That was the DOJ’s case, part of a suite of suits they were pushing for Zapata’s Panama and Nicaragua frauds. Tania knew the case. Mike had worked a piece of it, which involved offshore MMC contracts, and he had Tania help with the memo.
“Like me you may be wondering how it is that the government can sue a ranch, the cars in the garage, the collectibles on the mantel, and the stock certificates in the safe. My lawyers say it’s another part of the inheritance from our cousins across the pond, but I don’t buy it.”
Walker waved the papers.
“It’s because they killed the Constitution. Because they outlawed free speech. Because they fear nothing more than an independent media, and they will do anything they can to crush it.”
Walker ran his hand across his bald head.
“They call me a thief! When I spent years helping lay data pipes through jungles and under mountains, under fire and underpaid.”
The evidence, as Tania recalled, was that Walker’s outfit had reaped around seven million in undisclosed markups, stolen four million in surplus equipment through well-arranged payoffs, and charged at least two million for work not completed.
“So today, they lost!”
He shook the paper like a sword now.
“He lost! Seems there’s at least one judge left who isn’t on El Presidente’s choke chain. That judge has dismissed their forfeiture case. Summarily!”
Walker raised his glass.
“Thank you, Donny Kimoe, and all those seven-hundred-dollar-an-hour poindexters you hired in Washington to help make this happen.”
Tania looked up the name. Donald Kimoe, Esq., criminal defense and personal injury, Houston.
“Now it’s time we start giving back. They want to demonize us on their state-controlled networks? Take the hard-earned assets of the people who made them rich? Guess what.” The backdrop changed to the image of a transmission antenna. Walker pointed his thumb back at it. “We got our hands on the means of motherfucking production!”
The image of the antenna looked live, too. Grainy, static surveillance camera shot, backlit by the evening sun and the silhouettes of buildings Tania did not recognize.
“I’m talking border blaster! A hundred thousand watts of cathode ray freedom blasting out from our secret spot into the heart of the USA.”
The backdrop dissolved to a map of the country, with cartoon radio waves pulsing across it.
“So keep an eye on this channel. Ask your friends about the schedule, or if you already have it, pass it on. To people you trust. Because we are going to be making some important announcements and special offers. Starting with this one.”
Walker held up an official photo of the President, and smiled.
A pair of hands came on-screen and deposited a huge stack of cash on the desk in front of Walker.
“That is one million dollars. And I am going to pay it to the first person who brings me information that leads to the arrest of this man.”
He pointed at the President.
“I’m talking video. Footage so incriminating it can destroy a dictator. Yes, that’s what I said. Footage people will pay to watch. That’s how you monetize revolution, see.”
He wiped his brow.
“And if you can’t do that, I’m sure you can come close. I want your material. Your illegal content. The stuff they can’t show. The stuff people really want, because they can’t have it. I don’t decide what goes on my network. You do.”
He fanned the cash and smiled.
“It’s got your name on it.”
Maybe Tania had a bead on Bert’s video smugglers after all.
“You know it’s out there. Here’s the number.”
It wasn’t a phone number. It was some other kind of code.
Tania wrote it down.
51
Moco had the money. Twenty-five hundred.
“Twice what we need to get there,” he said.
Money attracted friends.
“This is my girlfriend,” said Moco, pointing at the ancient black Honda parked at their meeting point a couple of blocks from the bar. “My St. Louis girlfriend.”
Sig panted as they caught up, still chasing Moco on the bike. He looked back in the direction they came from, and up at the sky.
The car had tinted windows and a bad stencil of a black panther face on the hood, same color as the paint job. They couldn’t see the people inside until they crammed in the back.
“Hey baby,” said the driver. She was a Latina with a mohawk and earrings that looked like they could cut you. “What the fuck was that explosion?”
“That was almost us!” said Moco.
“We should go back,” said Sig. “Those guys.”
“They looked okay to me,” said Moco. “Didn’t you see?”
Sig looked at Moco and could tell he was trying to believe that was true.
“We need to go,” said the driver, starting the car. “Hey, Sheila, thanks for picking us up, baby,” said Moco, reaching over the seat to “hug” her.
Sheila peeled out, throwing Moco back onto Sig’s lap. Sig pushed him over against the door.
There were three other girls in the car. One in front and two in back. The black girl in front with the big black hair was called Wooly. The two Sig was crammed up next to were a dark-haired white girl with a gold tooth called Bianca and an Asian girl named Tran who had ponytails, a little face tattoo, and a big pistol on her lap.
“This is Sid,” said Moco.
“Cute,” said Wooly, looking back and smiling.
“Hey, Sid,” said Bianca.
Inside the car smelled like a cocktail of homemade perfumes, gunpowder, and gasoline.
“Good thing I drove,” said Sheila, scanning four points. “Bet you guys are ready for a little R-and-R.”
She held up a purple velvet bag with gold drawstrings, the kind they sold Royal Sceptre whiskey in. She shook the bag. It sounded like it was filled with candy.
“You like to party, Sid?” said Sheila.
“He totally likes to party,” said Tran. “He was born to party.”
“We should keep moving,” said Sig.
“We need rest!” said Moco. “Night’s coming. It’s safer.”
Sig grumbled.
“Don’t forget to smile, Sid,” said Sheila. “They won’t let you into the hotel if you don’t smile.”
Sheila drove too fast and got away with it. She drove on the part of the old highway that was under the elevated freeway, to hide from eyes in the sky. She drove back to the Missouri side, past the downtown towers of the Blue Zone where the owners lived and the corporates worked, around the armories on the south side, through the washed-out neighborhoods of the bottoms, to the big interchange where all the freeways came together in a crazy ribbon of giant-sized concrete.
It took them three tries to find a hotel that would take them and their cash. They stopped for burgers along the way, drive-through.
The room was a suite, the kind traveling salesmen lived in. It had a separate bedroom with a door you could close, and more couches than your living room. It had a refrigerator they put the beer in.
They got right to work retraining it for loco.
They unplugged the Feed box from the TV and the power. They unplugged all the lamps, wrapped them in the bedspread, and put the bundle in the closet. They closed all the blinds. They had their own music, a little box that ran on batteries and was crammed full of thumping Fezcore. They had beer, and smoky clear liquor from New Mexico. They had crazy energy, light and dark at the same time. They had little candles they used instead of the lights in the room. And they had the Royal Sceptre bag, which Sheila put in the middle of the coffee table, arranging the drawstrings just right.
“Sid, baby,” said Sheila. “Bianca’s gonna run you a bath. And not just ’cause you need it. Which you do.”
Bianca smiled. You could see the bathroom from where they sat, glowing with the candlelight.
Sig drank his fourth can of
beer. It tasted like cold white bread. He could feel the chill wash over the folds of his brain.
Then Sheila pulled open the mouth of her bag.
“You like Purple Maxx, Sid?” asked Tran.
Sig shrugged.
Moco laughed. When he smiled that big you could see all his fucked-up teeth, even the molars.
“Sid’s a country boy,” said Wooly. “Probably never had anything stronger than ditch weed.”
Sheila pulled out a waxy cookie the color of congealed blood.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Bianca.
“You even know what this is?” said Wooly, smiling.
Sig shook his head.
“Maxximol,” said Bianca. “The stimulant.”
“Performance enhancer,” said Wooly. “Developed for warfighters.”
“Cut with Lafferty powder and sassafras oil,” said Bianca. “To amp up the feelings. Open the doors.”
“Gonna turn you into a motherfucking superhero,” said Wooly.
“He already is,” said Sheila. She had the cake on a thin metal platter that she held up with a little clamp. She pulled out a metal lighter that made a big flame she used to heat the bottom of the plate.
The smell was like Sterno and cherry candy.
Sheila cut the cake into six little slices. They passed the plate around like it was sacrament. Sig was fourth in the line.
“It’s cool,” said Moco. Bianca and Wooly were on either side, encouraging him with friendly touch, pulling off his hoody.
It tasted like liver and cough syrup. He washed it down with another beer.
The music sounded better.
Moco was all over Sheila. He liked the bald parts of her head. Ran his hands through the mohawk. She led him to the bedroom and closed the door.
It was like someone turned up the candles. They shined through skin like you could see the bones of people’s faces.
Wooly stood up, stretched, and flexed. She looked strong.
“Can you feel it?” she said.
He nodded.
“Take your shirt off,” she said.
He did. It felt great. He spread his arms out like an eagle. He felt like he could throw a car.
It seemed like a long time until he found himself in the bathroom with Bianca, helping each other get the rest of their clothes off. The door was open and they could see Wooly and Tran messing around on the couch and vice versa but no one cared. Time got slippery. It was like the moon slowed down and watched.
Bianca had the saddest scars he had ever seen.
When they were in the bath and he saw them so close and exposed, the sadness settled into a spot in his chest like it had little claws.
Then he was looking up at Bianca, and for a minute it was like she wasn’t there. Like she was traveling through some other space.
Then Wooly and Tran were standing there. Bianca, too, in a towel. Wooly saluted him like a soldier, except she was laughing.
He tried to get up but he couldn’t. He tried to talk but nothing came out.
He started to seriously freak out.
The women left him there.
He felt the water over his whole body trying to pull him in.
He felt sleep pulling him in like a fish on a reel.
He thought about that girl who babysat him that time when his mom left him with her black friends in Minneapolis. He could almost hear them saying her name but he only got part of it.
52
The name on the door was Mr. Wizard.
The shop was at the far end of a run-down strip mall on the other side of town, across the street from the repurposed big box where they had arrested Moco and the others. Tania had left the hotel looking for this place, after seeing an ad on Channel Zero, just a name and address that flashed on one of the test patterns. She hated to go out, especially in daylight, but the possibility of getting help in cracking those codes and accessing the deeper net was worth the risk.
There was an old TV in the window, playing a yellow oscillating wave against a blue background, almost like installation art.
Through the glass, she saw other old sets inside, running test patterns. The floor was crammed with boxes, filled with what looked to be old tapes and discs.
The door was locked. But she could see there was someone in there. A door behind the counter, slightly ajar, incandescent light seeping through.
She banged on the door. Then she saw the doorbell. The chime was a tune from a long time ago. Back when everything was on a different trajectory.
The storekeeper looked about the same age. Gray goatee grown into little horns. Mr. Wizard was right.
“We’re closed,” he said.
“Oh, sorry, it looked open.”
He scrunched up his face. That’s when Tania noticed the fresh cut on his brow, sutured with a pair of gauze butterflies.
“I saw the light on in the back,” said Tania.
“Appointment only.”
“How do I make an appointment?”
Mr. Wizard harrumphed. Hand to goatee, like he was pulling the thoughts out of his chin.
Tania looked at the open door to the back room. A workshop, crammed full of TV sets, radios, keyboards, and other devices all connected with spaghetti bundles of cabling. There was a vintage microphone by one of the radios, with the logo of a station that must have found its second life. It reminded her of the old mesh network, but much more advanced. She wished she could take a picture.
“I’m afraid we’re not really open to the public anymore,” said Mr. Wizard. “Not since the latest troubles. Kind of a membership club. Hobbyists. Old geezers like me. Terribly boring really.”
“It’s a hobby of mine, too,” said Tania. “I just got my first set. Amazing what you can find on-air these days. I saw your clip last night. I was looking for some help learning how to really tap all the capabilities. Like how to use this code I got on Channel 13.” She held up the notebook page on which it was written. “There’s not exactly a user’s manual, you know?”
Mr. Wizard raised his eyebrows and made a quiet grunt. He looked at the code, looked her in the eyes, then looked away.
“Why don’t you leave me your name,” he said. “I will call you when we schedule the next meeting.”
He seemed nervous all of a sudden, even as he was blowing her off.
“Great,” said Tania. She wrote down a made-up name and the number of her prepaid phone. “When will it be?”
“Depends,” said Mr. Wizard, looking right at her. “Have I seen you before?”
“I don’t think so,” said Tania. “I just got to town. Staying out west.”
“What brought you here?”
“Freelance data mining contract. Exciting stuff. Working one of the corporate parks up north there, but thought it would be nicer to stay here. Kind of reminds me of where I grew up.”
“I see,” he said.
“So I guess you’re Mr. Wizard?”
“Mr. Wizard is dead. I’m Fritz.”
53
Sig dreamed an animal holocaust. Whole herds of giant beasts, dinosaur buffalo dogs, hooked up to machines that sucked the fluids from their bodies and pumped out white mushy food at the other end.
He woke up splashing in water, coughing it out.
The high was gone. He could move.
His head felt like someone had been playing basketball with it all night.
Their shit was gone, too. Sig found his pants, but the wad of money that was his share was no longer in the pocket. No sign of the three guns they had kept, or of Moco’s stuff. Maybe worst of all, Sig couldn’t find the paper Fritz had given him with the contacts.
Maybe he could remember some of them.
The door to the room was wide open.
He ran down the hall, looking for Moco. Through the window by the elevators he could see the sun fully risen, nine o’clock at least.
There were two police cars parked out there, by the entrance.
Adrenaline jolt
. Time to run. Time to find his own way.
He ran down the stairs, exited the lower level. Looked—empty—headed down the corridor toward the exit sign.
He stopped when he saw the indoor pool. There was Moco in one of the reclining chairs, passed out in his underwear. There were beer bottles floating in the pool.
For a minute, he considered leaving him there. Then he heard them coming.
54
Tania bought a trucker’s road map of the central United States, taped it to the wall, and annotated it in grease pencil, string, pushpins, and paper notes, trying to reverse-engineer the network by mapping it.
There were no topo lines on the map, but you could infer their broad outlines from the ways the river flowed. And when you spent enough time looking at the region that spanned from Minnesota to the Gulf, you realized it started with the river.
The river system, when you drew it over in thicker blue, looked like a tree, the way its many branches fanned out across the northern plains. Like the capillaries and veins of the heart of the continent. Like a network.
On another network, she found a database of the communications infrastructure that predated the MOFUC. She marked each transmitter with red pins. She drew dotted line circles to mark transmitter ranges. She flagged three she suspected could be the live station Walker claimed.
One was in North Dakota. The tallest TV antenna on the continent, apparently.
One was in Mexico. An actual border blaster whose specs she found on a page about those old high-wattage stations.
One was in New Orleans. That seemed least likely, given the conditions on the ground there. Maybe that’s why it made the most sense.
It was right before the last presidential elections that the people in New Orleans took back their city. The storm that drowned half the wards made it possible, driving an evacuation of the MMCs who had made the city their principal staging area for operations in the near South. The city had been granted an independent corporate charter by the feds, reasoned the committee that replaced the board of managers, and this was just a change in ownership.
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