Late-K Lunacy

by Ted Bernard

  “Hips drive Greens into the cold,” sighed José.

  We descended the palatial stairway that opened onto the expansive, almost empty Brownlow lobby with its crystal fusion chandeliers and earthy Spanish tile. It was hard to believe that vast banks of card catalogues once occupied this space. Now it was used for alumni functions and fund-raisers when the circulation desk would miraculously be transformed into a cash bar.

  We crossed Centennial Quad onto Clayborne, then to Federal and Jefferson heading toward The Jenny Coffee House slotted into an alley across the street from the Argolis Town Hall and Police Station. Astrid and I trailed behind the other two, talking in our sibilant way. José looked over his shoulder and called back, “Come on, you slackers!”

  Astrid retorted, “Nerds refuse to consort with dance majors.”

  The Jenny and Progressive Perk were owned by the same people, known locally as the coffee mafia. Whereas Progressive, with its two levels, off-white paneled walls, modern furniture, and shiny hardwood floors was chic and polished, The Jenny had the aura of a 1980s living room with threadbare overstuffed chairs and couches, carpeted floors, mismatched chairs and tables, and antique objects scattered about. The Jenny was home to environmental and social and political activists. Tonight some thirty PCSA and ClimateThrongers noisily networked before their weekly meeting.

  Lara Hedlund, opened the meeting. “Hello fellow Greens! In our tradition of shared democracy, I am your facilitator tonight.”

  “Yo Lara,” a chorus responded, followed by a few melodic notes from a goat-bearded guy named Frank on his recorder. The gathered activists’ voices rose in haunting plainsong:

  As one, we join with Earth, our Mo-ther,

  As one, we sing to her our praises,

  As one, we work to save her and heal her,

  As one, her heart beats with our own … with our own …

  with our own.

  I checked out José. I could tell the chant seemed way too honky for him. He rolled his bowed head back and forth and chuckled softly. To his right, Astrid mulled over this bizarre scene. This would never happen at a Canadian University, she whispered. “We Canadians: we are way too anal, reticent, and obedient.”

  After the chant, Frank led a series of ‘oms’. Astrid and I were lost in a tree-hugging reverie. Greg sat silently, deep in thought as usual, his mind and soul in a different century. José carried on with his subtle mockery.

  Lara introduced Katherine, the secretary for the evening and walked through the draft agenda on an easel pad. “Any other items?” she asked.

  This was my moment. I stood up and cleared my throat. “I have some information we might want to act upon. At all costs, it must be kept under wraps. It relates to the item on Blackwood.”

  Lara responded, “Sounds intriguing. Remind me of your name.” I told her then glanced down quickly at Astrid. I saw her covert thumbs-up and felt simultaneously elated and terrified.

  Lara knew how to keep an unruly group on task. When people began talking over one another, Katherine handed a rosewood striker to her. She gently used it to tap the Tibetan singing bowl. This signaled a serenity moment. The Greens hushed. Then, in modulated tones, she aptly summarized dueling opinions and helped antagonists come to recognize each other’s views. The topic now was Blackwood and it raised nuclear blasts of clamor as rumors bounced back and forth across the room coupled with talk of street protests, sit-ins, hunger strikes, and other less passive tactics. Lara temporarily stepped down from her facilitation role to share what she knew.

  “Okay, we all know Morse has rights to the minerals beneath Blackwood. Unless some billionaire comes forward and purchases the rights for us, there’s no legal way to stop him from fracking there. He is just waiting for permits from the state to begin the process. According to the Beacon, test drilling indicates ample gas and probably oil too. Nothing will happen until the permits are issued, but the chances are much more than fifty-fifty that the Ohio DNR will grant them. As you remember from last week, we in PCSA and you guys in ClimateThrong agreed to request a meeting with President Redlaw to see if there’s any way to forestall this. He hasn’t got back to us yet.”

  Katherine, the acting facilitator, recognized Astrid. “The Prez was in our dorm a few nights back. Since the university must install new boilers and chillers soon, I made the case for skipping natural gas, and like other universities in Ohio, leaping from coal straight to renewables. My argument was that universities ought to be the models of how society will power itself in the post-carbon era. Putting on a gravely male voice Astrid quoted the president: ”Good thinking, but this is a very expensive option until renewables become price competitive.”

  That brought down the house.

  She said, “Don’t laugh. He threatened us with much higher tuition if the university were forced into such a quick switch.”

  Katherine thanked Astrid and studied her for a moment, this fervent barefooted, girl, garbed today in all the colors of the rainbow.

  Lara returned to the facilitator’s table. She called on me.

  I nervously put forth what I knew: the likely motives of Dr. Tulkinghorn, his plan to meet with Morse day after tomorrow, the utter need for secrecy. “I find myself in the middle here. I cannot be seen to be part of this. In the future, I may be able to channel more inside information. I could also feed Dr. T. some false info if that would help.”

  “Go girl! A double agent!” Lara said. “Risky business, but going forward we’re definitely going to depend on you, Hannah. Thanks for your brass here. Okay, folks, looks like we need somebody with a car and a couple of other people to help trail Dr. Tulkinghorn. First, do you all think we should do this?”

  A hearty “yeah!” rose from the gathered Greens.

  “Any nays?”

  All quiet.

  “Volunteers then?”

  Nick, the Paul Bunyan Canadian guy, stood up.

  “I have a car,” he said. “And I am free and eager to help out that afternoon. My friend here next to me, Émilie, and I volunteer for this mission, captain.”

  Greens burst out laughing. Paul Bunyan nodded and thrust a fisted hand into the air.

  José, sitting next to Astrid, whispered “You available?” She replied, “Yeah, let’s do this.”

  “Other volunteers?” asked Lara.

  José stood up. “Spooks José Cintron and Astrid, er.” She whispered, “Keeley”. “Astrid Keeley ready to report for duty, ma’am.”

  The meeting went forth. At its conclusion, Nick and Em, José and Astrid met at the front of the room, shared phone numbers, and made plans to rendezvous. Lara, Katherine and I joined them. When Nick suggested a beer at Hanigan’s, we agreeably followed: four spooks, one facilitator, one recorder, and a double agent about to enter the world of fossil fuel espionage.

  3

  Nick Marzetti, at the wheel of his 2002 Mazda, pushed eastward on Route 743, a winding two-lane state highway. They were about a mile from the Bartholomew County line. At the top of a rise, Em, riding shotgun, saw Tulkinghorn’s white Mercedes pulling into a rest area on the right. “Slow down,” she advised. “They’re turning off the road.”

  “Old man’s gotta piss,” offered José.

  Proceeding cautiously past the rest area, Nick asked the others to tell what they saw.

  “Two getting out of the car,” reported Astrid. “Dr. T. is one. The other is a well-dressed dude. Pin-striped suit, white shirt, red tie, shiny shoes, slicked-back black hair, olive skin. Looks Italian. No offense, Nick.”

  “None taken. Could be Greek, though.” He pulled onto a Forest Service road to the left a hundred yards further on. In a wide spot, he three-pointed around and stopped. They were just out of sight of Route 743.

  Nick took command. “Em, since you blend into the shade better than the rest of us, go duck down behind that big beech — the one with the gray bark, near the road. When you see them leaving, wave to us. I’ll start the car. Lay low, stay there. When they’ve passed, g
et ready to hop in.” As an afterthought, he apologized. “Sorry, I didn’t mean what I said about blending into the shade to be racist.”

  Em grinned. “Not racist, my friend. I’m one of the reasons why our class qualifies as multicultural, inter-racial, and diverse. This is my proud role. Hide in the woods.”

  She alighted and scrambled to the beech.

  José asked, “What about me?”

  “Different,” replied Astrid. “Besides, in that rainbow shirt, you don’t exactly blend into the forest.”

  “I suppose. But being Puerto Rican and gay ought to count for something.”

  Nick said, “Sure, maybe we can assign you to hit on that Italian guy.”

  “Ewww.”

  Nick’s phone vibrated. He responded in short low tones, not letting the caller talk. “We’ve got him along with another guy heading toward Bartholomew. Good surveillance under way. They’re stopped at the rest area at the county line. Don’t want to fuck this up so just call us if you see them at your end. We’ll go from there. Right. Bye.”

  With an uncharacteristic lightness, Astrid blurted, “What an awesome way to spend a fall afternoon. I’ve never been in a chase scene.”

  Nick was about to respond when Em began waving madly before ducking down again. The white car zoomed past.

  It took a few minutes but near Maslow they were back within sight of the Mercedes which had been taking curves at high speed. There were two other cars between it and them. In Maslow, the speed limit lowered to 35. A few miles further, the intervening cars turned off. Nick hung back. On hilltops, Em assured him the Mercedes was still on 743.

  When 743 intersected Interstate 77, Tulkinghorn angled onto the northbound ramp. Astrid checked the map on her phone. “They’re going toward Cambridge.”

  “Shit,” replied Nick. “If they go that far, we’ll have to stop for gas.”

  Nick entered the ramp cautiously. The Mercedes merged into traffic at speed, moving rapidly into the passing lane.

  The Mazda with 250 thousand kilometers on the odometer began shuddering at 55 mph. Nick seemed not to notice and took it up to 70. They caught a glimpse of the Mercedes many cars ahead.

  Nick said, “This is as fast as I can go. I hope we can keep them in sight.”

  About ten minutes later, they slowed with traffic. A state highway patrol car with flashing strobes was pulling over a white car. As they approached, they recognized Tulkinghorn’s Mercedes.

  In the moments it took for Nick to realize what was happening, all three passengers had their phones pointed out the window. Up the road, they compared pictures. Astrid’s was clearest. When she enlarged the image, they could identify the Mercedes license plate and the approaching patrolwoman on foot. The picture also revealed the shadow of a passenger in the cruiser’s front seat.

  Nick said, “Awesome. Now we need an off-ramp with a good view of the interstate.”

  They found it a few miles further north and crossed over to the on-ramp. Nick pulled onto the grass, cut off the engine, popped open the hood, got out of the car and pretended he was dealing with an engine issue. The others waited and watched. Twenty minutes later, Nick spotted the Mercedes moving northward much more slowly. He slammed down the hood and hustled to the driver’s seat.

  Astrid asked, “Did you see what I saw?”

  There was a chorus of “Whats?”

  “Unless my eyes deceived me, there was only one person in the car, the driver.”

  “What da fuck!” Em exclaimed. They had never heard the West African swear in English. She was a bundle of surprises. A few days earlier when Nick had asked her how a weekend in New York City went down for her, she had responded, “Grand being in big city and oh, oh those lovely blond boys!”

  Nick: “Okay, we’ll try to figure out what happened to Guido later. Our job is to see where Dr. T. is headed.”

  They stayed a half-mile or so back, and then followed the Mercedes off the Interstate eastward on Route 837, then south on Route 443. After about fifteen miles, Tulkinghorn turned west again back toward the Interstate. Tulkinghorn turned south. They followed cautiously.

  José speculated, “Big diversion makes me think he knows he’s got a tail.”

  Nick said: “Possibly. But maybe something else is going on.”

  “Some goose chase,” said Astrid.

  “Go Gilligan!” replied José. “His goose gonna get cooked.”

  A few minutes later, Tulkinghorn pulled into the last service area in Ohio. They stayed on his tail. He passed through directly to the gas pumps. They pulled into the food service parking lot. Without saying a word, Nick got out and stealthily slipped into a passageway between food services and the gas station. The rest ran across the parking lot to empty their bladders.

  Tulkinghorn left his car and scanned the parking lot. He had not yet made a move to pump gas. Nick saw him nod toward the window of the service station. He flicked his wrist, wagging an index finger. The Italian came across the tarmac and slid back into the Mercedes. Tulkinghorn quickstepped around the back of the car and jumped in the driver’s seat. In a flash, the pair headed once again onto the freeway.

  Nick raced back to the Mazda, collected his troops.

  They caught up just as the Mercedes exited at Henry Falls. They followed through stop-and-start traffic and onto Union Street, one of the main streets of the historic town center. The Mercedes pulled over at the St. Marian Brew Pub. Tulkinghorn and the guy they’d been calling Guido went inside, apparently unaware of their followers.

  From the Mazda, across and down the street, the students watched and plotted. A plan evolved. The two students least likely to be recognized, Em and José, would go into the pub as a couple and try to get seats within earshot of Tulkinghorn and Guido. They would call Nick and Astrid and leave their phones open. Astrid, as visibly animated as anybody had ever seen, had risen to strategist. She instructed Nick to set his phone to record the next call. She did the same.

  Em and José strolled arm-in-arm across a nearly empty street, Em towering over José. She swayed her hips, then playfully slapped José’s posterior when he tried to outdo her waggles.

  “Interesting couple there,” remarked Nick.

  Within moments, he and Astrid jittered upward in synchrony as their phones rang. They accepted the calls, engaged speaker phones, and listened.

  Ghost voices murmured indecipherably, as in a vast cathedral. José could be heard whispering, “Hope your memory’s better’n mine.” Em replied, “Hope you can make sense of this English. Is it English?”

  José responded, “Not mine.”

  After more moments of garble, they began to pick up bits of a conversation. Nick gave Astrid a modest thumbs-up followed by a shrug. Shaking her head, Astrid wrote a quick note: Should have sent them in with a digital recorder. I’ll take notes.

  They sat quietly. There was a great deal of background noise, including Em’s and José’s inane lovers’ conversation and drink orders — Em, gin and tonic; José, lemonade. Nick listened intently, squinting toward the pub, trying to activate his x-ray vision. In her notebook, Astrid jotted words that seemed to have been uttered by the suspects. Nick turned to study Astrid: this childlike woman with her bolts and tattoos, her bare feet and edgy manner; this super brain who now resorted to old fashioned stenography. She was an adept note taker. He looked at her notebook and saw the highly legible straight-up print-cursive combination, familiar to anyone schooled in Canada, with a variety of abbreviations, arrows and question marks. In reading this string of words and phrases and hearing the level of background noise coming through, he feared that making sense of this might be impossible.

  The phones went silent. Nick and Astrid breathed more deeply and ended their calls. They needed to shake off the tension. Nick felt cramped and tense. He put his hands on the steering wheel and nervously rocked it back and forth. He asked, “You from around Toronto by any chance?”

  Astrid tipped back her head; she rubbed her eyelids.

/>   “Yeah, Oakville. You?”

  “Quebec, near Montreal.”

  She seemed surprised. “Wow, another Canuck.”

  “Right. You?”

  “Also. Well, my mom’s originally from Ohio, so I’ve got two passports.”

  “Cool. How’d you get to GUO?”

  “Got cash — free ride, four years. Liked feel of the place, Honors College. Needed to get away from southern Ontario and parents. And you?”

  “Girlfriend got money for her PhD,” he admitted. “She’s from Vermont. I trailed. It’s been good so far.”

  “Ah.”

  They noted movement across the street. At precisely five o’clock, a portly red-faced man, easily in his sixties, in a huge cowboy hat, left the pub. His open-collared western dress shirt showed underarm sweat marks. Designer jeans with a giant Navaho belt buckle and leather cowboy boots completed the ensemble: an old cowboy who’d wandered east. He stopped to light a cigarillo. In a puff of smoke, he swaggered down the street and climbed into a red Ram pickup.

  Nick reached for his phone and snapped a photo through the windshield.

  “One of the perps?” wondered Astrid.

  “Maybe. Or just a creepy Henry Falls regular.”

  They watched him back the truck out of a tight parking spot, make a wide sweep of the street to reverse his direction, and roar toward them. They ducked, but not before seeing a Morse Valley Energy logo on the truck’s door. When the Ram had turned left at the next block, they sat up.

  Nick turned to Astrid. “Morse himself probably. So, there were three.”

  “Motherfuckers.” she said.

  As she uttered her judgment, Tulkinghorn and Guido ambled out immersed in conversation. They got into the Mercedes. At the end of the street, they went right, apparently heading back toward the Interstate. Five minutes later, Em and José popped out of the pub, holding hands, giggling. They hustled into the car, still laughing. Em said, “This little boy: he’s, how you say? — un hot date.” José looked thrilled. “Oh Baby! This sistah: she be one tall drink o’ water.”