The Nervous System Read Online Free Page B

shit together, especially these days. More fallout from the Branco/Iveta cock-up, the Balkan imposed upon me of late? The only loose end would be one Brian Petrovic, and somehow when that man gave me his word, despite his shadiness, I fully bought it as good. Plus, old Brian was on a military flight to Paris last time I checked, and I did confirm that.
    Didn’t I? Not remembering key shit. Slipping up.
    The girl. Iveta, the very thought of her, it hurts my chest, so I kill that line, kill it good and hard and throw a padlock on it.
    The woman in the middle. Pushing the buttons. Yeah, I get it, people. Lady played everybody. Doesn’t change a damn thing. The human heart is a strange, lawless planet.
    No. This is some spanking-new static.
    We almost catch air as the road dips, my stomach drops … A block later we’re climbing a hill, yeah, we’re at 96th Street or thereabouts.
    Screech left around about 116th, westbound, and I’m starting to lose my bearings. Something like five or six blocks and it’s ANOTHER hard right, a further affront to my System; I know we’re in the wasteland that is Harlem, but gotta face it, this brother is lost.
    Trying to feel around, hands and feet, for some kind of blunt object, something I can use as a weapon, no luck.
    Abrupt halt, again I roll as physics dictates and smack into a carpeted wall.
    Doors slam, several guys I figure, back doors thrown open. “Let’s go, let’s go,” again they get me in a football hold and the men are moving briskly over pavement.
    Bang through a door into a building, I have a sense of spaciousness but am losing faith in my powers of perception. We come to an abrupt stop.
    â€œSixteen.” I hear a series of dings, the sound of doors sliding open.
    An elevator. Jah protect and guide me.
    This space does not vibe public housing, so that aside there’s only one remaining structure this tall above 116th Street in Harlem: that monstrosity, the Adam Clayton Powell Jr. state office building.
    Here’s where I start struggling. The old familiar fear gives me a big bear hug.
    â€œLook, listen,” I say, “I can’t do elevators. Seriously. There’s gotta be stairs. Please, you all, I’m not—”
    Something hits me hard in the chest, my last thought before I black out is that I’ve been fucking tasered.
    The indignity of it all.

_______________
    I did not authorize, nor do I suggest, nor do I endorse …”
    Basso profoundo.
    â€œWith respect, sir, he was armed and resisting—”
    â€œSon, you let me finish. Nor do my office or I endorse the use of unnecessary force, coercion, and inhumane treatment of any individual when my wish is only to have a conversation with them, in person. Are we clear?”
    â€œSir-yes-sir.”
    Awake, breathing hot against the fabric, thinking about those files …
    â€œGet this mother-lovin hood off of him.”
    The hood is pulled away and I’m blinking at a tall black man in a blue suit, maybe mid-sixties but built like a linebacker, and of course I recognize him straight off.
    Say, “Senator Howard.”
    Senator Clarence Howard regards me, mustache twitching. After about five seconds, he speaks.
    â€œLeave us be.” This to the man who dragged me in.
    Soldier hesitates, makes a sound in his throat. Clearly, however, his thoughts on this are not welcome. Exits, closing the door behind him noiselessly.
    Blink, blink. It’s almost sunrise, and the skyline is pretty much dark. An opaque layer of poison blankets most of the island, but I can identify the lights of the Chrysler Building, and the stillborn 15 Penn Plaza.
    Somebody still manning the lights on the Chrysler. Something beautiful about that. Miniature helicopters buzz around the building like bugs around a flame. The helicopters are a constant.
    It’s an absolutely generic office in here, beige everything, mid-’90s décor, seemingly