Soul On Ice (Book 4 of "Working Class Villain")

Working Class Villain

© Copyright 2018, Pierce Nahigyan, All Rights Reserved

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

* * *

Volume 4: Soul on Ice

I didn't want to fight him. He might hit me on the head with my desk.

- The Long Goodbye, Raymond Chandler, 1953

Life is full of little wars and you fight them all at the same time.

- Soul on Ice, Eldridge Cleaver, 1968

You will admit that if it was not life it was magnificent.

- This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1920

* * *

#1: In Which Everyone’s on High Alert

The cotton shirt had been laundered so many times that it crumbled between his thumb and forefinger after less than an hour of kneading it. He’d worn several holes in the hem already.

His phosphorous burns stung with the sweat that loaded down the shirt and his ribs ached and his left arm throbbed and he wiped his saturated eyebrows. A new wave of nausea rolled up his heavy bowels. The tide never left, not after the first five hours. Its insistence clamored forth from the rancid brine inside him at its leisure, sometimes sharp, sometimes just a dull notion to bend over and vomit or sit down and defecate. When the room stopped spinning he stood up and went to the bars. He laid his scalp against the metal hoping it would be cold or rough. It was room temperature. He was several degrees above that wondering why the light didn’t start to drip from his condensation.

The order of his visitors was blurry.

He remembered Moore standing outside the bars with his big hands on his waist. Freddy’s cell was in a separate section of the station, kept apart from the drunks and the freshly incarcerated. His block of four cells was empty except for him and the wet cloud that hung over his head. He dragged his stubble against the bricks and smiled a hideous smile at the captain. Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?

Came by to visit, said Moore.

Can you get me a phone call?

No, said Moore. A razor of smile flicked open his beard. They think you’re going to stage an escape. Everyone’s on high alert.

Freddy found that the room spun faster when he closed his eyes. How do you know I’m not?

Moore rubbed his hands together. Did Darrow know, the whole time?

It was his idea. He leaned over the bunk to puke in the toilet. He debated staying in that position but Moore seemed to enjoy it too much. He wiped his mouth with a crumbling sleeve. What do you want, Dexter?

I like to see the right guys behind bars, is all. And I wanted to tell you from Patrice, the wife of the bus driver you killed, ‘Fuck you.’

Hey, fuck you, I’ve never killed anybody. But please tell Patrice I’m sorry. Tell her killing her husband wasn’t worth it. Longest four months of my life.

Moore watched the sweat form on Freddy’s face. What do you know about The Man?

Freddy wiped. Red Rhino slices and dices Inglewood office girls and the zaibatsu grease the South Bureau pigs. But oh no a flying man is making everybody’s day just unbearable! He combed out his greasy beard. You know what I just realized, Dex? You and me are a lot alike. Oink oink oink oink...

Moore left him with his sweatpants around his ankles and the liquid pitter patter in the toilet bowl almost a match for the beat of the policeman’s strident footsteps.

Another day he was holding a staring contest with the security camera. He won whenever the red light blinked out. Hours passed, on the wet mattress, and then, Freddy realized, the camera gave up. The LED went gray and stayed gray. He heard the door to the cell cluster open. Soft and tailored shoes squeaked along the concrete.

He saw Stephen first, in a cheap suit and tie. He took a big pair of sunglasses off his burned nose and thrust them in his breast pocket. A thinner man, also blonde, emerged from the hall behind him. He cracked a green tab of gum in his yellow teeth.

Mr. Funke, he said, I’d like a few minutes of your time.

Freddy watched Stephen cross his hands over his belt buckle. He glanced once more at the dead camera.

You already know Agent Stevens. My name is Hugh. Agent Hugh slid his hands into his pockets and approached the bars casually. You are currently facing twenty-five to life. With the additional escape charges and public mayhem they’ll add at least a decade. Your domestic terrorism could be enough to send you to Gitmo. They have a cell there prepared for Hurricane, but you’ll fit.

Cool, said Freddy. As long as they let me keep my Mu’tafikah autographed copy of the Koran.

Hugh exchanged a satisfied smile with Agent Stevens. Stevens nodded, silent.

Anyhow, said Hugh, you’re looking at a term longer than your natural life. He took a respectful pause. We know that prison has not been a pleasant experience for you in the past. We also know, he went on, that you’ve had contact with a certain individual. A strong case could be made that he coerced you into your current state. Do you know the individual I’m referring to?

I could name him, said Freddy.

We’d rather you didn’t.

Yeah, I know that guy.

Without compromising ourselves too much I can admit that the federal government has been watching the situation in this city escalate. It’s very likely a direct result of this individual’s involvement. Obtaining and neutralizing him has been our agency’s prime directive for several years. We believe you may be willing to assist us in that goal.

Freddy rubbed his thumb and forefinger through a new hole in his shirt. Why don’t you ask the guy who put me here?

Agent Hugh cracked his gum. You should think about using your friends in law enforcement, Mr. Funke. You can be on the right side of this one.

Ah, said Freddy. You want your science project swept under the rug. He scratched a burn on the back of his head. I’m locked up.

There is a great deal we can provide you, with your cooperation. You would be doing us a favor.

That’s a dangerous favor, said Freddy. He excused himself to throw up.

You would have protection. Top tier sources are invaluable in vigilante cities.

Rats. Freddy spat into the toilet.

Sources, corrected Hugh. And in return we can give you free year-round access to our lovely national parks.

And what if, said Freddy, I just want to burn my books and break my staff, get out of the biz and coach some little league in the suburbs?

We can negotiate.

The camera was dead. The cot beneath him was stale. He touched the inside of his damp elbow, the ragged edge of his dirty cast. I need a doctor.

A surgeon, actually. Agent Stevens knows a very good one. If you’d allow us to take care of the insurance, once you’re out he can set up an appointment for you.

Freddy turned his face up to the cracked ceiling, the fluorescence, and the walls and their concrete color. He nodded. Then let your indulgence set me free.

* * *

He dozed after finishing the night food, his body unable to digest it and keep him awake at the same time. He woke abruptly, the discarded tray still balanced on the toilet rim. He left it there to prevent insects from swarming it, but a leaproach defied him from a hill of beans.

A violet eyed woman observed him between his bars. She was politely tan, her voluptuous figure wrapped in a brown leather jacket cinched at the waist and with big lapels that opened onto a generous bosom. Her black jeans looked as if they’d been sprayed on by the short, stocky man beside her. He looked like a used car salesman who’d been forced to grow out his mustache on a losing bet. He had a clipboard.

Freddy focused on the woman. She tilted her designer cheekbones and watched him fumble out of the puddle on his pillow. Her smile couldn’t wrinkle and so it only went so far but her peach lipstick looked tasty. Freddy?

The leaproach leaped. Its belly made a plastic smack on the concrete.

I hope we’re not bothering you, she said. I hope you’ll forgive the hour.

Yeah.

My name is Samantha. This is Anton Juillet, a documentarian. We’re from NoHo. She slid her arm into the cell, hand outstretched for him. Please call me Sammy.

She blew into his space a lilac scent, domineering. Gently, he shook the hand.

She took her time retracting it. Both hands then wrapped around his bars and pulled her as near to him as the metal allowed. Freddy, I must talk to you.

Yeah?

You won Montoya the election. Did you know that?

Did that happen already?

Exit polling numbers are in but you know what’s playing nonstop? You lifting yourself up through the Pavilion’s screen. You look—oh, Freddy!

Her outburst made him twist in place to see if someone had snuck behind him. He turned back rapidly, the gold rings on Anton’s fingers snaking in his bad eye like psychedelic daffodils. I think, said Sammy, you’re more valuable to this city on the outside. She rattled his bars with an astonishing fury. Not in here. What do you think?

Yeah, said Freddy.

You’ve got a great look, said Anton.

He’s right, Freddy. I want to know everything about you. I want you out here, I want you to have the time of your life. I want to see that happen for you. Her chest heaved against the bars. And I think, she said, if you wanted to, you could do that.

Freddy pointed at the clipboard. Whassat for?

Sammy took the clipboard from Anton and slid it through the bars. There were fifteen pages, according to the numbers at their bottoms. He saw several blank dashes that called for initials. I, she said softly, want you. Wylie Studios needs you. Can you keep a secret?

Freddy twisted an invisible lock over his parched lips.

Sammy traded it for a succulent smile. We can help you, Freddy. We can get you out of here. And if you keep it confidential, we can do much more than that. You’ve already come so far on your own.

Freddy dragged the sweat out of his nostrils. So why do I need you?

He could see she liked that. It was what she wanted to hear. Because you’re good, Freddy. And we can make you great. Anton handed her a silver pen and she passed it to Freddy through the bars. Don’t you want to be famous? she asked.

He took the pen. Doesn’t everybody?

#2: In Which They Go Pondering

Hey, dad.

Are you in jail?

Prison, dad.

You killed Hurricane?

No, he slipped on a banana peel.

Where’s he at? I got this fucking cop in a beard coming by asking me where he’s buried. You tell them to stop coming around here. Reporter assholes coming to ask about Victoria. You seen her on MTV?

Yeah. They interviewed her for a reality series on the exes of iron psychos. She’d cut her hair short and dyed it brown. He hated it. He hadn’t listened, just watched from the far end of the room with his hands over his ears. She looked amazing, and distracting. Carmine sent some big brute after him, but the guards pulled them apart before he could do too much damage to Freddy’s good eye.

I have to come down to the jail?

No, said Freddy. You should stay there.

Don’t tell me where to go.

I’m just saying you should stay where you’re at.

He squeal? Did he cry? You tell him from me, him and his stupid lightning bolts. Swine.

Yeah.

Freddy, what’s wrong with you?

Just having a bad year, dad.

I gotta go. Someone else’s gotta use the phone. You call me when you know where you’re going. They shipping you to Innsmouth with the loony goons?

Probably out of state.

You call me when you know. Bye.

Carmine’s brute, a thing about six feet and three hundred pounds, was smothered in his cell the week after. His trio of roommates said they hadn’t noticed. All the suspicion fell on Freddy but the warden told Internal Affairs the murder had a yakuza look to it. In his barren bunk, head shaved like a monk, Romeo gave the investigators a zen koan to ponder, and they went away pondering.

A week later Internal Affairs went pondering after them. They found one of the guards in The Kingdom with money to burn and a coked out conscience. The other guard had gone missing. IA wrote off the mystery as one hand clapping in search of a better deal.

In Chinatown Virender’s little liquor store was mobbed by a flock of young women in bright Mr. Big Stuff t-shirts. They flashed signs directing motorists ten blocks down to a car wash in his honor, donations going to the Free Freddy Funke Fund. One of the 4Freedom Girls, a pink haired urban punk in mirror shades and an American flag bikini top proudly showed off the smiley logo on her belly. The fishhook piercing in her wet bellybutton gave the smile a shiny nose. She happily posed with her fellow demonstrators for Poliscity while Virender displayed a jar of smiley buttons next to the laser points, dropped off that morning by a boy on a modded Kawasaki.

Selma monitored search engine traffic for Mr. Big Stuff, including @MrBigStuff and @FreddyFunke hashtags, crime keywords, and instructed the Content Department to contract their ghostwriters for themed articles around those phrases. Two prominent marketing websites carried these patronymic pieces, entitled 8 Ways to Turn Your Biz into Big Stuff and 3 Branding Lessons from the Funke v. Man Showdown. A gadget blog ran 10 Yod Hacks Worthy of Mr. Big Stuff and a prime entrepreneurial magazine took How to Keep Your Social Media Engagement out of a Funke.

Freddy went viral in the data stream. He was talk radio cancer. Midway through June he wasn’t just known where he was known, he was infamous where he was unknown and famous for being famous. In prison, Freddy watched the television and waited.

#3: In Which Sally Makes Good Copy

The dog whined at the television. Sally reached for it under the table and slid her fingers into the soft patch of fur on its throat. The dog nosed its way into her palm, licked her clean of the ink.

While Arcudi’s team readied City Hall for the new mayor, she was based in the campaign headquarters on 555. The smudged Poliscity was under her elbows, diverting her from the piled driveby records, bomb squad calls, housing statistics—median income and ethnic concentrations—and thick wads of sidelined county projects she’d unearthed from mildewed boxes living in her shelter’s cage.

The roll of Hopper’s rubber was smooth in the quiet offices. Helena growled softly.

No, no, girl, she murmured.

You’re not going?

The television was tuned to the city’s candlelight vigil. Rows of men and women stood shoulder to shoulder on Broadway, their candles white dots, cellphones blue diamonds. Montoya was standing on a platform with the country music star, Arcudi behind him in his electric scooter. Helena sniffed at Hopper’s wheels.

I don’t even know what this memorial’s supposed to be for, she said. There’s been so much of this. You’re not going?

He thunked his chair. Hard to get through that crowd.

That’s how we lost those people in the first place.

You’re not in a good mood.

No, she said. She nudged Helena with her foot and the dog rose reluctantly, padded a few feet under the next table, and laid down again. Did you know, she said, "that in the past three years the EOD has reported