Dragnet 2017

Dragnet, 2017
by David Benjamin

This is the city. Chicago. Stormy, husky, brawling. Big shoulders, stacker of wheat, hog butcher… You know the drill.

My name is Friday. Joe Friday. I’m a cop.

My partner, Bill Gannon, and I responded to a routine call about a possible 10-16 at a ninth-floor walkup on the West Side. I hit the siren, fired up the spinning lights. Didn’t need to. Gannon loves it.

“I love the lights,” said Gannon.

We climbed. Gasped a while. Knocked. Suspect showed. Kept the chain latched.

“My name is Friday. I’m a cop.”

Suspect looked at us.

“You Gomez?” my partner asked. “Mustafa Gomez?”

Suspect looked at us.

“Do you speak English, sir?”

“I speak four languages, Officer.”

“Sergeant. Friday. I’m a cop.”

“Well, I’m a linguist. I also read six languages. Zdrastvuitye, M. gendarme.”

Gannon and I looked at each other. Shrugged.

“We’ve got a want on you. From HQ.”

Suddenly. “Wait a minute!”

We turned. Two men in suits. Charcoal. Polyester. Both had badges.

“Who’re they?” said the suspect.

“DA’s office,” said one. “I’m Riley. This is Murphy. We got this one, boys.”

“Who says?” asked the suspect.

“Hey. Boys. This is just a 10-16,” said Gannon.

“Not so simple. Not any more. Not these days,” said Murphy.

“Is this Gomez?” asked Riley.

I nodded.

“We like him for a 10-35, possibly compounded by a 10-34, with a 10-89 chaser.”

I looked at Gomez. He looked — what’s the word? — incredulous.

Suddenly: “Hold everything!”

Two guys. Suits. Black. Wool blend. They flashed ID wallets.

“FBI. Special agent Johnson. This is agent Johnson.”

Agent Johnson said, “We got this one, boys.”

“Boys?” said Gannon. Bill was a little miffed.

“Credible dirty bomb threat here,” said a Johnson. “This suspect is federal.”

“Federal? Bomb?” said Gomez. “What the hell? I teach middle-school Spanish, in Oak Park.”

“Poisoning the minds of impressionable boys and girls!” This came from a new voice. “That’s why we’re here!”

We all turned. Two heavy-set men. Gray suits. Gabardine. Fedoras.

Still peering through his crack, Gomez giggled. “Nobody wears fedoras anymore.”

“Max Fungo,” said one fedora. “Region chief, Homeland Security.”

He nodded toward the other. “This is my partner, Commissar Kafka.”

“Finally,” said Gomez, “this is starting to make sense.”

Kafka spoke. “We got this one, boys.”

“Boys?” said Gannon.

“What do you guys want with me?” the suspect insisted.

Fungo rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding, with a nom de guerre like Mustafa? How many white virgins did you rape this week, Gomez?”

“Raped? Who? When? Nom de guerre?” said the suspect.

I broke in. “Friday. Joe Friday. I’m a cop. What’s the charge?”

“It’s a Constitutional beef, pal. Classified,” said Kafka. “Caught jaywalking last week. Gross Green Card violation. Popped up on our radar. Now, he’s goin’ down.”

“But I paid the fine!” the suspect cried. “What’re you gonna do with me?”

Suddenly. “Deport your ass, scumbag!”

Two more suits. Blue serge. Hallway getting crowded.

“Fenster and Smoot. I.C.E. We got this, boys.”

“Dammit,” said Gannon. “I am not — ”

“New orders,” said Smoot. “Straight from the top.”

“What top?” said Gomez.

“The. Top.”

“We’re draining the swamp. Storming sleeper cells and ISIS meth labs. Rounding up Tex-Mex drug cartels, Syrian assassins, Nusrah, Hamas, Hezbollah, Hadassah. Bomb-strapped teenage girls.”

Gomez was growing panicky. “But… but I teach teenage girls.”

Fenster nodded knowingly. “I rest my case.”

“What case?” asked someone.

“We’re sweeping up the pedophiles, too.”

Suddenly. “Damn right! And he’s our pedophile! Back off, boys.”

“Do I look like a boy?” asked Gannon.

Two hulking figures burrowed into the crowd, flattening me against a wall. Brown uniforms. Red epaulets. Gold badges. Sam Browne belts. M-16 automatics. Ammo garands. Flag patches. Red ballcaps with that stupid slogan.

“Oh, dear God,” muttered one of the Johnsons. “It’s the Threepies.”

“Presidential Patriot Police! Commandant Weiss. This is Group Major Hornby.”

“Pee pee pee?” said Gannon.

“Who the hell,” asked the suspect, “is the Patriot Police?”

“We are, camel-jockey. And we’re your worst nightmare!” Weiss turned (with difficulty). Glared at us. “We outrank all you losers. Take our orders from the top. Scram, boys.”

“Top?” asked Smoot (I.C.E.). “What top?”

“If you have to ask,” said Hornby, “you’re out of the loop, junior.”

“Junior?”

Weiss pointed his M-16 at Gomez. “Let’s GO! Open that door, ayatollah. Or I blow it in. You’re takin’ a ride on the Gitmo Limited.”

“Gitmo? Why on earth?” asked Gomez.

“Why? Because that’s where you people belong. Behind a wall!”

“What people?” demanded the suspect. “Schoolteachers? Taxpayers?”

Weiss said, “Open up, punk! I don’t have to explain myself to a Muslim traitor.”

“Muslim? Me? No way. You’re barkin’up the wrong steeple, man. I’m a devout Lutheran. I grew up in Dusseldorf.”

“Dusseldorf?” Commandant Weiss looked — suddenly — bewildered.

“Check my Green Card,” said Gomez. He shoved it through the crack. “My mother was a Gherke.”

Weiss staggered back. Squished me against special agent Johnson. “Your mother was a Gherke? My grandma was a Gherke.”

“Hildegarde?” asked Gomez.

Weiss seemed to reel. “Hildegarde? Gherke?! From Dusseldorf? Ach du lieber! Ist du mein cousin. kamerad?”

Gomez unlatched the door and threw himself into Weiss’ arms. They began jabbering in Dusseldorfian slang.

“Okay, let’s move it along,” said Hornby, shoving at Riley, Murphy, Johnson and Johnson, Fungo, Kafka, Fenster, Smoot, Gannon and me with his M-16. “Nothin’ to see here.”

Weiss was inviting Gomez to the next family reunion. “The Rose Garden? Camp David? Mar-a-Lago? Turnberry? You name it, cuz. We get V.I.P. passes.”

“Move it,” Hornby said, still brandishing his weapon. “It’s all over, boys.”

“Boys?” said Gannon, losing his cool. “Goddammit!” He grabbed the M-16 and shoved the gun-butt into Hornby’s teeth. He advanced on Weiss.

Suddenly, I heard jackboots on the stairs.

This is the camp. Guantánamo. Hot, cramped, crowded. Bedbugs and scorpions.

My name is Friday. Joe Friday. I’m an inmate…