casual clothes I had ever seen. They looked like a retro a cappella singing group. The guy in the lead was wearing a small fedora, also black leather. One of those neo-hipster hats. Sitting atop the brim was an expensive pair of dark plastic sunglasses, the kind that idiots paid a thousand bucks for. Like the hat was wearing shades. Cute.
They were walking fast now, looking around. I slid behind the thickest tree. They approached and passed by. Young voices, stupid. Brooklyn accents and Italian names: Vinnie, Tony, Bobby, Jay-Jay. They were moving faster, clearly panicked they had lost me. The hat kid, Jay-Jay, was getting pissed and was blaming it on the others. I had to chuckle at the bozos in their little outfits. Junior Mafia action figures. A thousand pounds of juiced muscle between them but not one who felt eyes.
Who the hell were they? Or, rather, who had sent them and what did they want? Did they just want to find out where I was going and who I was meeting? Or did they have something nastier in mind? Ginny Mac had followed me before, trying to steal my story. She mugged me once in bed and, when that no longer worked, she sent her two big brothers to beat me up. Did she send these clowns? Or was this how billionaire Trevor Todd was going to take his revenge on me for revealing his newspaper as a criminal racketeering scam that used bugging, spying, theft and even murder to get a story? Whoever wanted a piece of me, I didn’t have time for this shit right now. I was running late. Besides, when you have a choice between a victory with violence and a victory with no casualties—it was a no-brainer. When you win, you walk away in one piece and leave your enemy a way out. I left the park and hailed a cab.
I had to use my NYPD Working Press Pass to get into the brand-new Knickerbocker Convention Center on the West Side; one huge block of luxury high-rise hotel, auditoriums, shops, spas, restaurants, waterfalls, bars, concert halls; a small, self-contained city. The GOP National Convention was about to start and the security was serious. In addition to NYPD cops, there were feds, Homeland Security and lots of plainclothes. The streets around the center were closed, with concrete vehicle barriers, security checkpoints and armored personnel vehicles, bomb trucks, canine units and communications trucks, all gearing up for the nationally televised kickoff tomorrow, on the Fourth of July. The Republicans were again holding their presidential extravaganza in the camp of their supposed enemy—liberal New York City. Of course, Manhattan was media ground zero, so I guess it made sense. It did seem funny that all these law enforcement folks were getting overtime to protect the right-wingers from the left-wing demonstrators, who were sure to show up to protest the Tea Party candidates.
I had not yet been inside the Knickerbocker Convention Center. It was impressive. They had full airport-style body scanners, and a K-9 cop with a sniffer dog was checking bags. After I went through and my backpack was searched, I was asked to turn on my laptop. I took the MacBook out of its case and fired it up. When they saw my computer was real and not a bomb, I was cleared for entry.
Amy, again clad in black Italian fashion, met me in the East Lobby, a ten-story atrium with an Amazon rainforest and waterfall. Like a kid from Kansas, I stared up at the waterfall and the giant fiberglass pterodactyls suspended fifty feet above my head. Clear vertical tubes against the back of the atrium housed large rounded elevators, also transparent, moving up and down. Amy looked askance at my New Balance cross trainers, jeans and blue polo shirt but she said nothing.
“Hi, Amy. Why flying dinosaurs?”
“Prehistoric Manhattan,” she replied. “The joke is that the valet parking is at this entrance, so the theme is Jurassic Parking.”
We both laughed.
“The other three are also time-travel atriums,” Amy said. “Old New York, Future New York,
They were walking fast now, looking around. I slid behind the thickest tree. They approached and passed by. Young voices, stupid. Brooklyn accents and Italian names: Vinnie, Tony, Bobby, Jay-Jay. They were moving faster, clearly panicked they had lost me. The hat kid, Jay-Jay, was getting pissed and was blaming it on the others. I had to chuckle at the bozos in their little outfits. Junior Mafia action figures. A thousand pounds of juiced muscle between them but not one who felt eyes.
Who the hell were they? Or, rather, who had sent them and what did they want? Did they just want to find out where I was going and who I was meeting? Or did they have something nastier in mind? Ginny Mac had followed me before, trying to steal my story. She mugged me once in bed and, when that no longer worked, she sent her two big brothers to beat me up. Did she send these clowns? Or was this how billionaire Trevor Todd was going to take his revenge on me for revealing his newspaper as a criminal racketeering scam that used bugging, spying, theft and even murder to get a story? Whoever wanted a piece of me, I didn’t have time for this shit right now. I was running late. Besides, when you have a choice between a victory with violence and a victory with no casualties—it was a no-brainer. When you win, you walk away in one piece and leave your enemy a way out. I left the park and hailed a cab.
I had to use my NYPD Working Press Pass to get into the brand-new Knickerbocker Convention Center on the West Side; one huge block of luxury high-rise hotel, auditoriums, shops, spas, restaurants, waterfalls, bars, concert halls; a small, self-contained city. The GOP National Convention was about to start and the security was serious. In addition to NYPD cops, there were feds, Homeland Security and lots of plainclothes. The streets around the center were closed, with concrete vehicle barriers, security checkpoints and armored personnel vehicles, bomb trucks, canine units and communications trucks, all gearing up for the nationally televised kickoff tomorrow, on the Fourth of July. The Republicans were again holding their presidential extravaganza in the camp of their supposed enemy—liberal New York City. Of course, Manhattan was media ground zero, so I guess it made sense. It did seem funny that all these law enforcement folks were getting overtime to protect the right-wingers from the left-wing demonstrators, who were sure to show up to protest the Tea Party candidates.
I had not yet been inside the Knickerbocker Convention Center. It was impressive. They had full airport-style body scanners, and a K-9 cop with a sniffer dog was checking bags. After I went through and my backpack was searched, I was asked to turn on my laptop. I took the MacBook out of its case and fired it up. When they saw my computer was real and not a bomb, I was cleared for entry.
Amy, again clad in black Italian fashion, met me in the East Lobby, a ten-story atrium with an Amazon rainforest and waterfall. Like a kid from Kansas, I stared up at the waterfall and the giant fiberglass pterodactyls suspended fifty feet above my head. Clear vertical tubes against the back of the atrium housed large rounded elevators, also transparent, moving up and down. Amy looked askance at my New Balance cross trainers, jeans and blue polo shirt but she said nothing.
“Hi, Amy. Why flying dinosaurs?”
“Prehistoric Manhattan,” she replied. “The joke is that the valet parking is at this entrance, so the theme is Jurassic Parking.”
We both laughed.
“The other three are also time-travel atriums,” Amy said. “Old New York, Future New York,
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