by Rob Byrnes
“A bomb?!” The super was the opposite of discreet as he hurried away from the apartment building he loved, just not enough to die inside.
There was something about the liberal use of the word “bomb” at high volume on a street swarming with cops already jumpy about terrorist threats that drew a lot of attention, all of it bad. As the police sprang into action, Chase realized that his continued presence on the sidewalk was most certainly a very bad idea.
“Did you hear them?” Chase asked, with authority in his voice, to the first three officers who rushed up. “They’re saying there’s a bomb in the building. Clear the area!”
“But…no…He said…” June sputtered.
Her sputtering didn’t matter. Chase’s three sentences had created enough chaos to allow him to melt into the crowd, and he kept melting until he was a block away and safely hidden around the corner.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Grant Lambert and Nick Donovan. The super was no doubt already leading the police to June’s apartment.
Chase pulled his phone out of his pocket.
If Chase had been able to keep June and the super quiet for just a few more minutes, there would have been a clean getaway. They were so close.
But, of course, things didn’t work out that way.
Alerted by Chase and knowing that the elevator would trap them without an escape route, Grant and Nick decided to take the stairs back down to the lobby. They were between the second and third floors when they heard a commotion below, and then the door at the lobby level opened with a bang and the voices of a half dozen very edgy cops were coming toward them.
At the second-floor landing, there was a half-open window looking out to the gloomy air shaft…
Grant went first, followed by Nick, who threw himself through the opening moments before the lead cop rounded the turn in the staircase. At any other time, someone would have noticed the open window, and maybe even heard them when they landed twelve feet below that window. But this wasn’t one of those times. This was a time when a half dozen loud, duly-sworn police officers pumping adrenaline were rushing to investigate a possible bomb, not stealthily trying to catch a couple of burglars.
So they missed the open window. And they also missed the sound two adult bodies make when they hit the ground twelve feet below with a god-awful thud.
Grant didn’t move for quite a while, but when he finally dared to turn slightly he was surprised to discover that nothing seemed to hurt too much.
“Kid?” he asked the darkness.
“I’m here,” said Nick.
“You hurt?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” Grant realized he had landed on something sort of squishy, no doubt the reason he was still alive. “You mind telling me what I landed on?”
Nick came closer, until Grant could finally make out his dark features. “Are you sure you want to know?”
Grant’s lip curled in. “Is it a body?”
“No. Just a mattress. But…just don’t look.”
“Trust me, I ain’t gonna look. Nothing good ever came out of a mattress at the bottom of an airshaft.”
“Yeah, you might also want to take a shower as soon as you can.”
They heard something rustle along the ground.
“Is whatever’s moving down here another thing I don’t want to know?” Nick nodded. “Okay, this time don’t tell me.”
After it was clear there was no bomb in June Forteene’s apartment, and after she’d proven the nine-millimeter left on the kitchen floor was hers and she had a permit, and after she realized her phone and laptop had been stolen and filed a report, the building began to empty out what had become a massive police presence.
A half hour after that, Grant and Nick slowly eased open the window that led from the airshaft to the mailroom, and then exited the building through the lobby, carrying the laptop and phone as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred that night and their limps were just something that had happened.
Chase, who’d been keeping in touch with them by text message the entire time they were hidden in the airshaft, was waiting down the block. They sent Nick back home to Hell’s Kitchen, and then Grant and Chase stole a Ford Taurus—so tired they didn’t even bother disabling the GPS—and headed home to Jackson Heights.
After Grant took a thirty-eight-minute shower, he and Chase helped each other liberally apply Bengay to bodies that were both too old for the abuse they’d received that night. Then they finally settled into bed.
“If there’s a silver lining,” said Chase, “it’s that we got the goods. Best I can figure, we’ve recovered every picture of Austin Peebles’s penis except the one on his own phone.”
Grant was silent for a while until—in the darkness—he said, “I underpriced this job. I should have charged forty thousand.”
“Fifty,” said Chase.
“Sixty…”
The number kept rising until they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms.
A few minutes later, some cop called June’s cell phone and asked if he could vouch for one Edward Hepplewhite. Grant didn’t know the name, but had a good idea who this Hepplewhite was, so he told the cop he was Mr. Forteene and that neither of them had ever heard of him. That’s what they both got for waking him up.
After he shut down the phone, Chase took it from his hands and removed the battery. It wasn’t just so they could get a decent night’s sleep. It was also to keep the police from tracking the stolen phone back to their apartment.
That Austin Peebles’s penis and face appeared in both their dreams that night was never discussed. That was for the best, especially considering the violence in Grant’s dream and the eroticism in Chase’s.
Chapter Ten
Her office and apartment had been burgled, she’d been invaded by fake cops, there had been a bomb scare, a seedy guy in an old UPS uniform was stalking her, and the goddamn UN a block away was making her life a living hell. So it was understandable that June Forteene had been unable to sleep.
Not to mention her cell phone had been stolen, which left her feeling especially isolated. Sure, she had a landline, but the only number she had memorized was the super’s, and the bomb scare had rattled him enough to send him to his daughter’s place in Brooklyn Heights for the night. Not that she would have been even slightly tempted to call him for solace.
If she’d had her cell phone, she could have at least called a friend for a shoulder to cry on. Maybe Pamela…or Ann…or even Karl. But no. Instead she paced the apartment, alone and more than a little paranoid.
What she didn’t know was that Pamela, Ann, and Karl—not to mention tens of thousands of other people—had already had quite a laugh at her expense that night. One leftwing blogger had already launched JuneForteenesDailyAffirmation.com, which rose into the top hundred in web traffic rankings overnight and generated hundreds of comments, most of them vicious.
There was nothing like letting the world know you had a daily affirmation to incite that world to create their own for you.
“I’m June Forteene and I’ll deny global warming until the inevitable day I’m roasting in hellfire.”
“I’m June Forteene and I’d go lesbian for Michele Bachmann.”
“I’m June Forteene and I want Santorum inside of me.”
And so on.
Of course, she knew none of that at the time. She also knew nothing of the Huffington Post–Gawker–Drudge–Kos–National Review Online–TMZ mockery.
There was yet another thing she didn’t know. The police had tried to reach her hours earlier to confirm the identity of the now-awake Edward Hepplewhite. The groggy guy who’d answered her cell phone told the cops he was Mr. Forteene and no one had ever heard of this Hepplewhite character, so that was that. The cops weren’t surprised—all his raging about seductive tiny burglars and penises and date-rape drugs were a sure sign of drug-induced mental illness—so they thanked Mr. Forteene, apologized for waking him up, hung up the pho
ne, and got out their Tasers.
It was still dark—very dark—when Grant nudged Chase.
“Wha…?”
“It’s time to get up.”
“I’ll call in sick.”
“I’m not talkin’ about the Gross. We’ve gotta get to Manhattan.”
Chase—eyes firmly closed—fumbled around in the sheets. “What time is it?”
“Four forty.”
“’Nother hour.” Chase’s head settled back against his pillow.
Grant jabbed an elbow into his partner’s very sore shoulder. “Now!”
When he stumbled out of bed, Chase remembered to add, “I really wish you’d call Groc-O-Rama by the proper name.”
“Get in the shower.”
At 6:32 a.m., June was walking north on Eighth Avenue toward her office. Sleep-deprived, she didn’t notice the two men in a taxi duck down as she passed. She would remember fake Detective Bailey and fake Detective Finnerty Rafferty Jr. until the day she died—even after a night without sleep—but missed the encounter. It was just the latest in a string of very unfortunate circumstances that had befallen her in less than eleven hours.
But it was the only thing she missed that morning.
When she opened her office door, her first instinct was to say, “What the fuck?!”
Her second was to say, “What?! The?! Fuck?!”
Captain Joseph Enright and Edward Hepplewhite were both so fired!
But first she needed caffeine.
Grant and Chase finally found a cab driver who would transport them—and a trunk load of computer equipment—to the Upper East Side for an extra twenty dollars.
They were loading the trunk when Chase said, “Put the monitor in front of your face.”
“Huh?”
“Just do it.”
Grant did, and a few seconds later June Forteene stormed past, making a beeline toward the Starbucks across the corner. When she was out of their way, they finished loading the last few items and snapped the trunk closed.
One of the landlines was ringing when June returned with her Venti Caffè Americano. But of course it’s a landline, she thought. What the hell else is left? Also, Who the hell is calling before seven o’clock in the morning?
She answered the ringing telephone crisply. “June Forteene Enterprises.”
“Yeah, this is Sergeant Robins, Midtown North Precinct.”
Oh, great. Another fake cop. That’s what she thought. What she said was, “Go on.”
“I’m trying to check on one Edward Hepplewhite. Says he works there.”
“Fired.”
“’Scuse me?”
“Edward was fired.”
“You sure? ’Cause he says…”
“Don’t believe a word he says.” She hung up, and when the phone repeatedly rang over the next half hour, she refused to answer.
On Manhattan’s Upper East Side—less than a half mile from the address Grant and Chase were directing their cab driver to—Austin Peebles heard a knock on the door to what had been his bedroom ever since Penelope had kicked him out of their bedroom when the penis picture came to light. He hid the Craigslist “Casual Encounters” screen he’d been viewing behind a spreadsheet he hadn’t looked at since college, slipped his sweatpants down just enough to show the arc of his ass, and said, “Come in, baby!”
The door opened a crack and Triple-C looked inside.
“Oh, sorry.” Austin pulled up his sweats. “I thought you were Penelope.”
Catherine Cooper Concannon took a step into the room and pretended she hadn’t seen her son-in-law’s ass. Nor the slight bulge at his lap. That was none of her business, and she was thirty years too old for any of it to have been intended for her.
Although…No, she was definitely too old.
She smiled at him, very motherly. “I’ve tried talking to her, Austin, but she’s still very angry. Maybe if you tried.”
He rolled his shoulders, close to not caring at all. “She’ll get over it.”
Triple-C was, for the briefest moment, resentful of his cavalier attitude toward her daughter. But then she sensed that attitude was his way of protecting himself from Penelope’s harsh treatment—kicking him out of their bedroom and refusing to speak to him—and let go of that resentment.
“I’m sure she will.” The U.S. Representative looked approvingly at the spreadsheet on his monitor. “I see you’re applying yourself. And I’m impressed you’re up so early in the morning.”
He saw no need to bother her with a few details; like, say, he had a sinus cavity caked with cocaine and hadn’t been to bed yet, and the fact that an exciting Craigslist “Casual Encounters” lurked behind the spreadsheet. Those were just minor issues that need not concern her.
“Thank you, Mother. I’m trying.”
She didn’t smile; she beamed. “You’re more than trying, Austin! You’re succeeding!”
When Triple-C finally left his bedroom, Austin returned to the Casual Encounter profile. The twenty-four-year-old WILD’N’HOT girl lived somewhere nearby on the Upper East Side, so she could be a constituent! And since she’d only posted her ad a half hour ago, she’d no doubt had a night like he had.
Which made this the only way to campaign.
Sometimes, June Forteene now knew, your best friends won’t tell you.
She waited outside until the minute the closest office supply store unlocked its front door to buy a laptop, and then ran across the street to the cell phone store while the office supply employees got her up and running. An hour later, she was mostly back in business.
That was when she first discovered she had become a target of Internet mockery overnight.
After her third panic attack, she knew what she had to do. June got her breathing under control, logged onto her website with the new laptop, and started typing.
Dear Friends:
As you know, I have taken some highly controversial positions over the years: opposing open borders, opposing the Times Square Mosque and Islamofascism, opposing the liberal agenda. These actions to protect American freedom and exceptionalism have now made me the target of liberal, Jihadist hackers…
It took less than fifteen minutes for the story to go viral.
Her Daily Affirmation? “When in a corner, lie like hell.”
She’d used that one a few times before.
Grant and Chase helped Kevin Wunder move the computer equipment up to his office at the far end of U.S. Representative Catherine Cooper Concannon’s suite on Second Avenue. Or maybe it was the other way around, since Wunder wasn’t a lot of help. Whatever; the job was finally done.
“Thanks.” The lack of a smile on Wunder’s face mirrored the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. “You can expect payment in a few weeks. Just as soon as we get the invoice, we’ll process it.”
“Expedite it, Wunder.” Grant fixed him with one of his harder stares. “Don’t make us come back.”
An hour later, Catherine Cooper Concannon sat behind her desk in that very same office and watched Kevin Wunder fidget in front of her.
“Yes?”
He held out the cell phone that had once belonged to June Forteene. “It’s done.”
“What is done?”
“You wanted me to get those pictures of Austin’s, uh…” He looked at her seventyish face. “Uh…the, uh…”
“The pictures of his penis?”
“Yeah, that.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I took care of it. Every single computer, cell phone…whatever June Forteene owned is now stashed in my office and ready for disposal.”
Triple-C—a woman who’d been shocked by and disapproved of many things in her life—still mustered a fresh look of shock and disapproval. “Kevin! You can’t hide stolen goods in the office of a Member of Congress!”
“But…”
She shook her head. “I expected better judgment from you. Kevin. Now, get rid of it.”
“But…”
The discussion was over. “Get rid of it now!”
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On the surface, Kevin smiled pleasantly and agreed to obey her command. Inside, though, he was throwing the biggest hissy fit American politics had seen since the day Newt Gingrich had to ride in the back of Air Force One.
The only reason he kept his cool was his knowledge that he had the upper hand.
And he was ready to use it.
Kevin Wunder was done being the obedient Concannon Family lackey. It was time to spread his wings.
If they’d expected a break—and a few weeks to relax and heal and slather themselves in Bengay—they didn’t get it. They got something like twelve hours.
Chase’s phone rang, and he glanced at the caller ID. “It’s Jamie.”
“Ignore it.” Grant rubbed more Bengay on his ass. “I’m never a fan of Jamie Brock, and I’m especially not a fan right now.”
Chase ignored the call. And the next one. And the ones after that. It was only when Jamie called for the sixth time in four minutes that curiosity got the better of him and he answered.
“What’s up?”
“Kevin Wunder just called. He wants to see us right away.” Jamie’s voice kept disappearing behind street noise. It sounded like he was calling from a cab.
“Us? As in all of us?”
Through the uneven signal, it sounded like he said, “Yes. And right away.”
Chase waited until a horn stopped blaring on Jamie’s end. “You think he’s paying us already?”
“I’d bet on it.” Jamie’s voice vanished into noise and was in mid-sentence when it returned. “—is the sort of thing they’ll want to put behind them as soon as they can. It’s too seamy for a campaign to be involved in blackmail and…Hey! Hey!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Not you. Hey! Take Park Avenue! Fifth’s too slow!”