Free Antenna Syndrome by Alan Annand Page B

he
returned a few years before the Brooklyn Blast, hooked up with some
big players in town, and started making serious bucks. Now and
again we’d get together for a drink, which is how we’d ended up in
the same bar booth that night.
    Anyway, I’d defended him and he’d returned the
favor. I’d spent a few days in hospital on his account, and when
the cops tried to nail me instead of him for possession, Lutz had
got me off. Ever since, I could always count on him for legal
assistance at a rate that was almost pro bono.
    I told him about my case. Soon as I mentioned Harris
Jordan’s name, he got interested. He’d have been a lousy poker
player, I thought, watching him morph into a weasel – squinty-eyed,
nostrils flaring, twitching to pounce.
    Our waitress returned with our food. We tucked in,
and I made short work of it. A mild beating certainly hadn’t dulled
my appetite. I kept talking between mouthfuls until I’d brought
Lutz right up to date, including my unconditional discharge this
morning.
    “A word of advice...” Lutz pushed his plate away and
dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Get your goggles checked out before
you do any more work on this case. You might have withheld Jordan’s
name but while they had you in custody the cops could have used
your goggles to map your movements yesterday. If they went to the
trouble – but I’m thinking, why would they? – they might connect
that East Massapequa address to Jordan. Then cry havoc and let slip
the dogs of war...”
    “I’ve got a guy who can check them out.”
    “Get yourself checked out too.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You slept in lockup, didn’t you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “They could have drugged you, inserted an
implant.”
    “Shit.” I got a little queasy, thinking maybe I had
an RFID in me. “Is that even legal?”
    “Depends on whether they got a warrant for it.”
    “Fuck.”
    “Did you not think for a minute when you took this
case that you were entering a neighborhood that could be hazardous
for your health?”
    “You know that line from Bob Dylan? Money doesn’t
talk, it swears .”
    “Who’s Bob Dylan?” He said it with a straight face,
but he knew who I was talking about.
    “Seriously, you think they’d tag me, just by
association?”
    “Stranger things have happened.” Lutz signaled the
waitress for more coffee. “You watch the news. I don’t need to
remind you what the rank and file thinks of Harris Jordan.”
    “But if the NYPD are as corrupt as he says they are,
even if he gets elected, they’ll never work with him.”
    “I don’t know. The Commissioner’s one of the good
guys, and at least he supports what Jordan’s been saying, that if
cops were just paid better, they wouldn’t stoop to corruption.”
    “Hope springs eternal.”
    We finished our coffee and he drove me back to where
I’d left my car yesterday. As we stopped for a traffic light I saw
a young woman –perhaps once pretty – the left side of her face a
patch of burned skin, a puckered hollow where an eye should have
been. Her left hand displayed the same ravaged skin, like she’d
fallen asleep under a sunlamp. Another reminder of the Brooklyn
Blast – the environmental fallout, the plague of dermatological
infections.
    Lutz let me off at the corner of 12th and Ninth.
“Try to stay out of trouble, okay?”
    “Sure. Tell a farmer to stay away from manure.” I
got out of the car. “Trouble is my business.”
    Lutz blew me a kiss. “If I’m not busy that day, I’ll
come to your funeral.”

Chapter 15
     
    At the bodega I found my Charger where I’d left it.
I had a parking ticket and the hubcaps were gone but everything
else was intact. Who said there were no miracles?
    I headed back to Metamorphosis to push Dave
Jenner for more information. Maybe he knew more about Myers than
he’d told me. Aside from stiffing his landlord, had Myers left any
enemies in the wake of his departure? Had anyone else asked about
his whereabouts?
    I