Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 9

Evidence Found
Evidence Found

So I wanted to find out what happened to Aisha. After a month I guess they allowed limited access below Houston St. and a few places right on the border opened back up. I wandered into one place two blocks away and decided to ask around about her. These girls all floated back and forth between bars around here anyway, following the crowds and the tips, and all knew each other. So I order a beer and randomly ask one of the girls at the bar, “hey, do you know Aisha over at so and so?”

“Oh sure, they’re still closed. You a friend?”

“Sort of. I just wanted to know, you know.”

“I talked to her, she lives in the East Village. Slept through the whole thing, ha.”

“Cool. I guess they aren’t opening up any time soon.”

“I have no idea.”

I sit down at the bar, pull out a pack of cigarettes – you could still smoke in the bars back then – and start packing them, slapping the top of the pack against my palm. Slap, slap, slap.

I get to the third slap and in the door walks a fireman, half his gear still on, followed by a couple of others. So there I am, packing the cigarettes – slap, slap, slap – and everyone in the bar looks up and sees the firemen walk in. In a reflex of patriotism and general conformist behavior in a crowd, having been primed to know to worship firemen as heroes – and considering how many had died – it just seemed fitting that a few people in the bar assumed I was clapping and started applauding the firemen. Then, everyone else joins in. The entire bar is now looking at the firemen, just inside the door, giving them a sitting ovation.

After a few seconds when it dies down, the one fireman looks at the other and asks, “what did you do Joe, pull out a ten dollar bill?”

So I’m wandering up 10th Avenue, it’s about seven, just walking, breathing in the air, which smells … wrong … clearing my head, trying to figure out who I could talk to, who I could inform, if anyone. I find myself blocks away and see some titty bar that’s open, with a sign out, so I go in. There’s maybe three rough looking girls in bikinis sitting at tables next to a few guys. I sit at the bar and order a drink – you could still drink in the bars back then – and everyone is watching the TV, giving everyone up to the minute updates on World War III and how underground terrorists cells are lurking everywhere in America, from the big cities to the small towns. Another attack is imminent, almost a certainty. The news helpfully suggests that Al Qaeda may poison the water supplies, blow up a neighborhood with a truck bomb, irradiate a town with a dirty bomb, or use automatic weapons to shoot up a crowded shopping mall. Be on the lookout for backpacks, trashcans, and Muslims that use toothpicks, because meat residue between your teeth is haram for radical Sunnis.

Passport Trajectory
Passport Trajectory

The FAA, the Air Force, the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, the FBI, the flight controllers, the pilots, the passengers, the guys who are supposed to shoot down anything that comes close to the Pentagon, all completely unprepared for this devestating surprise attack. It was so creative too, no one could have predicted using planes as missiles. The Salomon Brothers building had simply disappeared, not just physically, but from the public consciousness, as it was simply not discussed on television, or in the newspapers, after the first day.

One of the dudes sitting next to one of the strippers starts ranting something angry about terrorists and for whatever reason starts getting into something with one of the other strippers. Alcohol I guess. Whatever the hell they are talking about, it starts getting heated and the stripper says, “fuck America. We deal with this shit all the time. Go Israel!”

The dude gets angry and says, “If you don’t like America, what the fuck are you doing here?” The stripper says, “hey the terrorists hate us too. We told you, these people bomb us all the time.” The bartender, paying close attention to the tube, starts yelling something about America, no talking politics in the bar, and one of you ladies better get up there and start dancing.

Catherine Two: Passport Not Found
Catherine Two: Passport Not Found

I figured it’s time for me to go home. I hail a cab to Grand Central Terminal and take Metro North up to Connecticut, to my friend’s place. I think about calling the reporter back. A friend of a friend, he had hoped to get some scoop from me, so he calls me that night. My first instinct was to call him, to tell the story, but I had balked. What exactly was I going to tell him? Would it get printed any way? I saw what happened to the demolition expert in Nevada that gave an interview with a Phoenix newspaper Tuesday night. By Wednesday’s edition, he had retracted everything. His mistake. He doesn’t want to get involved in any “conspiracy theories.” He’s sorry he ever said anything. Please stop calling.

So, yeah, I didn’t talk to the reporter. Get your Pulitzer from someone else. They reported that one of the hijacker’s passports was found in the rubble of the World Trade Center. Amazing. The plastic passport had survived, blown out of the airplane and floated down far enough away that when they are digging up the rubble, they found it. Thus confirming what the TV was saying. Solid proof, a burned passport found by a heroic rescue worker.

It sent a message, really. I certainly got the message. Especially after Catherine Two’s funeral.

They never found her body, not even her ID card.

To Be Continued

911-business-card

8 thoughts on “Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 9

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