Gurney thought of a cat announcing with a distinctive meow that she was bringing in a captured mouse. “So you’re Marv Gelter. Nice to meet you.”
They shook hands, Gelter eyeing him as one might examine an interesting object for its potential utility.
Gurney nodded toward the TV. “That’s quite a thing you have over there.”
Gelter peered for a moment at the big screen, his eyes narrowing. “Animals.”
Gurney said nothing.
“You had to deal with that kind of shit in the city?”
“Cops being shot?”
“The whole thing. The circus of bullshit. The
Again Gurney said nothing. On the screen, two talking heads were arguing. One was contending that the current problems were part of the endless price being paid for the moral disaster of slavery, that the destruction of families had wrought irreparable damage, carried from generation to generation.
His opponent was shaking his head. “The problem was never the enslavement of Africans. That’s a myth. A politically correct fairy tale. The problem is simpler, uglier. The problem is . . . Africans! Look at the facts. Millions of Africans were never enslaved. But Africa is still a total disaster! Every country, a disaster! Ignorance. Illiteracy. Lunacy. Diseases too disgusting to describe. Mass rapes. Genocides. This isn’t the result of slavery. This is the nature of Africa.
The talking heads froze in place. Jagged triangles of color came swirling in from the edges of the screen, forming the letters of the words that earlier had blown apart:
EXPLOSIVE NEWS—HAPPENING NOW
SEE IT ALL ON
THERE’S NOTHING AS REAL AS RAM-TV
Gelter nodded appreciatively before speaking, his eyes still on the screen. “Killer point about all the slavery bullshit. And he nailed the truth about the African cesspool. Refreshing to hear a man with the balls to tell it like it is.”
Gurney shrugged. “Balls . . . or a mental disorder.”
Gelter said nothing, registering the remark only with a sharp sideways glance.
The three-line statement on the screen blew apart again, and a single line coalesced from tumbling shards of color—THE CONTROVERSY CONTINUES—then it, too, broke into pieces that cartwheeled out of the frame.
A new talking head appeared—a young man in his early twenties, with fine features, a fierce gaze, and thick reddish-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. His name and affiliation crept across the bottom of the screen: “Cory Payne, White Men for Black Justice.”
Payne began in a strident voice, “The police claim to be defenders of the rule of law.”
Gelter grimaced. “You want to hear a mental disorder, listen to this asshole!”
“They claim to be defenders of the rule of law,” repeated Payne. “But their claim is a lie. It’s not the rule of law they defend, but the laws of the rulers. The laws of the manipulators, the ambition-crazed politicians, the dictators who want to control us. The police are their tools of control and repression, enforcers of a system that benefits only the rulers and the enforcers. The police claim to be our protectors. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
Gurney suspected, from the practiced flow of Payne’s accusations, that he’d made them many times before. But there didn’t seem to be anything rehearsed about the anger driving them. Or the intense emotion in the young man’s eyes.
“Those of you who seek justice, beware! Those of you who trust in the myth of due process, beware! Those of you who believe the law will protect you, beware! People of color, beware! Those who speak out, beware! Beware the enforcers who use moments of unrest for their own ends. This is such a moment. A police officer has been shot. The powers that be are gathering to retaliate. Revenge and repression are in the air.”
“You see what I mean? Unmitigated garbage!” Gelter was seething. “You see what civilization is up against? The rabble-rousing crap that spews out of the mouth of that self-indulgent little shit—”
He broke off as Trish came up to him looking hurried and anxious. “You have a call on the house phone.”
“Take a message.”
She hesitated. “It’s Dell Beckert.”
There was a shift in Gelter’s expression.
“Ah. Well. I suppose I should take it.”
After he’d disappeared through one of the doors in the back wall, Trish put on a bright smile. “I hope you like vegan Asian cuisine. I found the cutest young Cambodian chef. My little wok wizard.”
They said little during the drive home. Madeleine rarely spoke when they were in the car at night. For his part, he’d been making an effort not to be critical of social events she’d involved him in, and he could think of little positive to say about the party at the Gelters’. As they were getting out of the car by the mudroom door, Madeleine broke the silence.
“Why on earth would they keep that television on all evening?”
“Postmodern irony?” suggested Gurney.
