The Nervous System by Nathan Larson Read Free Book Online
Authors: Nathan Larson
true name. Nothing I wouldnât do to wriggle free of that one.
Gimping down the hall, swing into the Reading Room; the place has been tossed, no question there.
Prior to further assessment I make straight for my suit jacket, hanging as I left it, thanks be to Buddha, and shakyhand snatch the pill bottle out of the pocket. Dry-swallow one. Think again, dry-swallow another.
Scrubbing up with Purell TM , I eye-sweep the room, yup, stuff scattered every which way, my agonizingly thoughtout stacks of this and that toppled. I guesstimate a week of cleanup, without distractions, and it doesnât seem like Iâm gonna see a week like that for a spell.
Gonna have to clean. Everything.
A look at the dumbwaiter tells me they tried to jimmy it, unsuccessfully. When the door is closed, itâs closed. Plus, recall, I jammed it.
Occurs to me: thereâs got to be a good reason why the devout senator didnât just have me killed straight out the gate. Then his boys could take their sugar-sweet time ripping up this spot, and not have to concern themselves further with tumbleweeds like me. Iâd just blow away, no muss and no fuss.
Yup, thereâs a reason Iâm still alive and on the scene. And I suspect itâs cause these clowns are chasing their tails and donât know whatâs popping, or how a player like myself might factor in the mix. I suspect they reckon I might, in my actions, feed them more tasty intel, that pesky missing puzzle piece.
Which means that despite the senatorâs tough talk, these boys might be nearly as deep in the darkness as I am about whoâs fucking who. Hoping I can throw âem a bone.
So the man of God reckons the DA was running an extortion game on him regarding a small matter of a hooker and an infant, cut to pieces and stuffed into a tub of pickled cabbage. And now the good senator is concerned that Iâm picking up where the DA fell off. That I intend to run the very same racket.
Well, at least Iâm getting an idea of where Iâm at.
Starting to feel more like myself. Trying to Zen it with respect to the mess.
To be sure, I do not doubt that Iâm on camera. And I donât want to linger here.
Get my suit back on. Paul Smith, a rusty-brown wool number (I say this like itâs not my only suitâitâs my only suit, okay?), a joint thatâs either too hot or too cold this time of year, depending, but what can you do? The high price of fashion.
Naturally, my fucking guns have been confiscated. Goddamnit.
But just a moment.
Dig in my cubbyhole, more good luck. They missed this one. Well pleased with the camouflage door, a new addition I made during a manic more-paranoid-than-my-baseline-paranoid episode.
I slide the Serbian CZ-99 into my hat and press it against my chest. Also a folded towel, within which are two 9mm magazines that will fit the 99. Note the dumbwaiter faceplate and controls in there, undisturbed.
Assuming cameras throughout the main room.
Grab a handful of gloves, an extra surgical mask. Spare bottle of pills and two four-ounce Purell TM dispensers. My new laminate, and a couple small leather-bound badges. A penlight, and the night-vision goggles. Handful of jerky sticks. Wanna bring duct tape but Iâm fresh out of pockets.
Head to the bathroom. Enter a stall, unfurl the towel, load the pistol, shove it down my waistband in back, drop the extra magazine in my pocket.
Take a moment. Roll my sleeve back, have a look at my forearm. Pretty well healed, of course thereâs plenty of scar tissue, but ⦠what are the chances the implant didnât actually get removed? That bits remain? Do these things fragment and remain functional? Cause if thatâs the case and theyâre on my frequencies, this whole charade is moot. Iâm a floating blip on a screen somewhere.
I simply gotta believe this ainât the case, otherwise â¦
Come out of the menâs room dabbing at my face with the
Gimping down the hall, swing into the Reading Room; the place has been tossed, no question there.
Prior to further assessment I make straight for my suit jacket, hanging as I left it, thanks be to Buddha, and shakyhand snatch the pill bottle out of the pocket. Dry-swallow one. Think again, dry-swallow another.
Scrubbing up with Purell TM , I eye-sweep the room, yup, stuff scattered every which way, my agonizingly thoughtout stacks of this and that toppled. I guesstimate a week of cleanup, without distractions, and it doesnât seem like Iâm gonna see a week like that for a spell.
Gonna have to clean. Everything.
A look at the dumbwaiter tells me they tried to jimmy it, unsuccessfully. When the door is closed, itâs closed. Plus, recall, I jammed it.
Occurs to me: thereâs got to be a good reason why the devout senator didnât just have me killed straight out the gate. Then his boys could take their sugar-sweet time ripping up this spot, and not have to concern themselves further with tumbleweeds like me. Iâd just blow away, no muss and no fuss.
Yup, thereâs a reason Iâm still alive and on the scene. And I suspect itâs cause these clowns are chasing their tails and donât know whatâs popping, or how a player like myself might factor in the mix. I suspect they reckon I might, in my actions, feed them more tasty intel, that pesky missing puzzle piece.
Which means that despite the senatorâs tough talk, these boys might be nearly as deep in the darkness as I am about whoâs fucking who. Hoping I can throw âem a bone.
So the man of God reckons the DA was running an extortion game on him regarding a small matter of a hooker and an infant, cut to pieces and stuffed into a tub of pickled cabbage. And now the good senator is concerned that Iâm picking up where the DA fell off. That I intend to run the very same racket.
Well, at least Iâm getting an idea of where Iâm at.
Starting to feel more like myself. Trying to Zen it with respect to the mess.
To be sure, I do not doubt that Iâm on camera. And I donât want to linger here.
Get my suit back on. Paul Smith, a rusty-brown wool number (I say this like itâs not my only suitâitâs my only suit, okay?), a joint thatâs either too hot or too cold this time of year, depending, but what can you do? The high price of fashion.
Naturally, my fucking guns have been confiscated. Goddamnit.
But just a moment.
Dig in my cubbyhole, more good luck. They missed this one. Well pleased with the camouflage door, a new addition I made during a manic more-paranoid-than-my-baseline-paranoid episode.
I slide the Serbian CZ-99 into my hat and press it against my chest. Also a folded towel, within which are two 9mm magazines that will fit the 99. Note the dumbwaiter faceplate and controls in there, undisturbed.
Assuming cameras throughout the main room.
Grab a handful of gloves, an extra surgical mask. Spare bottle of pills and two four-ounce Purell TM dispensers. My new laminate, and a couple small leather-bound badges. A penlight, and the night-vision goggles. Handful of jerky sticks. Wanna bring duct tape but Iâm fresh out of pockets.
Head to the bathroom. Enter a stall, unfurl the towel, load the pistol, shove it down my waistband in back, drop the extra magazine in my pocket.
Take a moment. Roll my sleeve back, have a look at my forearm. Pretty well healed, of course thereâs plenty of scar tissue, but ⦠what are the chances the implant didnât actually get removed? That bits remain? Do these things fragment and remain functional? Cause if thatâs the case and theyâre on my frequencies, this whole charade is moot. Iâm a floating blip on a screen somewhere.
I simply gotta believe this ainât the case, otherwise â¦
Come out of the menâs room dabbing at my face with the
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