Late-K Lunacy

by Ted Bernard

Katherine, cutting in: “We’ve got plenty to work on. Chill, Nick.”

  Katherine told me that evening that she couldn’t believe that her own irk and fatigue were beginning to rattle her composure. She wondered if she was becoming an insufferable bitch?

  Faking countenance, she plodded on. “President, I mean, ex-president Redlaw contacted me yesterday. He has come over to our side. The Director of Media Relations, Beth Samuels, too. They want to help us. They want the demonstration and strike to succeed. I believe Redlaw is able to use his networks to thwart the administration from beating us to a pulp, at least for today. I have evidence that they are already delivering.”

  Em: “Mon grand-père!”

  Nick, to Em: “Peut-être.” To Katherine: “What evidence?”

  Katherine: “An AP story this morning on our standoff with the administration. Planted by Beth Samuels, I believe. If the national media swamp us today, we will know for sure.”

  Nick: “Hmm …”

  Katherine: “More to the point, Mitchell Redlaw wants to use our rap on Morse and Gruppo Crogiolo to discourage Winthrop from sending the troops.”

  Sean: “Isn’t our main target Flintwinch? Why should we take a chance with the ex-president?”

  Katherine: “Beth may still have influence with Flintwinch. She hasn’t resigned. Besides, I trust the man. Check this out.” She handed out copies of Redlaw’s proposal to the Executive Council. “This was overwhelmingly defeated, which was why he resigned.”

  Julianna: “Holy shit. This is almost everything we’ve been fighting for.”

  Katherine: “You’re right.”

  Frank: “I propose that we deliver the Morse information to Redlaw as soon as possible.”

  Katherine: “Other viewpoints?”

  Zach: “Could be a trap.”

  José: “What would Redlaw gain by that? He put his body on the line. He quit his job. I’d say this bro’s good as gold.”

  Frank: “I move the question.”

  José: “Wha?”

  “Frank wants us to take a vote.” I explain

  We unanimously agreed to hand over the Morse affidavit to Redlaw.

  By the time Astrid returned, we had decided upon a second command post: Sean and Todd’s apartment. Besides Sean, Astrid, Hannah, and José would staff the post. On the quad, Em, Nick, and Frank would hold the fort. Katherine would shuttle between sites. Captains were chosen for the march and rally. The three focal points for the rally would be the Courthouse, the Denis Pádraig Gilligan statue, and Gooseberry Street in front of the Carsey Student Union. José, Julianna, and Zach would speak and organize others to address the crowds. Julianna and Zach had already recruited local bands. Weston assured everyone that he would keep blasting social media with photos, videos, and commentary. Everyone was reminded to promote the Monday boycott of classes. Julianna agreed to expand the village. We discussed Plan B.

  Astrid returned.

  Nick: “You’re killing us with suspense.”

  Astrid, in her annoying monotone: “Alright, we have penetrated the belly of the beast. No response yet.”

  Nick: “Who the fuck is it?”

  Astrid: “Remember the guy we first identified as Guido?”

  7

  Marc Katavanakis threw his clubs into the Mercedes. An extraordinarily beautiful Sunday morning in early November summed up to a day on the links, a day away from his humdrum household, a day to escape the tedium of Ohio’s small bore politics. He popped back into the kitchen to say good-bye to his wife and grab his travel mug.

  He called up the stairs. “Headed out to the club, honey.”

  Leslie Katavanakis, 28, dark-haired and voluptuous, an escapee from the cast of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, descended. Still in her robe, her untethered breasts bobbed merrily, a familiarly tantalizing if ill-timed tease. “Okay, Markie, you have fun now!” She kissed his olive cheek. Her hand drifted toward the bulge. “Yea!” she exclaimed, possibly in reference to that which throbbed against her palm. It wasn’t. “Please, God, let this be the last golfing 'til spring,” she prayed.

  “You never know,” he replied, the bulge retrenching, as though she’d summoned a query on insurance. “Weather here is sure different than Cleveland,” he offered instead. Insurance. Weather.

  “Must be global warming,” she chided.

  “Yeah, right.”

  She changed the subject again. “Is the Governor going to make it?”

  “I believe so, yeah. Hank Carton and somebody else, not sure who, will make up the foursome.”

  “Nice. Give the governor and the attorney general hugs from me.”

  “You saying I’m some kinda sissy boy?”

  “Not by the looks of it. Or at least the way it looked a couple of minutes ago.”

  Katavanakis made his way through light traffic from his Bexley home across Columbus to Murie Meadow, the city’s most exclusive country club. Through countless rounds of golf and other means at his disposal, including his family’s wealth and connections, Marcus Katavanakis, 33, had wormed his way into the heartwood of the Ohio Republican machine. Though merely Deputy Chief of Governor Winthrop’s staff, he had been assured that the chief’s role would be his within a year. Since the recent election, the governor had come to depend on Katavanakis more and more. Things were going well. From here, who could say? Winthrop, two term governor of a swing state, had been tossing around the idea of a run for president.

  As he pulled into the club parking lot, his phone pinged. An anonymous text advised him to check his email. Constantly hectored by Ohioans lobbying for causes and gripes of all manner, Katavanakis’ job was to screen Winthrop from most of it. His rule of thumb was to ignore almost everything. Those who really mattered had his other number. And on this bright morning he was determined that no hapless jerk would tarnish his day on the dewy green links, the comradery, the opportunity to subtly influence the course of Ohio’s future.

  8

  The rebels dispersed from Nick’s place. Astrid promised to text everyone as soon as Katavanakis replied. If there was no response by sundown, Katherine had been empowered to hand-carry the Gruppo exposé to Flintwinch.

  In Nick’s old Mazda, Katherine and I headed out Route 65 to meet Redlaw.

  “God, what a wild ride saving Blackwood Forest has become.”

  “I know. And we’ve all become fast friends, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely. Blackwood friendships are the best of my life. And people have changed in amazing ways: Samantha, Em, Josė, Sean, Astrid. And you, Katherine. You’re right at the top of my list. Your rise to leadership has been amazing. You’re one cool and fearless customer.”

  “Thanks,” she replied sweetly. “To be honest, inside, most of the time, I don’t exactly feel fearless. And to return your compliment, Hannah, your snooping has given us valuable intel and inspiration.”

  “Don’t know about the inspiring part. Trying to seduce Dr. T. is not exactly a high calling.”

  “It’s about ends and means, my dear.”

  “Let’s see, our target is coming up. Right here.”

  She hammered the brakes. They responded with the squealing sounds of a sow in labor.

  “Bone on bone down there,” I said, borrowing one of Dad’s metaphors.

  We zig-zagged up the long lane and came to a halt at a pine-sheltered chalet.

  Burt Zielinski’s rubber-faced smile illuminated the doorway. He shook Katherine’s and my hands, welcomed us into his spacious great room, its high ceiling and skylights beaming morning sunshine. The gargantuan flagstone fireplace crackled intermittently. I had no idea a professor could afford something this beautiful, and I did not realize until then that Professor Zielinski was on our side.

  At the back, in the galley kitchen, stood Mitchell Redlaw, pouring coffee into a Gilligan mug. “Hello Katherine!” he called in a booming tone.

  The poor man. His good cheer must be a sham. If it were me in the wake of a crippled career, I’d be pathetic.
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br />   Katherine feigned conviviality. “Mitch, great to see you again! You remember Hannah McGibbon?”

  “I do, yes,” he said, though I saw no reason why he would have ever noticed the wallflower of our group. I regarded his Sunday morning ensemble: untucked plaid sport shirt, chinos, no socks, moccasins lined with sheep’s wool. No executive garb whatsoever. No wing tips.

  Redlaw asked, “Coffee? Just brewed.”

  “Sure,” we replied in unison. Mugs in hand we joined Bert in a congenial little circle around a rustic, highly polished coffee table fashioned from a grand slab of trunkwood. Burt told us it was made from a deadfall on his land. “Hundred and fifteen-year-old maple, succumbed to the derecho last summer. Nice curly grain, don’t you think?”

  As if teleported directly into our midst, Beth Samuels materialized. Where from? She greeted us, remembering my name and apologizing for the disruption. Neither Redlaw nor Burt Zielinski seemed surprised.

  Smiling at Beth, Katherine said, “We’re just getting started. Not to rush things, but, as you know, we’ve got to get back for a rally. Oh, by the way, Beth, I believe we should thank you for the AP story this morning.”

  Beth sipped her coffee, nodding almost imperceptibly. She asked, “Are you expecting masses of demonstrators today?”

  “We certainly hope so,” Katherine said. “All signs point to a good turnout. As promised, here is a copy of what we plan to take to the administration and maybe also to leak to the press on Morse’s empire and what we know about the federal investigations of his mine accidents and tax evasion.”

  She distributed copies.

  Katherine continued. “I will take this to Provost, er, Dr. Flintwinch this afternoon. If the administration then refuses to call off their plans to clear Centennial Quad tomorrow, we’ll immediately release it to the media via untraceable channels. All this is contingent on word from the person we’ve identified as Morse’s silent partner in Gruppo Crogiolo. If our speculation is correct, he may have the power to shut down everything. A few minutes ago, we informed him of our data on the empire and invited him to check evidence of our discoveries. So far, no response.”

  “May I ask how you provided evidence to convince him?” Redlaw asked, two eyebrows rising.

  Katherine and I exchanged a glance. “I cannot tell you how he will be able to verify our claims. Only that it will be shocking and he will have no choice but to submit.”

  “Hacked into accounts …” Redlaw speculated, audible, but barely.

  Katherine put on an inscrutable face. I stared at my feet.

  “And who is this mysterious conspirator?” Redlaw asked.

  Katherine took a deep breath and in the pause accelerated her own and Redlaw’s heart rates. With the out breath, she said, “It is Governor Winthrop’s Deputy Chief of Staff, Marcus Katavanakis.”

  “Great Caesar's Ghost!” Redlaw exclaimed, baffling everyone but Beth.

  “In case you need a translation,” she explained, “Mitch just said, ‘Holy fuck’.”

  “Ever faithful, my media relations interpreter,” Redlaw said with a straight face.

  We laughed cautiously, to hear an f-bomb in this company. I remembered Stefan sanctioning its use in our recent class. Beth and Burt exchanged glances, shook their heads with faint, knowing smiles. The Redlaw they’d come to love.

  Katherine said, “This allegation sounds insane, we realize.”

  “Indeed,” Redlaw sighed and lapsed into silence. He bent forward, closed his eyes, massaged his temples. With effort, he rose and took a moment for his knees to unlock. He ambled toward the kitchen. From there, he aimlessly traced two sweeping circles around the room, saying nothing, his arms grasped behind his lower back. Silas Marner moping through life. Nobody said a word. Our gazes followed his meandering course, unsure what his pacing portended.

  On the third lap, he returned to stand behind his chair. After a long pause, gripping the back of the chair, he took in a deep breath and bellowed, “Katavanakis! I should have known: that weasel perpetually lurking in Winthrop’s shadow, that insipid gratuitous toady, that scion of the Cleveland Greek-Cypriot machine. The bastard must have concocted the Larnaca Chair deal. Larnaca, Larnaca: I should have known.”

  Katherine immediately responded. “Yes, that’s likely. The day we trailed Dr. Tulkinghorn, Katavanakis met with Morse and Tulkinghorn in Henry Falls. Tulkinghorn had dirt on Morse — could blackmail him with it. Until this morning, we had no idea why Katavanakis was at that meeting.”

  Redlaw returned to his chair and began scrutinizing Astrid’s document. “My God,” he said. “This Gruppo thing is vast. It’s remarkable. Why haven’t the authorities long ago nabbed Morse and Katavanakis?”

  “Maybe such authorities have had reason to provide cover,” Burt suggested.

  “Winthrop!” rasped Redlaw.

  9

  Helen Flintwinch was the lone occupant of Stiggins Hall that Sunday. From her second-floor vantage, she gazed again across the tent city. What a catastrophe, she concluded all over again. Yet, off in the distance, near the Denis Pádriag Gilligan statue, she could see occupiers striking their tents, packing up belongings, and, in a steady stream, carrying them southward around Stiggins Hall. Thank heavens, she celebrated.

  Her phone rang.

  “Hello Annie.”

  “What would you advise for us today, Helen?” the Chief of campus police asked.

  “Low key today. Just keep an eye on things. That should do it. I see that some of the occupiers are moving out this morning.”

  “Er, actually, ma’am,” the Chief replied, “they’re not moving out. They’re extending the village to the area between Stiggins and Brownlow. And there’s another site being occupied down near Block Hall.”

  “That spoils my day.”

  “Should we just let that happen?”

  “For today, yes. Tomorrow’s another story.”

  “And you’ve heard about today’s rally, right?”

  “Rally? Damn. Did the city issue permits?” Flintwinch asked.

  “Affirmative”.

  “Double damn. Okay, in that case, you’d better call up every officer you’ve got and post them around campus to prevent looting and property damage. Any idea of numbers?”

  “No, but there’s all kinds of stuff on the internet about their march and rally today, as well as their boycott of classes tomorrow.”

  ~

  As on Halloween, we gathered the troops at the corner of Ohio and Spruce. It was noon. A hazy sun accentuated a wafer-thin slate-gray line of clouds on the western horizon. People wore t-shirts and shorts. Katherine and I, back from the Redlaw meeting, had broken a sweat running to the rendezvous. We came upon Nick and Em.

  “Turnout looks a bit lame,” Nick said.

  “Don’t worry, mon chérie,” Em replied. “From the Internet, there will be more at Morgan Hall, where we are marching to now.” She turned to Nick and Katherine and whispered, “Mon Nickolas: un anxieux.”

  The steady throb of drums, the chink and clang of cymbals, tambourines, triangles, and rattles paced us as we marched from Eastman to Southwell and across campus to Westbrooke. Quad by quad, as Em predicted, the crowd grew bigger and bigger — a mass demonstration in the making. It crawled forward, at times circling back on itself, and inched up Richfield Avenue, ever more cacophonic and spirited, cruising toward confrontation. When we arrived at Federal Street, Frank and Zachary split-off their sections, one hiving down Gooseberry to the Carsey Student Union, the other to East Clayborne and the Denis Pádraig Gilligan statue. Nick heaved the remainder up Federal to the Courthouse. Hot Buttered Blowfish, a local rock band of questionable talent but indisputable passion, greeted us with ear-splitting heavy metal. Marchers whooped and wailed to the music. With difficulty, Nick hushed the Blowfish. He spoke to the gathered legions, his words rising from his larynx like gravel in a cement mixer. He led the massive crowd in chants:

  BLACKWOOD, BLACKWOOD: SACRED SPACE!

  FLINT
WINCH, FLINTWINCH

  YOU’RE A DISGRACE.

  WHOSE WATER? YOUR WATER. MY WATER.

  SWEET, SWEET, SWEET WATER.

  WHOSE WATER? YOUR WATER. MY WATER.

  SWEET, SWEET, SWEET WATER.

  SPOIL YOUR WATER, MY WATER,

  SWEET, SWEET, SWEET WATER?

  NO, NO! NO MORE FRACKING!

  I SAY FRACKING, YOU SAY NO.

  FRACKING … NO. FRACKING … NO!

  I SAY SHALE, YOU SAY NO. SHALE … NO. SHALE, NO!

  I SAY MORSE, YOU SAY NO. MORSE … NO. MORSE, NO!

  I SAY FLINTWINCH, YOU SAY NO …

  FLINTWINCH … NO. FLINTWINCH … NO!

  When enough rabble had been roused, Nick climbed to the dais at the top of the courthouse steps, bumped fists with José, advised him to throw more petrol on the fire, and loped back down to help me distribute a fresh supply of signs and banners. Off the cuff, in his quirky mix of New York City and African American English, José spit forth venom on fracking’s ravages to water supplies, to forests and biological diversity, the stability of the land. “I’m talkin' eart-quakes here folks, threats to children and school buses, da carbon load, Gilligan’s duplicity in de-ployin' fossil fuels for its power while at same time lyin' about reducing its carbon load, the forced resignation of Mitchell Redlaw, da refusal of the acting president to budge.” And finally, he made a heartfelt plea to honor the strike which is “our last-ditch effort to save the last fragment of really, really old trees in all of Ohio. We can only do that if (a) we boycott classes tomorrow in solidarity and (b) at all costs, we defend our occupation.”

  In the midst of José’s speech, Nick dashed down Federal to find Julianna at the statue firing up an equally loud and massive crowd that had spilled out onto both East and West Clayborne. He then short-cutted around Stiggins to Carsey Student Union where, to his surprise, he found Zachary wailing with a band called Father Flicker’s Funky Engine. Zachary was belting out verses from the 2011 fracking protest song, Freakin' Frackin. Nick had heard Zach sing the line from the Sound of Music, but he had no idea that he was a lead rocker. Nick called Katherine who was alone in the food tent on the quad. “All three sites jam packed. People amped up to strike tomorrow. Lots of students from out of town, some from Kanawha State. Police keeping to the background.”