Happy to be Back on the Job

142.

It is 0845 on Friday. The waitress at Philz Coffee, an unofficial paid informant, provided me intel on the regular twice a week morning meetings between Bartowsky, the bagman for, allegedly, both MBI and Senator Jefferson Hartaugh (R) South Carolina. Hartaugh also the heads the Homeland Security Committee holding the user name and password to our charter and subsequently, our funding. Bartowssky is meeting an unnamed middleman whom I strongly suspect reports directly to Senator Slimeball. I am in full disguise mode, choosing for this gig a rock n roll look, somewhat of a cross between Leon Russell and Keith Richards. 

The black wig hangs like a dreadlock mop under my flat brimmed truckers cap advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. The mirrored sunglasses allow one-way surveillance. A toothpick, a tattoo and several gaudy rings on eight of the ten adds what I trust will be enough distraction to dismiss any attempt at casual identification. Standard black leather jacket, Levis and my favorite Tony Lama alligator boots wrap up the costume. My arsenal today includes a mini video cam, the lens of which rests like a head lamp stealthily behind the o in ribbon and a shotgun mini microphone inside the middle finger ring on my left hand. With any luck I’ll be able to capture decent audio of their conversation and mid-level resolution video, with a still photo every five-seconds, of the two perps as they obliviously sip their hot coffee and exchange scolding news. Moves like Jagger, I snort. 

I chose a booth that will give me the best sightline and hope that the background chatter in the popular coffee house will allow minimum audio distraction. I do not want to hear a dialogue about poor little Annie’s dental care override the goods I am trying to get on the two potential terrorists, who have just walked in as if they were both related to Phil himself. It will be fun taking these greasy bastards for a long painful ride on the short road to Riders Island. 

As forwarded they make camp at their usual booth. I hit the remote record buttons in my shirt pocket and create the ‘hands tented in prayer against my lips’ position, the ‘tent’ twisted slightly to port for optimal recording direction.  I am pleased with the effect and watch closely as Bartowsky ‘once-overs’ those in the immediate vicinity, including a casual observational dismissal of the wannabe rock star in deep contemplation sitting fifteen feet away. 

I do not immediately recognize the other person. Forty-ish, balding, fifteen pounds over, thick black glasses and a cheap off the rack dark blue suit grossly paired with a solid scarlet tie. The stiff is a walking billboard for everything disgusting in American fashion. I ruffle the day’s edition of USA Today in front on me and let them take the stage. I am not live monitoring the surveillance recording so watch behind the lens as they are served and get to the business at hand.

Bartowsky is defensive, irritated and struggling to find the correct body language to both deflect blame and instill confidence. His efforts are falling like zeppelins from the sky, his partner intent on the flaming debris landing on anyone but himself. Such are the instincts of the rat shipwrecked at sea and clinging to the half-submerged hull of a criminal flotilla. Let the blimps melt into shark infested cups of coffee I hear myself rap. 

This goes on for twenty-five minutes and two refills. I can tell that the exchange will provide, technical issues notwithstanding, incriminating evidence on the two street-thugs and further up the chain the Senator himself and with an iota of good karma and a sympathetic god, maybe even MBI as well. Solid gold. 

They stand to leave, Bartowsky leaving the tip. I follow then visually as they walk to their cars, engage in what looks like reciprocal exchange of mild threats, and drive away, Bartowsky in his big Navigator and his 'soon to be named in a criminal conspiracy' partner, in a DC cab. 

Recording session completed, I hit the stop button, stand, stretch, and drop a fifty dollar tip, something I am sure all rock stars do. 

I am happy to be back on the job.