teeth.

  Shake out a pill, pop that.

  “Decimal,” says the senator, regarding me sadly. “Son. These pills . . .”

  “Keep me upright.”

  “Yes, as you choose to believe. Your illness, son. I’m saying you can leave it in God’s arms. Just hand it over to Jesus, He’ll carry you—”

  “To hell that much quicker, no thank you, I’ll stick with the drugs. Jesus done nothing for me yet. Got things to do.”

  I put the smoke in my mouth. Knowing Howard hates it.

  Him saying, “Yes, yes. Ever the dedicated working man. Always good for a cynical quip, ain’t that right? You got all the answers to any matter of the earthly or spiritual, don’t you?”

  I lift a shoulder, light up. Long drag. Longer exhale in the senator’s direction.

  “You the boss, hoss. I’m just what you need me to be.”

  Give him a lungful. Those fabulous teeth disappear.

  “Only you,” says the senator, “could get away with blaspheming and blowing foul tobacco in my chambers. This once. Because you’ve been doing a fine job, a fine job. But mind yourself. And remember your position, young man.”

  The orbs behind those heavy lids track over to the silent Cyna-corp storm trooper parked near the door.

  Oh no, we’re never alone in a room, me and Clarence, who is far too clever for that. Though I checked my gun at security on the first floor, as protocol dictates, he’s well aware what I’m capable of.

  That’s why I’m his main gravedigger.

  Feeling surly, but memories of past punitive beat-downs lock me back in step. “Yes sir. We were discussing . . . ?”

  Howard slaps the table. My stomach jumps but I keep my hands steady and my smoke aloft.

  “Have mercy. It is what it is, Decimal. See now. Without a fiscal base. It all comes to a quick stop. Everything. I mean ev-ry-thing.” He taps out the syllables softly on his desk. “You understand that, don’t you, Decimal?”

  Rotate the cigarette, lift a shoulder. Say: “Sure, the cash gotta flow.”

  Howard shakes his head. “Street talk. You’re an erudite man, Decimal. Rough around the edges, to be sure.”

  “Well, hell. I run a library, you absorb this and that. Osmosis.”

  “See? Vocabulary. An educated brother. Why not make use of proper grammar.”

  “Player, please. Forever shall I remain ghetto to the marrow. I’m a vet and a criminal doing what I gotta to stay good this side of the rainbow. I know my own self, Howard, let’s put away the butter and please get to the meat.”

  The senator frowns, looks insulted, lower lip protruding. Opts not to pursue it. Says, “Our Saudi Arabian partners have come to me with a mighty task.” His mustache is bouncing up and down. He looks agitated.

  “I’m listening.” I tilt my head and blow a mouthful of smoke at the congressional seal in the ceiling. The Saudis. They’re done. Everybody hates ’em. Ousted from their own country, adrift, ass-out without a camel.

  Howard clears his throat, pats down his tie for the umpteenth time. What gives? Never seen the man the least bit put out.

  “We are faced with division. For the son treats the father with contempt, the daughter rises up against her mother. Folks are breaking rank, Decimal, do you hear me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What we need now is those allies that remain . . . we need them healthy and happy. Can you dig that, my son?”

  “I can dig it. We still talking about the Saudis? Cause I don’t need to be the one to say those people are bad fucking news.”

  Slapping this away, the man saying, “Listen here. The United States of America takes its allegiances seriously. We do not abandon friends in their hour of need. And the royal bloodline . . . that is, the Saudi royals . . . the bloodline is thinning.”

  Me thinking: The Saudis? Major Coalition players, course they are. But fuck ’em, let that evil-ass “bloodline” die out then. It’d be a kinder world. “After what went down in Riyadh, how can these motherfuckers . . . ?” But I’ve answered my own question. “Course. They still got their money, even if they don’t got a kingdom. So it don’t matter.”

  Howard is quiet, caressing his tie.

  Me continuing, “Last I heard? Pashas all on their crazy pimp boats, floating around with no destination . . . and nobody, no port anywhere, will have them. Like when we tried to ditch our garbage . . . who wound up taking it? Wasn’t it Haiti? As if they had a choice. And look at Haiti. Only our garbage remains, no doubt.”

  The senator takes another moment. Fingers his tie yet again, sighs. “True, yes, the Saudis are between locales. A temporary situation.”

  I snort. The senator smacks his big hand on his desk and despite myself, I jump.

  “Enough. You must realize, son,” he says, face set, eyes hard, “as financial partners, we have nobody even in the same league as the Saudis. They are, despite their focus on False Prophets, very much our brothers in all things.”

  “Yes sir, I understand, if they pulled all their loot . . . that’d be game over, now wouldn’t it?”

  Howard grimaces. Flexes his hand in front of him.

  Feeling his unease, making me want badly to cleanse. Glance around for somewhere to kill my smoke. Nothing appropriate presents itself, his desk is bare and clearly unused.

  Save a box of Slim Jims, which I apparently scope hard, as the senator is now saying, “Help yourself, Decimal. Sustenance . . .”

  I smirk but grab a couple, shove them in my pocket. Rip one open and bite off a bit with my back teeth. Gonna have to get some dentures. Fuck that, I’ll get a grill. Solid fucking gold.

  “Point being,” the senator goes on, “they truly need our help here, and it’s a must that we do all we can.”

  “I heard. I heard. What’s the crisis, they got their big-ass boats and no doubt more supplies than all the rest of us combined. What’s the drama?”

  Senator tilts his head. There’s something complex, perhaps delicate, he’s trying to frame. “A prince and a princess are on their way to our shores.”

  “Sounds magical.”

  “They need protection, Decimal. There are many who would see harm come to them. Defectors. Traitors by the dozen. Oh, they’re out there. On these shores and everywhere. Within these very walls.”

  I nod, chewing. “No doubt.”

  “And what’s more, the House of Saud, their numbers, their great House, their numbers are diminished.”

  “As you mentioned.”

  “A brother and a sister.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But still . . . the line must be unbroken.”

  I stop chewing.

  Howard looking at his hands. “And the Lord said, be fruitful and multiply. Repopulate the Earth.”

  I wait for the rest of it. Really listening now.

  _________________

  In the dead arbor of the Conservatory Garden, outside the tent, I’m there with the shoulder bag and flight cases as the older medicine woman approaches me.

  Fear not this old-world magic. The System surrounds me.

  Lady appears even older in the daytime, but then who doesn’t? Sleeping rough. She wears her multiple layers, on top a Brooklyn Nets T-shirt and her Parks Department windbreaker. Hair up in that practical bun.

  “Well, it’s the landlord. Mr. Decimal System. Did you bring your things, come to join us? Or did you come to put us on official notice?” She gets a solid gander at me, my crushed face. “Good Lord, what on earth happened to you?”

  Set the bag down.

  “Your teeth—”

  “Miss Marcia. So you got these two cases of standard bleach. Sealed up tight, that’s just how I got ’em, so you’ll have to take my word for it on those. Should tell you, I don’t know nothing about how that method works, I boil my stuff. As for this here.” Unzip the bag, flip the top. “Preloaded single-dose one-shots.”

  Marcia is dumbstruck. I’m rolling up my sleeve.

  “I don’t know quite what to say.”

  “Pick a card.” Indicating the syringes.

  Marcia hesitates, plucks one. I take it from her.

  “For your peace of mind.” Spike myself in the crook of the elbow, depress the little plunger. Mind you: they’re sealed. So it’s all good. Were they not sealed . . .

  “Oh, well, my . . . well, that’s not needed.”

  I fold up the arm. “Would’ve been one of the oldest tricks in the American playbook, Miss Marcia. You know your history, teach. Be smart.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Government medicine? Think Tuskegee. Or those TB blankets Custer gave old Sitting Bull’s people.”

  “I’m not positive that was Sitting Bull—”

  “Wounded Knee, whatever. You see what I’m saying.”

  She shakes her head. “Yes, of course. I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss, this is just so very . . . kind.”

  Clearing my throat, I roll down my sleeve and button up. “Yeah, well. Use in good health, heard. How’s your girl doing?”

  “Poorly. She’ll certainly be better now. I don’t know if she could have made it another seventy-two hours, to be honest. Mr. Decimal . . .”

  “You’ll be hearing from me, Miss Marcia. Don’t sugar me. And don’t kid yourself like this is a regular thing. Quid pro motherfucking quo, ya heard?”

  “Understood. I wish we had greater means to thank you, Mr. Decimal.”

  “Don’t worry yourself about that, no doubt I’ll be looking in on you soon enough.”

  “Mr. Decimal, we were about to eat, if you’d care to . . .”

  But I’m already heading away. Duck into the Tunnel of Terror to check on Hakim Stanley and his bullet hole.

  * * *

  Swerve past the sentries at the Vanderbilt Gate without incident and I’m down the block, mopping my mitts free of jungle dust with that good PurellTM.

  Chinese truck loitering in front of the old high school on Madison and 106th. Driver chewing on a toothpick, raises his eyebrows as I lurch at him.

  “Deal, my brother,” I say in Mandarin, “so here it is.” Drop a plastic CVS bag in his lap, which rattles like a rainstick. “You got your Percocet, your Oxycodone, Valium, Demerol, Viagra, penicillin . . . just a grab bag, I got whatever was handy.” They like their Viagra, these Chinese, what with all their comfort girls.

  Hope I didn’t do more than concuss the hospital pharmacist. For real, though, they should have better security, way too sloppy for a military facility.

  Dude nods.

  “All right.” I toss a Vicodin down my beak, just cause why the fuck not. The world’s already ended. Plus, my face hurts like a bitch. Dry swallow. “You gentlemen headed back downtown?” I ask. “Mind if I grab a ride?”

  Chinese man indicates the back with a toss of his head. As I’m swinging up and in, something else occurs.

  “Y’all know a dentist still up and running?”