Election Day: A Harry Cassidy Novel

by Henry Hack

  “Not really, Red. This 6% here is your contribution to your 401(K) plan. That’s your money. So they’re taking only 81%. Could be worse, you know. If you were in the top brackets, it would be more like 92% when you figure in state, city, social security and Medicare taxes.”

  “Outrageous!”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Now how about venting some of that outrage on these communist bastards now in charge. We have been concerned with the way you seem to be rolling over for them. We are a conservative network, remember?”

  “Aren’t you afraid they may come after NNN and Jim Anders if we get in their face too much? Remember, we are still under martial law.”

  “Screw them, Red. Say what you want to say. Our other news anchors are ramping up the heat on them. You should, too.”

  And ramp it up Red Baker did – in spades – attacking and criticizing every piece of social legislation recently passed. Two weeks after his comments began, Red received a letter signed by the Minutemen which informed him of the upcoming plans of the government, particularly the forced purchase of U.S. bonds in 401(K), IRA, and public pension portfolios and the currency conversion wealth tax suck-out. After the typed signature was a handwritten note stating, “Go get ‘em, Red. We thought you sold out to the new order. We are down, but not out and we will take our country back.”

  As Red was preparing his nightly broadcast, to include some of this new information, NNN station president Jim Anders received a phone call from a person who only identified himself as a top member of the President’s staff. The staffer reminded Anders that, under martial law, freedom of the press was no longer a guaranteed right of the Constitution. He went on to say, “You had better tone down your anti-administration rhetoric, particularly that obnoxious Baker, or you may soon be off the air.”

  Anders was livid and retorted, “Fuck you, whoever you are. How dare you threaten me and my network? This conversation was recorded, and I’ll make sure Red plays it on his eight o’clock broadcast.”

  With that he slammed the phone down and called Alan Acorsi and Red into his office. He glanced at his watch as they sat down. It was 4:17 p.m., about forty-five minutes before Red went out to his favorite watering hold for dinner. “Listen to this,” he said, pressing a button on the playback console.

  “You sure you want Red to run with this tonight?” Acorsi asked.

  “Yes, I don’t make idle threats. You okay with this, Red?”

  “Can’t wait. I’ll work it into my script when I get back to my office.”

  At 7:15 p.m. when some of the clerical and support staff had already left for home, a ten-man unit dressed in black military garb, with no law enforcement affiliation stenciled on their uniforms, burst into the Manhattan studio of Triple N. The heavily-armed men grabbed Alan Acorsi, Jim Anders and Red Baker, and gagged and handcuffed them tightly. As half the team ushered the bound trio out the door the team leader announced to the remaining support staff, “We are from Homeland Security. This station is now officially closed. You have one minute to gather up your personal belongings and vacate the premises. Before you leave you must produce positive identification which we will record. In other words, we will know where you live, so it will be prudent of all seven of you, to never mention or disclose this incident to anyone, including close family members. If you do, you will suffer arrest and incarceration for crimes against the government. I suggest you tell your friends and families that your network went out of business, and you were terminated with no explanation.”

  The shocked employees produced their identification, and after it was duly recorded to the approval of the team leader, they hurriedly grabbed their coffee mugs, family photos and other personal items and ran out the door without saying a word of protest. The team leader turned to his remaining four men and said, “Let’s do it.”

  The network’s computers were destroyed and the hard drives confiscated along with the paper files. Electric cables, phone lines and internet cables were ripped out and rendered useless. TV monitors were shattered. Red Baker’s desk and broadcast set were trashed. Desks were overturned, and as a final insult, an emergency fire hose sprayed and thoroughly soaked everything in the studio and offices.

  When Triple N’s signal went off the air at 7:54 p.m., many people were preparing to watch Red Baker’s slot. All they got was a dark blank screen. Calls to the station rang and rang and went unanswered. And when the calls started flooding the local precinct, the responding radio car team sent to investigate the silence had to break into the office. “Holy crap!” Officer Betty Jenkins exclaimed. “It looks like a bomb went off in here followed by a hurricane.”

  “Hello! Anyone here?” Officer Bill Rawlings shouted.

  “We better call the dicks,” Jenkins said.

  “Okay,” Rawlings said keying up his radio.

  While they awaited the arrival of the detectives from the Twelfth Squad, they checked the damage further and Betty said, “Isn’t NNN the network that’s always bad-mouthing the government?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what their problem is. I mean that raise we got in our last paycheck was pretty hefty.”

  “It sure was, but you can’t please everybody.”

  “You don’t think the Feds could have done this, do you?”

  “Come on, Bill. This is America, not some fascist country.”

  “I guess you’re right, but somebody had a real ax to grind.”

  That someone was never found. The local detectives called in Manhattan Burglary, who called in the New York FBI office. They tracked down all the employees, including the seven who were there when the event occurred. All seven stuck to the same story: they were informed that the station was going out of business and terminated. When they left work that evening Baker, Acorsi and Anders were still there.

  The detectives and FBI agents smelled a rat – a big rat.

  The seven employees of NNN had been extremely nervous and their stories did differ. Particularly about the exact whereabouts of the three remaining members of management. When Mark Negron verbally reported the results of the investigation thus far to his superior in Washington he was told, “Your people did a fine job. Close it down.”

  “But sir, we feel we can…”

  “Mark,” he interrupted. “I said close it down. Got it?”

  “Yes sir. I got it.”

  The initial attempts to locate Baker, Acorsi and Anders were negative. Baker was not at home in his apartment, and nothing appeared to be amiss there. Alan Acorsi’s apartment was likewise vacant. And Jim Anders’ wife said he wasn’t yet home, but she expected him around 10:00 p.m.

  Jim Anders didn’t come home at all that night, much to the dismay of Cora Anders.

  Jim Anders, Red Baker and Alan Acorsi never came home.

  Just three more persons added to the dozens of others who went missing every day in the city of New York, as was reported briefly in the back pages of the daily newspapers two days later. And their disappearance was not reported at all on the network newscasts and cable channels, including the conservative-leaning Fox News Channel. The government’s violent message had apparently been received and noted.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The afternoon prior to the event that night at Triple N the unhappy, unemployed New York couple packed their final belongings into cardboard boxes in their Westside apartment. “I never thought I would leave New York,” Susan said.

  “Nor I,” Harry said. “We simply can’t afford to live here anymore.”

  “Well, we hung in longer than most of our neighbors. The building is almost vacant.”

  “So are a lot of other high rent places in Manhattan.”

  “What will become of them?”

  “Remember in Dr. Zhivago when the revolution occurred?”

  “Oh, that scene where their palatial home was occupied by dozens of squatters?”

  “Comrades, my dear. Dozens of comrades. And that’s what’s going to happen right here. New housing for the masses
, run by the government.”

  “Jesus, all the stuff Phil said was going to happen is happening.”

  “And faster than I thought.”

  “Will Wyoming be a safe refuge?”

  “I hope so. That’s why we are getting out of here – with my two guns – before the June 30 deadline. And my pension, which allowed us to stay here as long as we did, is coming with us – tax-free in Wyoming.”

  “What about Walt, and Nick, and Charlie Carson?”

  “I think they might make the move too, but want to see how we make out first.”

  He chuckled and Susan said, “What’s funny?”

  “Nick. He said, ‘before I go out to the fucking sticks, you gotta check out the Italian restaurants in the area. If they ain’t good, we ain’t going.’”

  “Maybe we can convince Pasquale’s to re-locate out there.”

  “We will ask Pasquale himself tonight when we dine at that fine place for the last time.”

  “And then an early beddy-bye to be ready for the movers when they get here at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning,” she said with a long sigh.

  “Don’t be so somber. Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of our lives. I know it’s an old cliché, but I’m actually looking forward to a new life in the great outdoors in what is probably the last bastion of freedom in America.”

  “Sounds like you are General Custer preparing for his Last Stand.”

  “That didn’t go too well for that warrior. Maybe Hopalong Cassidy can do better.”

  “I really believe you’d like that – fighting the bad guys to the bitter end.”

  “You know I would, but this time the bad guys are the whole goddamned government.”

  * * *

  After their last delicious meal of pasta and veal Parmigiana smothered in red sauce at their favorite restaurant, they chatted with Pasquale and the maître’d and said their final good-byes. They walked back to their apartment, the finality of the move made more real by the parting with their old friends at the restaurant. Harry glanced at his watch and said, “We’ll be just in time to catch Red Baker’s hour on NNN. He’s been on a roll lately.”

  “Yeah,” Susan said with a laugh. “Happy to go along with the government’s approach, until it hit him in the pocketbook.”

  “But dear, the masses are truly happy now that we are all paying our fair share.”

  They relaxed with an after-dinner snifter of cognac and Harry punched the “on” button on the remote and pressed the channel “up” button to NNN, where he was met with a blank screen. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

  Susan looked up and saw the screen and said, “Is the TV broken, or did we disconnect it already?”

  Harry checked some other channels and they were all fine. He went into the bedroom and the TV in there showed the same dark screen.

  “I wonder what happened?” Susan asked.

  “Maybe the Gestapo got them,” he said. “If it’s still out in the morning, I’ll give someone a call. Maybe that old curmudgeon, Red Baker himself.”

  * * *

  When Triple N was still not on the air the following morning, Harry dialed Red Baker’s apartment to no avail. The call went to voicemail after four rings and Harry left a message to call him back. “Call my cell, Red. We’ll be in the car.”

  The movers had them all packed up by eleven and they looked around their place, their home of over fifteen years, with more than a trace of sorrow and nostalgia. They locked the door, dropped their keys off to the super and headed for the parking garage. Harry said, “When we get out of the city, let’s give Lizzy a call. “I’m sure anything involving a nationwide broadcaster is a Federal matter. Maybe she knows something.”

  When they were over the George Washington Bridge and cruising traffic-free westbound on Interstate 80, Susan connected her phone to the Bluetooth system and voice-called Lizzy’s direct number at the FBI Office. When she answered Harry said, “Hi honey, it’s Dad and Susan.”

  “Hey! How are you? Did the move go okay?”

  “We’re on the road heading west right now.”

  “Great, and you’re still sure it’s the right thing?”

  “Absolutely. Lizzy, let me ask you something. Triple N seems to be off the air and Red Baker hasn’t returned my call.”

  “I just got word of this myself. Seems the office of NNN was broken into and trashed, but the strangest thing is that three people are missing, seemingly without a trace.”

  “Who are they?” Harry asked a tightening beginning in his chest.

  “Your buddy Baker, the news director Alan Acorsi, and the network president, Jim Anders.”

  “The FBI has the case?”

  “We’re working with Manhattan Burglary, but we will probably take it over completely.”

  “Are you personally working on it?”

  “No, but I know the agents pretty well who are.”

  “Will you keep me informed?”

  “Sure, Dad. Uh…you sound really concerned. Maybe they’ll turn up shortly.”

  “I hope so. Love you, Liz.”

  “You too, Dad. Bye Susan.”

  Harry took his eyes off the mostly empty highway to glance at Susan. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  “Scary stuff. I’m thinking about your Gestapo comment last night. But we don’t have a Gestapo in America.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe not yet. Or maybe we do, and we just don’t know about it.”

  “And maybe Red and the others just went on a binge.”

  “Or maybe they’re dead, or in a small cell in Guantanamo prison.”

  * * *

  Susan and Harry took their time on the drive out to Wyoming, taking five days to reach their rented three-bedroom patio ranch house in a nearby suburb of Cody. The moving van arrived the next day, and two days later when they were fully settled into their new home, Lizzy called. She said, “This is real weird, Dad.”

  “What’s weird?”

  “The agents assigned to the Triple N case have been pulled off. They were told thanks for their work, but the case is now closed.”

  “What the hell…?”

  “My thoughts, exactly. And no one knows, or is saying, if the case has been transferred elsewhere. We are all getting more than a bit suspicious here.”

  “I smell a rat, a big government rat. If anything turns up about Red, please let me know right away. And you be careful, very careful. Keep your thoughts to yourself, prepare for your wedding, and prepare for a career outside of the FBI.”

  “You really care about that ancient relic of a cop hater, don’t you?”

  “Yeah I do, exasperating as he can be. I hope he’s okay.”

  “I’ll definitely call you as soon as I know anything. And Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll heed your advice.”

  Harry related the conversation with his daughter to Susan and then said, “Let’s go into town and start checking out the Italian restaurants. I need a few glasses of good red wine.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t convince Pasquale to come out here, but he did say business was way down, and if many more of his customers moved out of the city he might be forced to do something.”

  “Another depressing trend in our brave, new world,” Harry said. “But hey, let’s not get negative. We may find a gem out here.”

  Mario’s Restaurant, in a one-story, stand-alone brick building had more than a few cars in their lot at 6:30, so they parked and went in. Too bad the food wasn’t as good as the restaurant’s classy décor. The bland, watery red sauce that probably came from a can and the mushy, overcooked linguini made them shake their heads and drink more wine. “Maybe we should have asked somebody, or checked this place out on the computer,” Susan said.

  “We’ll do that next time. So much for adventurous chance taking.”

  “Didn’t you find some places when you were out here with the Task Force chasing the Minutemen?”

  “Sure. Wendy’s,
Burger King and Mickey D’s. We were always running around grabbing a burger here and a chicken sandwich there.”

  “How about your old pal, the Reverend Alton Phineas? Isn’t he around here somewhere?”

  “You are a mind reader. I was going to give him a call when we got back home. Would you like to meet him?”

  “Sure, but he’s not going to prod me to join his church, is he?”

  “No, he’s not like that, but actually I was thinking of attending a service once in a while.”

  “You, going to church again?”

  “Why not? Might as well get some soul-saving in before the atheist government shuts them all down and confiscates their wealth.”

  “Surely, you don’t think…”

  “I think the people now in power will do anything to achieve their goal of forming America into a socialist state. Anything.”

  “I would be interested in hearing what the good reverend has to say about that,” she said.

  * * *

  Reverend Alton Phineas was delighted to hear from Harry Cassidy and invited him and Susan for dinner on Saturday night. When they arrived, bearing a bottle of wine and a small floral arrangement – Susan’s doing, of course – they were warmly greeted by the reverend and his wife, a wife that Harry never knew existed. Harry said, “I’m happy to meet you Anne Marie, but I’m a bit taken aback. I honestly didn’t know that Alton had a wife.”

  She smiled and said, “He keeps me chained in the church basement and feeds me stale communion wafers and three-day old wine.”

  They all laughed and Phineas said, “Actually, Anne Marie is the one who really runs the operations around here. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  “I don’t mind staying in the background. It gives Alton time to do what he does best – prepare good sermons and minister to his ever-growing flock. Please excuse me a moment,” she said getting up and leaving the room.

  “The church is doing well?” Susan asked.

  “Yes, very well,” Alton replied. “Not surprising with what is going on in Washington, is it? Good people reject the atheistic values of a socialist central government.”