The black bag. Freedom Fyter had been, I think the legal phrase is, “keeping it about his person” since he and I drove to DC from Detroit. I was firmly told to stay away from the black bag for my own sake. I knew that Uncle Bud was concerned about the bag the night that he and FF had their argument at the bar. And it seemed like Fyter was finally ready to let me in on the secret.
“Let’s get out of here,” said FF, rising to his feet and sweeping the bag off the table with one large hand. “Too many Republicans. Besides, I’ve got some people I want you to meet.”
It was 10:30, and I had to be ready to begin work in the tunnels by 7:00 a.m. the next day. I miss those days when sleep was an option. In younger days, my theme song had been, “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” Well, I guess Zevon is catching up on his sleep these days, and I spend more time napping than I do awake in wee, small hours.
“Wait a minute, FF. Where we going? How long’ll we be gone. I’m beat, and I’ve got a busy schedule tomorrow.”
He cast me a piteous look and shook his head. “You’re worried about your bed-time? Curiosity doesn’t give you that adrenaline boost, anymore?”
“Curiosity’s all well and good, but every time I look at that bag I hear one of Rove’s hand-picked US attorneys reading my name from a list headed ‘Conspirators.’”
He shrugged. This was not reassuring. “Life’s about taking risks. You comin’ or not?”
“Ah, what the Hell,” I grumbled, adding that little “Uhn” that accompanies my getting in and out of chairs these days. “Nothing like a fool-hardy adventure to pretend that time stands still. But do me a favor, will ya? Give me the heads-up before the felony stuff happens. Give me chance to reach the door safe in my ignorance, OK?”
“Word,” FF said, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “Have I ever let you down?”
“Yeah, well, just remember I’m the one who usually has to get the bail money together, so don’t get me locked up with you, or we’re both screwed.”
It was 2:30 a.m. when I got back to the little apartment above Uncle Bud’s Select Taproom. Vic was cleaning up, and he let me in. He reminded me that Uncle Bud would be here at 7:00 a.m. and that I’d better be ready. Vic didn’t like me much, but that’s understandable. Vic didn’t like humans. The bartender’s permanent scowl was part of Uncle Bud’s unwanted customer deterent system.
I went upstairs and got undressed. I threw my clothes on the chair by a small desk in the corner. I knew I’d get little sleep this night. Most of the night was already gone and the meeting with Freedom Fyter’s friends kept running through my mind. I switched off the light and laid back on the narrow bed. Against my better judgement, which, if I’m honest, I have to admit is better only in comparison to my usual really bad judgement, I stayed and listened to the entire plan. I was a moth to the flame. There was nothing to do but hope that somehow they’d pull it off.
*****
Freedom Fyter took me to an old jazz club in Anacostia. I’d rather not be more specific. We were shown to a small, dimly lit, back room. There were five people seated around a large, scarred table, that was covered with bits and pieces of bar food and partially full glasses and empty bottles. The talking stopped when we walked in. I could hear snatches of jazz drifting in from the small stage in the bar.
“He’s with me. He’s WonderBread, the guy I told you about.”
FF pulled a chair out from under the table and brushed some peanut shells off the seat. He motioned for me to sit down. “He may be able to help us out. The tunnels, remember?”
Nods and a few affirmative grunts were the only response. We sat down. I discretely wiped my seat with a napkin, which tore in half, leaving a small piece in my hand and the larger piece stuck to the chair. I didn’t move, nor speak for nearly three hours until the meeting broke up. FF and I were the first to leave, and we caught a gypsy cab to take us back to Uncle Bud’s.
I tried to talk to FF in the cab, but he shook his head, and waved me into silence. He nodded at the cab driver and turned to stare out the window. We made our way to Uncle Bud’s place in silence, broken only by music and commentary completely unintelligible to me. I hate Top 40 radio. Who is this Daughtry guy? Why doesn’t someone get Hilary Duff and Justin Timberlake together and force them both to go away? I hear there’s a space available next to Brittany Spear’s trailer, with room for a double wide and a 8’ x 12’ storage locker.
We reached the bar just as the Pussy Cat Dolls began to drone mindlessly about the NBA. As the car slowed down and pulled up to the curb, I considered flinging the door open, and in one fluid motion, pitching myself onto the sidewalk, and rolling to safety. “Tuck and Roll,” I thought, “Protect your head.” I reached for the door handle, and the arthritis in my shoulder started acting up. Then I remembered that I wasn’t wearing my orthotics and my feet would scream bloody murder for weeks. I clenched my jaw and toughed it out as the cab rolled to stop.
FF paid the driver and the music mercifully faded into the night. “Don’t you need the cab?” I asked.
“That driver is lucky to be alive, making me listen to that lame shit. Felix’ll come and get me.” He made a quick call and slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. The big man shuffled his feet and looked down. “So what do you think of the plan?”
I paused while summoning up the tact owed to an old friend. “FF, old buddy, you know you guys are nuts.”
“Ah, shit, I knew you’d piss yourself. C’mon, Wonder, you know the bit - Desperate times call for desperate measures. These are those times.”
“Those desperate measures of yours have felony written all over them, FF. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about people in America’s capital city who don’t even have a chance to put someone in the House or Senate that represents them. I’m thinking about the whole mess of poor folks in the District whose government has Congressional oversight by Republicans from Utah, Alabama, Texas, Virginia, you name it. We have to sit back and watch our gun laws overturned, charter schools forced down our throats, any damn Right-Wing dream gets forced on us whenever the Republicans take the House.”
“OK, ok, but the Democrats are in now. You’ve got friends again.”
He shot me a withering look. “Oh, Glory Be, I got me a good Massa now! Oh yeh, I be blessed!”
Argument ended. When FF dropped into dialect out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, reason was useless. Besides, he was right. My Moral Indignation Center was a little rusty, but he’d fired off a direct hit that had blasted away the accumulated rust.
I gave him a little time to calm down before asking “Where’d you get the drives? How do you know they’ll work?”
Freedom Fyter turned toward me, trying hard to suppress a smile. “Are you in, or are you out?” he asked.
“Just answer the damn questions, George.”
“Cuyahoga County, Ohio. Grade A, number one, 2006 vintage, Diebold voting machines hard drives. Last election day some fellows that clearly didn’t belong in Hough kept showing up. They were a bit pale. Their BMW broke down and they panicked. They flagged down a police car and left a few things behind. This bag is one of them.” He patted the black bag.
“You mean, while people were lined up to vote in the ‘hood, and machines kept breaking down, these guys were driving through Hough with replacement parts in their BMW?”
“Looks that way. And don’t say ‘hood’.”
“Sorry. How did you get them?”
“Some of us were watching the polls. After 2004, we didn’t want to let them steal another one. I saw one of the guys show some papers to the election officials, and then remove two of the drives. That meant only three machines at a place that usually had five. And that part of town votes 90 % plus for the Democrats. I followed the guy to his Beamer and when it died, I grabbed the bag.
“The past year and half I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with them. Yesterday, those folks at you met tonight at the club helped me decide.
“Let’s just say that Ohio is going overwhelming Democratic November of 2008. Maybe Florida too, if our tech guy can work a way to access their machines. Lots of incumbent Republicans will looking for lobbying job.”
“Your tech guy?” I knew that Freedom Fyter was an idea man, not a techie.
“Didn’t you recognize him? The big guy across the table from you. That’s Cube from the East Side, over on Gratiot.”
“Cube? That was Cube? What happened? He was always, you know, solid ....”
“My Grandfather used to say that he was built like a brick outhouse.”
“Yeah, but he must be 400 pounds!”
FF shrugged, “Man’s smart, but he just sits in that club, jamming on his computer. He lives on junk fried up on the grill behind the bar and junk food by the case. I’ve seen that man eat my weight in Hot Chips and Red Pop. He bought that club with money he made in the 90’s. Some tech thing I never understood made him a fortune. Now he’s got a room in that bar that is so full of equipment, I mean, I don’t know what the stuff is, but Cube does. He took a look at the drives and said that if we couldn’t vote, why should they?”
Freedom Fyter paused. I knew I was supposed to speak, to agree, but I wasn’t sure about this. The paused stretched a bit too long. Freedom Fyter began to look worried.
“So Cube is the key to your plan?” I asked.
Freedom Fyter nodded.
“Looks like I just joined the Vast Chicken Wing Conspiracy.”
