I Kill Rich People: New Edition Released 11/27/14

by Mike Bogin

Every rich person Elliot knew collected charities like toys, except charities meant photo-ops and public fawning. It was all part of their shtick. The men owned ten tuxedos, their wives got the chance to feel meaningful and wear designer gowns. “These are the same people buying up police departments just like buying houses. Or buying politicians! Every single day we’re hearing about public police departments losing police officers because some rich guy wants personalized protection. What’s next? The army? Maybe Bill Gates needs an aircraft carrier to park on the lake in front of his house?”

  Elliot’s new theme song, Bowie’s Putting Out Fire with Gasoline, hit the nail on the head. Every time Thumbs told him not to egg on a murderer, Elliot went for a higher note. Elliot maintained that it was all the other stations that were killing New York tourism, not him. The rest of them had adopted the killer on the loose line. New York City was safer than ever with NYPD on high alert. Unless you were filthy rich, go out and enjoy the summer weather!

  Elliot wondered how anyone could follow the shit going on in America without thinking “shoot ’em in the fucking head.” Some of the rich had caused the fuckup and some had nothing to do with it, but this was also about capacity. The rich have all the money. So make things better for everyone. But it doesn’t work like that. They put on their formal outfits for charity events and real life just keeps getting worse.

  “You want to see money start flowing?” Elliot riffed. “Tax the rich on their holdings, not on future earnings. Billionaires have stacked their money like giant dams; all around this country they have stopped the flow of funds. Taxing their future paychecks won’t fix the economy! We need to spread that wealth. Get it into the hands of the regular people who can’t afford to horde funds. Make like a property tax and tax them on what they already own! Bigtime! Do they think they could steal democracy without it coming back on them? I KILL RICH PEOPLE t-shirts are selling like hotcakes right in Times Square for a reason! We’re sick of watching this great country being manipulated and strangled. It’s a thriving middle class, it’s opportunity for a better life made this country the envy of the world.”

  The anger wasn’t isolated to New York. Two Saudis had just been shot down aboard their yacht in Alexandria, Egypt. A Hollywood producer was stabbed on Rodeo Drive getting out of his two-million-dollar Bugatti. A German industrialist was murdered in a home invasion at his Gstaad chalet. A Chinese tycoon got pummeled to death by workers in his own factory. The Global Economy.

  Elliot didn’t give a fuck if station management tried muzzling him. What? Just give the rich a free pass? Did they want to have him putting up histories of the great philanthropists like Fox television was showing?

  Two million Facebook fans on pages devoted to Bullets and Elliot’s Net Worth Counter (nearing $60,000,000,000 worldwide). Management could go fuck itself. He wasn’t going to tone it down. They ought to read his contract…all content decisions means fuck off. He was the only broadcast voice in the wilderness. If the center cannot hold, that wasn’t his doing.

  * * * * *

  Owen came home to leftovers. He didn’t expect the boys to wait on dinner. Would have been nice for Callie to wait, but she did warm it in the microwave. Lasagna. The garlic bread tasted good, but the texture was mushy.

  He took his time. Not scarfing down his food like he usually seemed to do. She had a load of laundry in the dryer, which clanked through every tumble. He couldn’t even smell the garlic bread; until it was up to his mouth, all he could smell was the dryer sheet. The narrow kitchen was done in: old cabinets with four coats of white paint flaking off where the hinges had been painted over, the two galvanized pipes coming out from the wall above the sink with separate valves for hot and cold running into the basic pipe without even an aerator. Sagging wooden drawer guides. None of the drawers came open without a fight and closed the same way. The stove was new in 1982. Nobody made Harvest Gold appliances anymore. The ceiling fan he had put in himself was hanging too low for the room. Everyone over six feet had to duck to get past. At six-four it would take your head off. And when you needed it, all it did was move around hot air. The tear in the linoleum in front of the sink was getting bigger. One time he had caught Casey digging through the floor with a Phillips head screwdriver until he had a hole open all the way through the car decking, down to the basement.

  Everywhere he turned there was more work to be done. The place needed to be gutted down to the studs. More money. He still had to pull new wires in the kitchen, but doing that meant no stove and no fridge until he had it done. Once it was wired he could get in a decent service panel and not short out the house whenever Callie turned on the blow-dryer or the dishwasher at the same time that the air conditioner was working. Two weeks working on the shooter case rather than taking time on the wiring at least meant all the nicks in his fingers were scabbed over.

  He scraped half the lasagna into the garbage then dragged himself up the stairs to find that Callie had an open suitcase on his side of the bed. She looked up like she had been caught, stopped, then went right back to packing. Liam and Casey were half-asleep on her side of the bed with the television on.

  What the hell?

  “Shelley asked us to spend the weekend at the lake,” Callie explained tersely. “I said yes.”

  “How come you didn’t ask me first?”

  “Because you would have waited and we’d lose the chance, or else you would have said no. So I said yes instead. The boys need to get out of this city and get some fresh air. We all do.”

  “Jesus, Callie. We’ve got jobs. We can’t just take off.”

  “Shelley and Mike work day and night, but they can get away! I traded Saturday for next Wednesday and I’m taking a sick day Monday. You have like a hundred and fifty sick days saved up. So take one!” Callie had already made the effort to re-schedule her one patient who was going to make a scene if anyone else tried working inside her mouth. The rest would be fine with another hygienist.

  Owen never used his sick days and never got sick. If he wouldn’t take a sick day, then he could take an unpaid personal day. They hadn’t been to the Poconos since Casey was in diapers, even though Mike and Shelley had asked them a dozen times.

  “We’ll spend all weekend on the lake. You can take the boys fishing. Mike has all the gear,” Callie said.

  “I don’t have a fishing license. You know what Pennsylvania is charging for out-of-state fishermen? It’s like forty-five bucks.” That wasn’t the point. What did she think he had been doing for weeks? A dozen murders, nine of them in Midtown. “Callie, I’m completely swamped. This isn’t the time to go away.”

  “It’s three days, Owen.” Callie showed three fingers, as though he couldn’t count. “There’s thirty-five thousand cops in the department. Don’t you think they’ll survive without Owen Cullen for three friggin’ days? We are going.”

  Owen thought of Al quoting the Serenity Prayer. He knew Callie. He had to accept that Callie wouldn’t budge.

  Casey saw Owen and reached his arms toward Owen’s neck. Liam murmured, “Hi, Dad,” then rolled his face into the pillow.

  Owen bent down and lifted Casey up from the bed. The strain in his lower back reminded him how fast Casey was growing. He was getting too heavy to lift without using leg strength for support. Casey burrowed his face into Owen’s chest. His arms were around Owen’s neck like deadweights. Liam had fished a couple times, once for perch, stocked rainbows at a fish farm another time, but Casey had never caught one.

  He had the mayor’s closed briefing to law enforcement on Friday. That was at three. With any luck, it would wrap by four-thirty. Friday-afternoon summer traffic. Home by six. If the car was packed ahead of time, they could be on the road at six forty-five. The last hour or so would be night driving. They’d miss the scenery. Pretty easy to get lost coming into the Poconos in the dark.

  Can’t pack the car and have it par
ked all day out in that open lot, he realized. Saturday morning. Have everything by the door. Get up early, out the door and stop somewhere for breakfast on the way. Better. The boys ought to see the countryside.

  * * * * *

  Turner represented the FBI. Dansk shared the podium: the Chief of Police NY; the Chief Investigator Suffolk County; the Chief of Police of Nassau County; the mayor; an Assistant Secretary of State. Al was standing alone along the far wall.

  Owen could not look at Dansk without thinking that their most important intelligence, the street tapes from the cameras around Barrow Taylor, had disappeared, yet Dansk had them chasing around photographing shoes and going out to New Jersey gun stores looking for foreigners. Nothing added up.

  Dansk was going to hear about him taking personal days, he knew. Taking personal days required a section approval. Sick days flew under the radar, but he hated ever using them.

  The Chief of Police set forward the facts: fifteen known dead; ancillary victims; copycats spreading like a contagion. No mention that the suspect was military.

  The mayor took the podium reminding all of them that he had been a few feet away when four men he knew well were shot dead.

  “I’m mayor of a city that hosts fifty million visitors every year. We are in the most important financial center on this planet, and you can’t keep this city safe because of one killer! Thirty-five thousand police officers, two thousand Special Agents, plus God only knows how many other government intelligence agencies in the mix, and he remains out there!”

  The mayor shook a printed copy of the English version of China Daily and seethed. “Beijing just issued a safety advisory on New York City. Their propaganda machine eats this up, while our tourism revenues are projected to drop by $3.75 billion across the next twelve months. One murderous bastard is tying up this city, this entire region.” He threw down the paper like he was throwing down his gauntlet.

  “I am not going to tell rich people they can’t use their boats. ‘Don’t go out on balconies. Stay away from public events. Keep out of expensive stores. Keep your curtains closed at night.’ What next? Start wearing disguises? This city’s most important citizens aren’t going to have to dig holes and hide!”

  The mayor’s voice dropped an octave when he continued. “From this moment forward, I am ordering a zero-interface policy with members of the press. No statements. No interviews. Anything said to the press goes through my office. Breach these rules and heads will roll, gentlemen. I will be working with the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of Homeland Security, even the President, whoever it takes, to concentrate the full resources of this nation on stopping this killer. Starting now, we will have four times the personnel presence on public transportation with eyes on every camera from South Ferry to 96th Street. We are establishing a dedicated data link to support visuals across the entire police department, including units in the field. Any authorized officer on duty can come in through the web to view anywhere on the entire visual matrix in real time. We are going to triple our presence on the streets. Every performance, event, or private party that attracts the A-List, we will have a presence. I aim to restore the confidence of every person in New York City. Every borough and every precinct is effectively on this case from now on. Not a single uniform stays inside. I want visibility.”

  Dansk, on cue, added, “NYPD has received shipment of three thousand hand-held security wands. We have trainers coming from TSA to support immediate integration. This killer has to be carrying a gym bag or a satchel or a hard carrier. Any adult male fitting the description and carrying anything bigger than a shoebox will be scanned. Anticipating the question, yes, we have thoroughly vetted this by the city attorney and AG’s office in Albany. There is no conflict with public rights under the fourth amendment.” She turned the mic over to the Chief of Police.

  “From here on,” the Chief ordered, “7 a.m. every morning, all captains and commanders will be present for a daily online conference with me and with our Commander of Intelligence. Seven days a week, until this sniper is caught or killed.”

  * * * * *

  “You used to be committed to this force,” Dansk snapped back when he told her about the short trip. Owen was momentarily deflated. His eyes burned. But then he thought about what Callie had said, about thirty-five thousand cops on the force. Questioning his commitment over a day and a half? A day and a half. A fucking day and a half.

  “This is a hell of a time to be taking personal days,” she went on. “Didn’t you just hear the Chief saying that captains and commanders are on seven days a week? Why should you get to go on vacation?”

  “What, you can’t find anybody else to photograph shoes?” he burst back. Once he had begun, he knew better, but he couldn’t stop his litany from pouring out. “How many man-hours are we spending checking gun stores? And why are you confining this investigation to foreigners? Do we have any evidence that he’s a foreigner? And speaking of evidence, what happened to the tapes from the cameras around Barrow Taylor?”

  He had hit a hot button. Dansk’s face tightened. “When you return from your vacation, we will discuss your role in my division.” Dansk turned her back on Owen, who stood watching her walk briskly toward the departing senior officials.

  That was bullshit, Owen told himself. A day and a half. Who else was more focused on getting the shooter? Not Dansk. Chasing foreigners with big feet? Crap!

  “Can we talk?” Al asked, interrupting Owen’s rumination. Owen had to tense himself from his fists to his toes just to speak through clenched teeth.

  “Not now. Right now I want a drink.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  Owen looked down at Al and couldn’t figure the guy out. Why should Al be worried about anything with him? Oh, the drink. AA.

  “Al, I just had a red-letter hell of a shitty day. I figure I earned a drink.”

  Al eyed him through his thick glasses until he was satisfied. “OK. Let’s get you a drink. For me, coffee.”

  Owen found himself walking up Broadway out of the mayor’s office with Al stumbling on his pant cuffs beside him. He turned left on Chambers Street, trotting until Al tugged at him to slow down. They happened to be right in front of the Blue Spoon, but Owen kept walking toward The Patriot Saloon. It was still early, so inside the bar there were stools available despite the thumping rock music.

  “Gents, what’s your pleasure?”

  Al ordered coffee with non-dairy creamer, and Owen called out a double Black Bush.

  “Ice or neat?”

  “Straight up.”

  Al’s eyes were fixed on the glass as Owen raised it to his lips and replaced it on the bar top without drinking. When he did raise it again, he shot the whisky down in a single gulp. He did not have to explain himself. Not about drinking.

  “Again?” The barman hovered with the Bushmills cranked at a steep angle and ready to pour.

  “Beer,” Owen replied. “Pint of Harp.” He could see that Al was relieved. Drinking was Al’s issue, not Owen’s.

  “So what’s up with you, Al?” Owen asked.

  The coffee steamed Al’s glasses each time he sipped at it, leaving him constantly removing and wiping them off. Owen looked Al over, up and down, trying to imagine how the Big Man could have been close friends with the pudgy little Jew. Then again, he and Tremaine were just as different and Tremaine was his best friend.

  “Why the drinking?” Al probed, having to raise his voice over the music to be heard.

  “One drink. Do I need a reason?” Reformed alcoholics, Owen was thinking. Like lasers.

  “You said you needed a drink.”

  “No, I said I wanted a drink,” Owen shouted back. The golden lager thumped onto the bar top, overflowing a thick, yeasty head down the side of the pint glass which Owen licked off before taking a deep swallow that drained half of it. The defia
nt gesture was one he might have performed in front of Eamonn at twenty-one, and instantly he felt ridiculous.

  Al continued sipping coffee, cleaning his eyeglasses, sipping again. Enough already. Let the kid finish his beer.

  Owen lifted his glass and spun away from the bar to take in the young men and women populating the pool tables. A combination of finance types out slumming after the trading week was ended—their jackets and ties off, sleeves rolled up their forearms—along with a hipper crowd of tattoos and piercings. Hot girls wearing black skirts with boots and torn stockings. Several of the livelier girls looked Asian. When Owen turned back, he saw that Al was checking them out, too.

  Al was quick to take out his wallet as soon as Owen had that pint finished. Paying for alcohol didn’t sit well with him, but settling up might put a stop to the drinking, he imagined.

  Owen saw the gesture and understood Al’s intentions to herd him away, but he had no desire for more anyway. Callie and the boys would want him home. Only, he could pay for his own drinks and Al had only coffee. He wasn’t about to let Al pick up a seventeen-dollar tab. He pushed Al’s wallet back and fished a crumpled wad of small bills out from his right pocket.

  His pace had slowed after they went back into the evening air and Al was able to keep up comfortably. More people were out now, heading for The Patriot and other spots. Al pointed to The Blue Spoon sign in hopes that Owen would let him buy a cup of coffee in a place where they could actually talk. Owen thought again about Callie and then agreed, remembering that he would have the next four days to spend with them.

  In a booth inside the coffee shop, both of them sat down to coffee and Al surprised himself by ordering a slice of the cheesecake. His cell phone rang and Owen smiled, knowing what was coming.