Hatched

by Robert F. Barsky

  Since the collapse of Fabergé Restaurant, the hatched plan had been tuned up, greased, oiled, and put into high gear. All of the products required for the production of the last non-plastic greenbacks to be produced in the US—the paper, presses, packing equipment—had been stored in the warehouse, now a factory, for several years, and it had proven remarkably easy to procure the few more printing presses that they deemed necessary for the volume of currency they’d hoped to produce.

  Most surprisingly was that Ted’s plan, that he’d spoken of for years, had worked perfectly. His idea was to recruit workers at the very last moment, to ensure that there wouldn’t be too much discussion or untoward questions. He had rounded up an entire workforce with the help of “snakes,” the Chinese version of Mexican coyotes, intermediaries who helped smuggle undocumented workers into the US. And thanks to Ted’s seemingly endless contacts from inside of China, he was able to round up a large quorum of highly qualified printers. The flow of Chinese immigrants into New York was primarily funneled into the needle trade, because it was apparent that for the manufacturer of high-end clothing—and in particular expensive pieces like bras and panties that were labor rather than resource-intensive—it was worth paying immigrant workers in the United States, rather than indigenous workers overseas. The model for this kind of production was fashioned by a Canadian guy for a firm that came to be known, rather ironically, as American Apparel.

  US production saved manufacturers the cost of shipping and import duties that cut unnecessarily into the otherwise gargantuan profits made on luxury items. The Chinese workers were ideal for this, because they were hard working, adept, and mostly ignored in NYC, which meant that they had very little contact with Americans. At the same time, Chinese immigrants are seldom noticed or bothered by Homeland Security, an agency that was veritably consumed by the undocumented Latin-American imbroglio and the hype surrounding potential Muslim terrorists.

  Ted, who loved any and all reasons to hone employ his uncanny Chinese language acuity, knew a few members of the Chinese community, and knew from them that a large percentage of those in NY weren’t in fact trained for either knitting or sewing (although they became adept at both). Their real and untapped abilities were in areas relating to printing, and many were highly trained typesetters, pre-press technicians, type makers, bindery workers, and printing-machine operators. This was the consequence of the Chinese government’s huge efforts to create the hordes of tool and dye makers, skilled craftsmen and highly specialized tradespeople required to work in a country that actually made things. The tradespeople who were most likely to come to the US were people who wanted a different life, and many avid readers and writers, including hordes of people who had been directly involved in journalism and printing. These were the emigrants who had first-hand knowledge of what America could offer, not to them, of course, but to their children. The first generation would slave and suffer low wages and humiliation, but their children would learn the language and eventually frequent the very elite American educational institutions. Most first-generation Chinese had little interaction with the US population, because they didn’t speak English, which meant that the second generation would be integrated because they combined communication abilities with a superb work ethic and a culture that fosters excellent training.

  And so when Ted went in search of one hundred highly trained printers, typesetters, printing-press operators, and technicians, he found more than one thousand qualified workers who were ready to go to work. They were part of a gigantic, American workforce that was living in the shadows of New York, going to work at 4:00 a.m. They worked in crowded, high-end schmata factories and returned home after dark, and so nobody was more the wise when they traded domains from clothing to currency. Ted of course had to pay their “ransoms,” the outlandish sums that they needed to pay off their snakes, amounts that would have kept them enslaved to particular factories for a decade or more. Furthermore, since integration into American society was virtually non-existent, and since they had zero contact with authorities, by choice and for their own survival, Ted figured that he could hire them without fear of them wondering why it was that “currency wallpaper,” as he described it, had all of a sudden become so fashionable. The fact that this wallpaper had two sides, was impeccably printed, and bore obvious resemblance to the original after which it was modeled was, as Ted explained (when necessary), a sign of the professionalism of his company.

  “Currency Wall Coverings,” he would translate for his workers, “offers remarkable value, floor to ceiling!” It was hard to believe that all of them bought this story, but the payment of their ransoms, and the newly doubled salary, subdued the potentially querulous.

  Since production was humming along at the requisite pace, the only real questions related distribution, and here the plan was remarkably easy. Two well-known, successful billionaire investors, Ted and Tom, had decided to “give back” to their respective communities, and contribute to their domains of respective interest. Tom had promised delivery of “cash” to “a few hundred” community organizations, many faith-based, that worked closely with poor black people, particularly those confined to the projects. And Ted had promised “cash” to secure the environment for future generations by funding grass-roots organizations involved in buying local land for return to wilderness, planting trees, protecting state parks, and cleaning up the waterways of an ever-more polluted nation. The “Wall Street Stimulus Plan,” or WSSP, was an ironic nod to those that said, rightly, that stimulus always flows from the taxpayer, or the little guy, to the Wall Street investor. Ted and Tom had printed a shiny pamphlet that announced, in bold letters, that “the flow is now going the other way.”

  The genius of this plan was that since it was to be undertaken in “cash,” the actual outflow would be difficult to trace. And furthermore, if the promise of a “million-dollar grant” actually turned out to be a box containing ten million dollars, and if it was left on the doorstep of a community center rather than presented in a formal presentation with a fake eight-foot-long check to accompany the prize, then the recipient wasn’t very likely to report any wrongdoing. On the contrary, there’d be much to celebrate, and whether community leaders wanted to announce the actual amount of the gift or not didn’t really matter and, at the end of the day, if it was discovered that a million-dollar gift had grown to ten million dollars, it could be accounted for by the impulsive generosity of the donors. And furthermore, if the box was stolen by people from, say, the projects, and then spent in the area, the aim of the whole enterprise would nonetheless be met.

  In light of the potential for connecting untoward dots, however, the whole project had to be started, and then stopped, very quickly; and if it didn’t, some of the cracks in the reasoning would become craters. But the time for the WSSP was short, by design, and besides, the federal election was less than one month away, and, crucially, the options on the majority of the Rare Earth Commodities were due in just three weeks. One way or another, they reasoned, this WSSP would garner attention to their causes, and money, real money (or at least real enough for the cause), would be poured right into the community, providing the boon that the president needed to secure his second term. Whether or not he was elected barely mattered, since both parties had similar fiscal policies, but it was easy to show to the incumbent that his interest lay in meeting the demands of those stimulating the pre-election economy.

  All of these details had been discussed at great length, and with great excitement, by the three men, and their conclusion was that a reasonably popular, moderate president wouldn’t insist too heavily on seeking out details of the sudden benevolence of three friends from college who were giving back to society. The vocal praise of administration’s policies, and the timing of their donations, were also all designed to keep the media glare on the kindness and generosity of their actions, rather than on a few details that just didn’t seem to add up. This would come out later, much later, and by then it hopefully wouldn’t
matter enough to affect the posterity of their actions.

  The massive brunt of the cash, though, was heading elsewhere, to a community that all of them felt sure they could trust: Native-American tribes. If slavery, segregation, and Jim Crow still motivated acts of resentment and distrust in the African-American community, it was because the violence of history remains. The blood and tears of ignominious actions, particularly those committed over long periods and with relative impunity for the perpetrators, retain their horror for generation after generation. But while the African-American cause was fought visibly and daily, on fronts as wide and deep as local resistance, hip-hop lyrics and scholarly writings, the plight of indigenous peoples remains further down in the soil of America’s shameful past. With but a few turns of the shovel, however, the earth remains fertile for recollection and resistance for a genocide still unacknowledged in a land of the immigrated “American.” Tom, Steve, and Ted were fulfilling the terms of a college dream, a utopian act, an informed grudge match. But each of them were also battling demons, and causes, and Steve wanted for his last mark to be an indelible one, changing the course of history for the indigenous peoples of America.

  And so when Harrison Shipping sent a rather remarkable number of gleaming Kenworth eighteen-wheel rigs to pick up the crates at “Currency Wall Coverings,” the destinations on their paperwork were largely on Native-American reservations all over the US. The cabs and trailers bore no special markings, and their presence was unremarkable, both in Manhattan and in the highways and byways leading to America’s shamefully segregated communities of Navajo, Cherokee, Sioux, Chippewa, Choctaw, Apache, Pueblo, Iroquois, Creek, Blackfeet, and the dozens of other tribes. Huge trucks made regular deliveries to most reservations, and they bore food, clothing, and, more often, crates of cigarettes, liquor, and gambling equipment that has become the real legacy of the white man’s continued truck with its founding peoples.

  These Harrison Shipping trucks also contained crates, and their contents were also related to high-speed gambling. Steve had convinced Tom and Ted that news of philanthropic efforts being undertaken to right some historical wrongs would be understood, and connected, as deliveries of crates were made to local chiefs. And as the reality of these efforts became manifest, Steve gambled that the secret of the deliveries would be safe, and that the necessary “laundering” on reservations designed for the very act of receiving money for the crimes of tobacco, liquor, and gambling would be undertaken with calm, ease, and, moreover, the quiet understanding of those who always knew through dialogue with nature what the real ill of America was.

  In short, the pieces of the plan were in place, from those little, golden wheels that ensure that the forged money would remain undetectable, to the distribution system designed to ensure that it would truly “rain” on America in advance of the November election. All they had to do now was wait until November 1, when the rare earth commodity options would be called in. On that day, a phone call would be made to the US Department of the Treasury. The call would be transferred to a man they’d not yet met, a dangerous man, a cunning man, a very fat man, a man named Stephen Fraser. But the pathway to November wasn’t going to be so smooth, and they all knew it, because Tom wouldn’t have it that way, couldn’t have it that way. In his mind, he held an IOU to a community that had once helped him, and an anonymous gift did not for him suffice. The coincidence of Jude’s phone call convinced Ted, a man who not only noticed but also followed signs, that Jude needed to help them all out. On the other hand, Ted’s actions in light of the phone call may have been the sign of their demise, the shattering of their dreams, the destruction of their America. A classic diner, the surprising standin for Fabergé Restaurant, would have to be the place where such determinations could be worked out.

  Chapter 6

  Jude looked like the disaster he had just endured. His hair was surprised, his hands uncertain, his clothing ravaged, his complexion wane, his gaze distracted.

  Ted, on the other hand, who had arrived in one of those ubiquitous black Lincolns that seem to be staging a quiet and unheralded coup against yellow taxi cabs in NYC, looked buoyant.

  It was late afternoon, and mercifully there was no loud music playing in the Stardust Diner because of a PGA golf tournament, a football game, a baseball game, and a poker match, all diffused from various angles, as though they were either multiple versions of America or just rides on that Walt Disney theme park of life. Jude was in a booth sipping a muddy coffee when Ted strolled in and confidently sat down, leaned forward, and in a very friendly fashion, reached out and patted Jude’s shoulder.

  “How are you doing, Jude? I haven’t seen you since the last supper!”

  Jude was genuinely glad to see this new friend, and particularly grateful that despite the Long Island plea, he was in good humor. He thought that he’d have to wait for him outside, trapped inside of a taxi driven by a driver who was anxious to continue his foray into the heart of the Big Apple traffic nightmare. Luckily, the credit card swipe of fear didn’t produce the reject sign that he’d expected, and he was liberated from the taxi prison.

  Jude tended to avoid places like taxis and strip clubs, where meters tick away the contents of your bank account. As a person who had driven his own vehicle with some degree of conservatism, he feared psychopath drivers accustomed to challenging other members of their taxi-driving tribe by testing their ability to gently touch each other’s doors and fenders as they wind their way through gridlock Manhattan traffic.

  “Thanks, Ted,” mumbled Jude.

  “For what? You are the one who dragged my endangered carcass from that egg, the birthplace of Fabergé Restaurant’s bird! I wonder where it flew off to?”

  “We’re it.”

  Ted stared at Jude with intensity and admiration. “Wow, Jude. Yes. I love that. The egg cracked, and we emerged.”

  Jude realized the brilliance of his own spontaneous utterance, and figured he would run with it as long as possible. “And we were the last ones out. Do you suppose . . .?”

  Ted didn’t respond, and Jude’s brilliant segue fell into the dungeons of hell, to burn into ashes that would drift away, unnoticed.

  “Wait,” said Ted, reaching into his pocket. “I told you I’d pay that cab.” He didn’t bother to ask him the price, but instead just took a couple of hundreds from his wallet and placed them before Jude. Jude was too awestruck to resist, and uttering some version of “I am grateful to you until the end of time,” he moved the bills to his side of the table and then gazed with gratitude at his benefactor.

  People who grow up without resources and then somehow gain access to them can in certain cases remain forever sensitive to those who are broke. Others, who take wealth for granted, or believe in their having “earned it,” don’t think to reimburse, because they themselves were never conditioned to worry about such things. In fact, sensitivity to the plight of the poor is strongest amongst those who continue to have little or nothing, which is why peddlers, homeless people, and otherwise destitute folks look to one another for solace and support. It means as well that poor people tend to be robbed by other poor people, as though it never occurred to the robbers that they could have the right to the resources of people who could actually afford to take a hit. Most rich people are robbed by people they know, like friends of their children or, much less often, by professionalized burglars, those who have honed their skills and will rely upon them until they receive free state housing for some insanely prolonged sentence.

  Jude suddenly felt himself resisting Ted’s generosity, and was prepared to say that he had been able to cover the $64.30 ride here, but the urge passed quickly, and instead just left the two brand new bills where they were. He suddenly became concerned, though, that the waiter might confuse them for a tip from previous clients, or for a generous payment for his coffee, a thought that could only run through the mind of someone who had hovered, as he had, in places that he couldn’t afford, like taxis. Or Fabergé Restaurant. With sudden
resolute purpose, he swept up the money and jammed it into the front pocket of his jeans.

  “You have a hell of a story to tell?” asked Ted, his eyes gleaming.

  Jude was confused by the question, and almost sent his hands back into his pants when he recalled the events of the previous few hours, and realized that this was most likely the link to Ted’s question.

  “How exciting was it? Perhaps you can use it for a scene in your novel?” suggested Ted.

  “I should write it all down, but nobody would read it. Too sensational!” He grinned, and was pleased to see Ted do the same.

  “Tina you said? The same Tina?”

  Jude didn’t really know how to begin, since he’d have to unveil a rather large quantity of his own shower-time fantasies. “The same. She picked me up. Or, well, John, that guy, you know, anyhow, he picked me up.”

  “And they are married those two?”

  “Maybe,” offered Jude. “But I’m not so sure that it’s the marriage you and I envision.” Jude dared put his own self into a sentence alongside of Ted. Ted smiled, knowingly.

  “Not sure about that, Jude,” was all he said, enigmatically.

  “She wanted to, um, she was all over me!” He immediately regretted his choice of words, feeling like a high school kid sitting with his buddies in the empty stands of the disheveled football field in some lower-middle-class suburb, bragging.

  Ted just indicated interest, but said nothing.

  “She was undressing me, right beside John, and he was watching. And that new guy, remember? The one who told us that it was his first night at Fabergé Restaurant . . .”

  “And his last!” exclaimed Ted.

  “Yah! He was in the backseat making out with some guy I think I’ve seen before, with John.”