“No, my friend. I’m home and I’m done with guns. Forever.”
He laughed. “So are we all—God willing.”
At the barrier, I showed my Working Press Card to the cops. A chanting crowd of anti-Tea Party demonstrators, in their own barricaded enclosure, were waving well-printed protest signs: FACTS DON’T LIE—BUT REPUBLICANS DO! and HOW MANY CHILDREN HAVE TO DIE? Safely across the street, the Tea Party group shouted and waved signs back: TAXED ENOUGH ALREADY! and TAKE OUR COUNTRY BACK FROM FOREIGNERS!
Fire trucks were in front of the Jurassic Parking entrance to the Knickerbocker. I went through security, past the dinosaurs, up the wide jungle escalator toward the mezzanine level. It was more crowded than my first visit. As I stepped off the escalator I saw people sporting red, white and blue three-cornered hats, black Abe Lincoln stovepipe hats, and Uncle Sam toppers. The delegates had arrived, all wearing big red DELEGATE ribbons on their chests, along with big bright buttons that read CHESTERFIELD or DODGE and whoever.
I spotted a man with a weapon and tensed. It was a black AR-15 assault rifle with telescoping stock and telescopic sight, slung over one of the Abe Lincoln’s shoulders as he walked by, thumbing his phone. I moved sideways, ready to run, grabbing my backpack by one shoulder strap. Why I did that, I don’t know. With my laptop and a water bottle, there was nothing in there that would stop a .223 round. The rifleman kept walking, ignoring me. I scanned around for other exits and realized Abe wasn’t the only one toting an assault rifle.
They all were. Hundreds of them.
Every jaunty Abe Lincoln, every goofy Tea Party guy with a tri-corner cap, every scary Uncle Sam, had a shooter. All of them were packing automatic weapons; more AR-15s, some Heckler & Koch assault rifles, Brownings, bolt-action hunting rifles, some AK-47s, and other trendy fire-sticks slung from fancy underarm shoulder rigs or strapped across their backs. They weren’t pointing the weapons at anyone, just toting the deadly machine guns around like fashion accessories. It was like hillbilly Disneyland. Looking closer, I noticed several of the heavily armed lunatics also had large buttons: CARRY PROUD, ALWAYS READY TO DEFEND FREEDOM, USE IT OR LOSE IT, and SAM—SECOND AMENDMENT REMEDY.
I watched the half-assed army parade back and forth for a few minutes and then spoke to one of the delegate gunsels, a short guy in a suit, with fuzzy hair and wire-rimmed glasses, who was packing a black Uzi.
“Excuse me. Why are you all carrying rifles?”
“This is an Open Carry convention, son,” he said with a loopy grin. “We’re making history. We are here to protect the Second Amendment.”
I thanked him and dialed Amy.
“Amy? Shepherd. You will not believe what I am looking at.”
I described the scene to her. She cursed and laughed.
“Really? All of them are carrying pop guns?”
“Everyone I’ve seen so far. Magazines in, ready to rock. Anyone with a delegate badge has a banger.”
“Wow. Wait, I’m Googling it. Hold on… here it is. Looks like the gun nuts announced they were going to carry weapons at the convention. There was some arguing about it… but after a poll showed that most Christian Tea Party voters thought that walking around with guns was sexy, the sensible Republicans caved in to the National Rifle Association crowd and announced it would be an Open Carry convention. The first.”
“Great,” I said.
“So, according to the gun lobby, this will be the safest convention ever.”
“Amy. These clowns are armed to the teeth. That’s what they look like. Clowns with semi-automatic weapons.”
I told her I had to change our report, to make it more extreme.
“Okay, Shepherd. I hope you’re right.”
“If I am, and Chesterfield does what we tell him to do, we’ll probably never be able to prove if I was right or wrong.”
“And if he doesn’t do what we tell him to do and nothing happens, we look like panicky pussies.”
“Maybe. But, on the other hand, if he ignores us and somebody wastes him, we look great.”
“Sometimes, Shepherd, I can’t tell when you’re kidding.”
“Yeah, me too.”
23
I found Tiffany Mauser waiting alone in the huge conference room overlooking the Hudson and the naval destroyer. Tiffany looked shipshape, in another tight business-style suit jacket. Except, where a man would have a shirt and tie, she had only a half-shirt of white lace, exposing enough cleavage so no one would mistake her for a man from any distance. Instead of pants, she wore a short matching skirt that showed leg from mid thigh down to her black stiletto heels. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail, with a puffy gather.
I started to say hello but she coldly cut the greeting short and ushered me through the southern door, past guards to an elevator, and took me up to the fourteenth floor. We got to a door and she opened it with a white electronic key card. It turned out to be her hotel suite, which had the main room set up as a living room, with a separate office and Hudson River views. There was also a kitchen area and an open door to a bedroom. The room probably cost $2,000 a day. Tiffany took two glasses from the kitchen and handed me one. It was half-filled with chilled arak. She had one also and took a slug, like she did it every day. She coughed.
“Does everybody say it tastes like candy gasoline?” she asked.
“Everybody says that the first time. Until they realize that’s a good thing.”
“I’m not there yet but I’ll try anything once,” Tiffany said in her sexy southern drawl, plopping onto the couch.
“Never do anything for the first time,” I warned her.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just something we used to say.”
“You mean I should listen to someone who’s been there before?”
I smiled back and raised my glass, wondering where she heard what I drink.
“Okay, Shepherd. Shoot. What do you want to tell us?”
“I was all set to give one set of recommendations until I got to this clown convention. Now I have to add more suggestions. If you don’t adopt them, I have one final suggestion.”
“Hmmmm.” Tiffany smiled. “Mysterious.”
“Not at all. Which do you want—short or long version?”
She smiled again. “I prefer long,” she drawled in a wicked voice. “I’ve got time.”
“Okay,” I said, ignoring her flirty tone. “Our first idea was we think the Speaker should not wander around in public unless and until we can nail these threats down. Also, you should take down any bad guys you can. Now.”
“So you are taking this seriously?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Really? How long have you been a private detective?”
“This is my second day.”
“As you can see, the speaker has very heavy security.”
“All of that means nothing the second he steps out in public.”
“Why?”
“Because of equipment like the Barrett M107 sniper rifle and many other weapons that could take a person out from a long distance. All they need is a line of sight and one shot.”
“From how far away?”
“A mile. Two, maybe.”
“Chance of success?”
“Assuming a professional team? Highly probable. No warning, no sound. The bullet arrives before the sound of the shot. Nothing left but bloody shreds of laundry in the breeze.”
She winced and took another drink. So did I.
“You’ve seen this kind of thing firsthand?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We would have to cancel a series of planned events,” she snipped. “One with the mayor, a few with local congressmen. It wouldn’t look good.”
“Him getting shot to death on camera would probably look worse.”
“Okay, so, for now, you are recommending that he not appear in public at all?”
“Or in front of any uncovered windows, like that one in the conference room downstairs. That is a gift to a sniper team.
Or two or three RPGs from a truck bed—it would be more messy but would also do the trick nicely.”
“RPGs?”
“Rocket-propelled grenades. Better than hand grenades. Best infantry weapon ever invented.”
“Oh. Those bazooka things? So, you’re saying the best security in the country is not good enough?”
“About the window? Yeah, definitely. Glass is not security, it’s an invitation.”
“What if it’s bulletproof?”
“No such thing. At least not yet available. Besides, they can use a bomb. By the way, the cops downstairs are not scouting and searching traffic for two blocks in all directions outside the barriers.”
“Why should they?”
“Two words. Truck bomb.”
“Okay, which threat are you most worried about?”
“I think it’s weird that three members of Congress are suspects in this investigation and two other people in your boss’s party are talking openly on TV about popping him. It has a familiar ring to me. According to the FBI intercepts and intelligence you gave us, that TV blogger is arranging for illegal weapons here in New York. Pick him up. Arrange for a ‘routine’ stop, in which he gets busted. The most credible threat looks like the Brooklyn cell, the APN—the Aryan Power Nation group—with the undercover in place. Sounds like those boys want to make news. Put them in jail first. Today. The New Minutemen online make me very nervous but we have no info on who or where they are. They have to be found because right now we cannot assess whether they are a dedicated group or one blogging schmuck and his hamster. The question is whether any of these three groups are linked. Until we nail that down, fresh air is poison.”
“You mean outside of the security zone here at the convention center?”
“Exactly.”
“Shoot!” she said, gulping the rest of her drink. “I thought this was mostly a political problem. I thought we might find… other uses for some of that stuff.”
“What did you think?” I asked her. “That I’d read that racist transcript of Governor Dodge and her buddy Littleton and just put it into the Daily Press to embarrass your opponents?”
“The thought had popped into my head,” she said, with a sly smile. “That’s still an option.”
“I think that would be a major mistake, Tiffany, but I leave the politics up to you.”
She laughed. It was a hell of a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You say the word ‘politics’ like it’s a disease.”
“More fatal than most,” I told her.
“So, that’s it?”
“No,” I said. “I told you everything changed when I got here.”
“What?”
“Haven’t you noticed that every delegate in this hotel is carrying a loaded assault rifle?”
“Oh, that,” Tiffany chuckled. “That’s just political theater.”
“The props looked real to me. Chesterfield shouldn’t be anywhere near these gun fanatics.”
“But they are his colleagues in the house and senate, governors, his supporters, his people,” she protested.
“At least five of whom are suspects in death threats against him—and who are in this hotel with loaded guns.”
“He has to meet with delegates. He can’t be seen as fearful. Besides, what are we supposed to do about it?”
“Get the guns out.”
“Are you crazy? If the Speaker even suggested that, he would lose the support of…”
“Psychopaths with firearms?”
“I was going to say the NRA, all of the GOP and a lot of voters. It would be political suicide.”
“Better than actual suicide,” I pointed out. “If he gets up to give a speech before these wingnuts, it would be like talking to an auditorium full of Lee Harvey Oswalds, a convention of killers.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“Okay,” I said. “Now that you got the long version—here’s the short one. The normal security changes I mentioned, plus no open-carry craziness. The Knickerbocker has to be a gun-free zone. Except for security personnel, of course.”
“I agree with you but what if we can’t do that?”
“We think he should stay away from the crazy armed people—or leave.”
“Are you out of your cotton candy-pickin’ brain?”
“I may be the only sane guy in the building,” I told her, draining my drink. “Too many ways to die here, Tiffany.”
24
A loud, piercing electronic chirping came from the hallway.
“Oh, my lord and savior. Not again,” Tiffany groaned.
“Is that the fire alarm?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. This is a no-smoking facility. He keeps setting it off, damn his eyes.”
“Chesterfield?”
“Who else? Or one of his other chain-smoking buddies. They’ve been doing this all day. There are signs all over the place but members of Congress don’t think rules apply to them.”
“Congressmen think they’re above the law? Shocking. They’re setting off the smoke detectors in the rooms?” I asked.
“Unfortunately,” she said. “Even if you go in the bathroom and turn on the fan. This is the tenth time they’ve done it. It’s a brand-new hotel and all the smoke detectors work perfectly, thank you. The fire marshals are very unhappy. I’m sorry but I’ve got to deal with this now. You may as well come along.”
Tiffany grabbed her bag and walked out the door, stopping on the way to pick up a gold keycard off the kitchen bar. I followed her a few yards to the room next door, as others also converged on the door, including four plainclothes security guys, security chief Karl Bundt, and several hotel employees in maroon and gold uniforms. Tiffany was about to open the door with the gold keycard, when it swung open.
“Sorry, guys,” Chesterfield said. “I keep forgetting.”
It was obvious he wasn’t sorry and had not forgotten. The Speaker was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened, his fancy pistol on display on his hip. The fire alarm stopped, making it suddenly obvious that we were all talking loudly. Two concierges with brass nameplates that read BRYCE and JONATHAN were assuring Chesterfield that it was okay. The Executive Protection Service security men were talking to two guys in green custodial uniforms and tool belts, one of whom was carrying a step-ladder. Tiffany waded into the fray and gave marching orders to everyone before pulling me inside the room with Chesterfield, security, and the hotel people. It was an even bigger, more luxurious suite than Tiffany’s.
“Mr. Speaker, I’ve informed the EPS agents and the hotel that you cannot use any of the public smoking areas—for security reasons, so adjustments are being made,” Tiffany told him. “Meanwhile, Shepherd here can give you and Karl his threat assessment.”
Great. I was on my own. I told Chesterfield and his security what I had told Tiffany about unobstructed views and public spaces and rounding up bad guys. They seemed bored— until I mentioned the congressmen with Kalashnikovs and suggested they all surrender their hardware or Chesterfield should steer clear of them—or leave.
Karl just laughed. Chesterfield’s eyebrows went up and he took a silent drag on his coffin nail.
“You’re joking, right?” Karl asked.
“No, I’m not,” I told him. “How can you protect this man in an armed camp, where you are completely outgunned?”
“We’ve got this,” Karl protested. “The gun-carrying thing is just a political stunt.”
“Yeah, but with real bullets,” I said, staring directly at Chesterfield. “Some of those people are saying the Speaker should be shot—and they’re roaming the halls with loaded weapons. You’re going to make a speech to a convention hall filled with these people, all locked and loaded. Nothing personal, Karl, but you’ve got shit. No one could protect this man under these conditions. Change the conditions or go somewhere else.”
“Fuck you!” Karl shot back. “I don’t need some amateur telling me my job.”
“Actually,
I’ve done this sort of thing before,” I told him. “I never lost anybody yet. Because they listened to me.”
Karl’s rejoinder was a suggestion that I attempt sexual reproduction with myself.
“Now, fellas,” Speaker Chesterfield chuckled. “Let’s not get violent. Shepherd, you’re serious about this?”
“Yessir.”
“You understand that if I suggest disarming my brethren, my enemies will exploit that and I could lose support, and votes, and maybe the election?”
“To win the election, you have to be alive, sir. I’m not suggesting you take their toys away—just that they stop waving them in our faces and creating an impossible security situation,” I told him. “I understand you won’t address the convention for three days, so you have some time. Have somebody else order the guns out—NYPD, for example. You could even lead the protest against the cops, as long as the guns go back in the closet. Or even the bullets. Otherwise, you are under constant risk. Please consider it.”
“Alright, Shepherd, I will,” Chesterfield agreed, offering his hand. “I’ll sleep on it.”
Karl Bundt bristled at being second-guessed by me. When he began to protest that they had it all covered, I just pointed at the big picture window in the living room of the suite, with its lovely view of Manhattan. The window covers, the sheer, translucent one and the heavier blackout curtains, were pulled back to either side. Bundt angrily walked over and pulled the heavy curtains closed.
“I agree with Shepherd’s statement,” Tiffany said, finally taking a side.
“I thought so,” Chesterfield said.
The discussion was over. The handymen disconnected the smoke alarms and left, after the concierges made sure Chesterfield was happy and did not want any more fruit baskets. Bundt took his leave. When it was just Tiffany, Chesterfield and me, the Speaker lit up and took a deep drag. He inhaled a blast of blue smoke toward the smoke alarm on the ceiling. Nothing happened and we all relaxed. Tiffany waved the smoke away with her hand. Chesterfield picked up a cut-crystal glass half-full of ice and Scotch and took a belt. Mr. Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.
“That’s better,” he said. “Good job, kids. I’ll text Bob and Abner.”
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