by Ken Benton
“That’s not all,” Darian said wiping his eyes. “Washington is recalling all federal agents in the field.” He turned to Hannah. “They’ve suddenly got protection assignments for all of us.”
“Confirmed,” the FBI agent who was on his cellphone said, closing it. “We’ve all been called back, too. The President has declared a state of national emergency due to the financial crisis. All federal agents are to report to their home office and receive local assignments to aid in the containment of expected mass civil unrest. He’s asking state governors to call up the National Guard as well. Looks like all hell may be breaking loose.”
Hannah’s tears instantly dried up. Her sorrow turned to rage so intense it aggravated the bruise on her chest from the inside. She looked up at Darian and said, “Do they really expect us to discontinue pursuit of the slimeballs who shot our partners?”
The detective spoke, peering over the shoulder of the CSI, who now had additional fingerprint match information on his tablet screen. “One of the slimeballs is your truck driver from New York.”
“Joseph Slate?” Hannah asked.
The detective nodded. “Positively identified.”
“Hannah,” Darian said.
Hannah looked back into his reddened eyes. “Yes?”
“My Director said he would, under the circumstances, grant us unofficial leave to pursue the suspects, providing we have a reasonable lead on their likely whereabouts.”
“Off the river and down the road by now,” the FBI agent who was holding his phone said. “We can spot the boat along the riverbed for you from the air, and probably follow the fresh tire tracks next to it as far as the highway—but from there you have an entire country to search. One with blossoming criminal activity in every nook and cranny, according to everything I’m hearing.”
“Thanks,” Hannah said. “If you could find those tracks and verify they’re headed west for me, that might help.”
“The address in Salem?” the detective asked. “You consider that a reasonable lead?”
“It’s a lead.” Hannah turned back to Darian. “You’re married, Darian? Have a family? If the shit is really hitting the fan, they might need you at home.”
Darian raised his hands and pointed to his wedding band. “My wife divorced me. Said I work too much. Took my boy and moved to L.A., where he’s learning to become a fatherless punk. I can’t bring myself to take the ring off yet. Only been two years, so I like to fool myself into thinking there’s still hope. I’m good with whatever you want to do.”
“I want to chase the SOBs down.”
Chapter Nine
Federal Reserve Chair Jill Younger cleared her throat, holding her notes in front of her. Malcolm leaned back in his chair. With one and a half trading days left in the most disastrous financial week in the history of America, she was the last relief pitcher in the bullpen; the one person who might have a chance at stopping some of the bleeding. The Chairwoman appeared to understand this, as she looked uncharacteristically nervous before the Senate Open Banking Committee.
“The current financial crisis is mostly of our own making,” she began.
Malcolm liked it so far.
“While it’s true our foreign bondholders have contributed greatly to the selloff, they can hardly be blamed for the irrational extremes we have now come to. It is we who are doing the damage to ourselves at this point. Americans are the ones selling stocks, bonds, and suddenly deciding our own money is worth a fraction of what other countries’ money is worth. Why should we do this?”
The patriotic appeal again. Malcolm didn’t think it would help. The President already tried that, and it failed miserably. The markets only crashed further yesterday and again today so far. But Malcolm did notice them stabilizing somewhat since Ms. Younger started speaking.
“The U.S. Dollar still has the same innate value it held before the crises began,” she continued, “as far as installment debt is concerned. Our existing home and car payments have not changed. Even those with adjustable-rate mortgages will not see their payments significantly increase because of rate adjustment caps, usually by no more than 2% annually. And the overwhelming majority of existing mortgages in this country are at fixed rates under 5%.”
Stocks and bonds actually started to go up now. Even the dollar bounced. The markets must like the sound of this. Malcolm folded his hands in front of him. Come on, Jill, you can do this. Save us.
She continued. “The current problem with food and commodity prices is a self-inflicted vicious circle, one we have brought upon ourselves as an overreaction to foreign markets irrationally devaluing our bonds and currency.” Chair Younger set her notes down and stared directly into the camera. “This ought not to be so! The GDP of the United States is still by far the strongest of any single nation in the world—nearly twice that of China, the primary culprit in the current bond sell-off. America, are we going to let them do that to us? Shouldn’t Americans have a say in what our domestically-produced goods are worth? Shouldn’t we determine the value of our own dollar, which is produced and exchanged within our own borders? We weren’t born bondservants to foreign interests, and with God’s help we won’t die that way, either—as long as we keep our cool and realize we are the ones in charge of our own economy.”
Brilliant. Malcolm watched stocks, bonds, and the USD all spike up impressively on his charts. Jill Younger was doing it! The patriot pitch just needed to hit everyone a little deeper in the heart, that’s all. Malcolm stood, spun around, and held his hands in the air. He was going to get to be a millionaire after all.
“The current food shortage in our major cities,” Chair Younger said, “is the result of a supply-line bottleneck. The unions are refusing to cooperate in packaging and delivering because they fear employees will be paid in devalued dollars, effectively reducing their income. This is no different than a strike in essence, and it occurs at a time when the country simply cannot afford it. I appeal to the union leaders now to stop the impasse, as we are courting disaster. The President is meeting with both houses of Congress today and tomorrow to discuss emergency measures, and I’m certain they’ll work out a course of action acceptable to everyone—one which will stop a potential famine from sweeping across our land. Meanwhile, I’ll be submitting my own plan to the President proposing a restructuring of our currency, with an eye towards bringing back normalcy in our system. We all need to go back to work and continue leading out our normal lives.”
Malcolm stopped dancing. Restructure the currency? What the hell was that about? He didn’t like the sound of it. And if he didn’t, others wouldn’t, either. Malcolm looked back at his screen.
Sure enough, the rally stopped. Prices all paused a moment, and then the markets went back into a freefall.
Nooooooooooooooooooo! What a stupid thing to say! She had it going! Everything was turning around!
Jill Younger was still on camera. Someone rushed to her station and passed her a note, a severe breach of protocol when the Federal Reserve Chair was addressing the Open Banking Committee.
“Let me please rephrase my last statement,” she said, voice cracking slightly. “I meant to say I’ll be submitting a plan to the President for re-strengthening our currency, not restructuring it. No one has anything to worry about in regards to their financial holdings. Rest assured this country can trust its leaders to preserve everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve, including the buying power of our wages. Thank you.”
She stood and left to the sound of applause distinctively lower in volume than normal.
Malcolm looked back at his charts. Everything kept going down. Jill Younger’s last-ditch effort to replace ill-spoken words failed. What’s more, she added additional ill-spoken words to the mix. Trust in the country’s leaders? That would go over like a lead balloon in a society where half the population seemed to despise its own leadership at any given time.
Malcolm turned the TV off and closed his trading software. He didn’t have the stomach to
watch the last two hours today.
What he did have the stomach for was some food. Malcolm opened his single sleeve of soda crackers and thought about the manner in which he acquired it.
Last night he opened his front door when he heard loud shouting and pounding coming from the hallway. The only person in sight was Emma, a 70-something widow who Malcolm always said hello to at the mailboxes. She looked scared, but politely greeted Malcolm as she hurried past him.
Moments later, Malcolm knocked on her door. She didn’t answer it right away so he tried again, calling her name and letting her know who it was this time. She finally cracked it, with the chain still latched, and forced a smile.
“Yes?”
Malcolm was holding the remaining gyro in his other hand. He lifted it, looking both ways down the hallway before divulging that he had found some food in the city. He offered to share it with her. Emma looked nervous, but opened the door and let him in.
They cut the gyro in half. Emma made tea. When she finally relaxed, the two of them talked about the 1960’s, the decade Malcolm missed being born in by just a few years. Emma had been a hippie activist back then, participating in many Vietnam War protests. She attended Woodstock, and even marched with Martin Luther King.
“We weren’t violent,” Emma said shaking her head. “Some of us got beat up by hippie-hating policemen, but we were all about peace and love, you know? Today’s demonstrators lack that quality. They don’t have love in their hearts, and only seem to want to cause senseless destruction.”
Malcolm found he enjoyed the company and was glad he shared his other $145 gyro with her. Emma sent him home with the sleeve of soda crackers as a parting gift.
As Malcolm ate his way through it today, he considered his food situation. He was smart enough to stop juicing everything but the greens on Tuesday, and eat the produce instead, in order to put some fiber in his stomach. But that box was now nearly empty.
What about the cupboard? Was there anything left in there? Being a married man, Malcolm’s pantry had acquired a supply of “extra” items that were destined for a canned food drive someday. He went to inspect it after twisting the half-eaten sleeve of crackers closed.
Two cans of pumpkin pie mix, four jars of turkey gravy, one can of black olives, a small can of mushrooms plus a can of cream of mushroom soup, hey there’s a small can of tomato paste—good, a can of broth, too—half a jar of popcorn left over from when they had that popper, some unopened barbecue sauce, and oh, look what’s way in the back—two packages of very old ramen noodles, squashed and partially broken up. That wasn’t a bad little cache of last resort sustenance.
Was the city really out of food? Malcolm had managed to find some two nights ago, even if it was priced absurdly. Maybe there was more available out there right now.
Malcolm decided to find out. He could afford it, whatever the cost. He appropriated his secret stash of cash, put Hannah’s gun holster back on, covered up with the sport jacket, and went outside to explore the precarious streets.
Gabe’s bodega didn’t look like it would reopen anytime soon. It was dark with security bars stretched across the front and appeared …emptied. Malcolm decided to check out the place he should be buying his produce from if he wasn’t so lazy: Westerly Natural Market only two blocks north. He didn’t expect it to be open under the circumstances. Even overpriced organic health food would be in high demand at the moment.
The short walk wasn’t pleasant, though the sun was still fairly high in the sky. Unsavory characters dashed about, some of whom were dressed in black from head to toe. Anyone adorning that look probably wasn’t out to help the homeless. Malcolm kept his gun hand at the ready and stayed aware of his surroundings, all 360 degrees of them, at all times. Hannah always said to be aware is to be alive.
The sound of glass shattering made Malcolm stop a little shy of 54th Street. He instantly realized where it came from: the front windows of the Westerly Market. A small crowd then materialized from out of nowhere and went through the broken windows, pushing displays out of the way. They all wore black as well. More bricks were thrown and all the remaining glass came down into the street, including that of the front door. A larger crowd then rushed inside. Some of these new looters weren’t wearing black, and looked to be ordinary folks caught up in the moment of frenzy.
They shortly came running out with armfuls of goods. It didn’t look like anyone had any produce; just white plastic bottles of vitamins and herbal supplements. As if these crooks had any real interest in those products.
“Anarchy!” one of the guys in black yelled after unscrewing the tops from several containers. He now waved his arms in circles, causing a rain of capsules to fall on the street.
Malcolm remembered now. The anarchist groups liked to wear black. He turned around and headed back to his apartment. Enough street time. It was ugly out here. Suddenly he heard sirens all over the city, uncertain if they had been there all along and he only now noticed them.
“Organized anarchists,” Malcolm muttered to himself. “There’s an oxymoron.”
A sudden force pushed Malcolm on his left side, causing him to fall into an alleyway. Damn, he had let his guard down.
Malcolm looked up. A thin man in black pants and a black hoodie, with the hood over his head, stood above him blocking the exit to the alley.
“Anarchy rules!” he said.
“Anarchy doesn’t rule,” Malcolm replied. “Anarchy is lack of rule.”
The anarchist seemed enraged at Malcolm’s comment and stepped forward. Malcolm scurried backwards and managed to get his feet under him. The anarchist leaned down and picked something up from the ground. Malcolm didn’t wait to find out what it was. He sprang up and ran further into the alley.
…Where he encountered another black anarchist, waiting for him with a board in his hands. Malcolm stopped, reached into his coat, felt for the pistol, and pulled it. The second anarchist raised the board high over his head and came at Malcolm, swinging it down at him.
Malcolm fired two shots into the attacker’s upper chest and stepped to one side. The attacker’s body flung backwards a foot and dropped. The board landed with a clang next to Malcolm in the middle of the alley.
Malcolm spun around. The first anarchist was still coming at him, now holding some kind of impromptu weapon in his right hand. Malcolm put two high-velocity slugs in his chest as well. The eight-inch flares extending from the Five-seveN barrel flashed of bright orange in the dark alley. The second attacker hit the wall behind him, where he slid to the ground and slumped. Malcolm ran out the alley the way he came, keeping the gun in his hand and not bothering to see what the second attacker’s weapon was. Could have been a pipe or a bottle. Malcolm would never know.
He jogged down Eighth Avenue a short ways, holding the pistol low. Before getting back to 53rd Street, he tucked it inside his coat and re-holstered it. That’s when he noticed his heart racing.
Malcolm never fired upon a human before. It was something he hoped he would never find himself in a position to do. But he was mentally prepared for it. All those days at the firing range with Ryan had put the possibility in his head. Now he actually shot two people defending himself. He found the experience to be …anti-climactic, really. Not horrifying as he supposed. Not satisfying, either. It was simply something he found necessary, so he took care of business, like exiting a losing trade.
Malcolm calmly walked the last block back to his building, once again taking care to know his surroundings at all times.
Once back in his apartment, he made ramen noodles with canned mushrooms and turkey gravy. He thought about calling the police to report the alley incident. But if he did that, he would be in trouble for use of the unlicensed handgun, wouldn’t he?
Malcolm turned on the local news.
It was pandemonium out there. The reports couldn’t keep up with what was happening in the city. Riots, looting, and reports of citizens—especially small business owners—taking the law into
their own hands. Malcolm could certainly relate to that. There simply wasn’t enough law enforcement available to handle it all. The NYPD appeared to be caught off-guard, and was being criticized for their lack of organization in handling a severe crisis. “Stay indoors” was the emphatic message to all law-abiding New Yorkers tonight.
So much for calling the police.
That’s when Malcolm noticed his answering machine blinking. He played the message.
It was Hannah.
“Hi honey—I mean, Malcolm. It’s me. I’m in West Virginia on field assignment. Don’t know if you’ve tried to contact me. The world is going crazy, as I’m sure you know. Where are you, anyway? Hope you’re okay, with Ryan or something, and not out on the streets. Cell phone services are overloaded so I’m calling you from my …partner’s satellite phone. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay. Hope you are, too. Listen—if you need to, feel free to use my spare pistol for protection, all right? You’re not supposed to, but …anyway, I have to go. Hope you’re safe, and that you didn’t lose too much in the stock market crash. Although it’s starting to look like that might not matter now. I’ll call you back when I can. I still love you, Malcolm. You know that. Please be careful and stay safe. Bye.”
“What about the number to your partner’s damn satellite phone!” Malcolm yelled.
Malcolm sat and held his head. Tomorrow was Friday. Where the heck was Ryan? He said he’d be here by week’s end. Yes, the world was going crazy. Malcolm was sick of being alone. He thought about going across the hall to see Emma.
But instead he picked up the phone and called his parents. Well, the man and woman who raised him.
Chapter Ten
9:25 am Friday morning—one week and a day after the financial meltdown began, and almost ninety minutes after heavy bond trading in New York started for the day—the yield on the 10-Year Treasury Note exceeded 18%. Nothing like this had been seen since the Carter administration.