Distraction - Bruce Sterling [176]
“Typical politician’s remark. What I got is a series of cutouts, dummies, and firewalls, and you would not believe the netwar attacks those things are soaking up.” He examined the tracing report on his laptop. “What the hell is this thing?” He answered the phone. “Yes?”
He paused and listened intently for forty-five seconds. Oscar took the opportunity to examine Kevin’s office. It was the least likely police office he had ever seen. Girlie pinups, dead coffee cups, ritual masks, disemboweled telecom hardware driven into the walls with ten-penny nails.…
“It’s for you,” Kevin announced at last, and handed Oscar the phone.
Their caller was Jules Fontenot. Fontenot was angry. He’d been unable to reach Oscar through any conventional phone. He had finally been reduced to calling the Collaboratory’s police headquarters through a Secret Service office in Baton Rouge. The runaround had irritated him greatly.
“I apologize for the local communications systems, Jules. There’s been a lot of change here since you left us. It’s good to hear from you, though. I appreciate your persistence. What can I do for you?”
“You still mad at Green Huey?” Fontenot rasped.
“I was never ‘mad’ at Huey. Professionals don’t get mad. I was dealing with him.”
“Oscar, I’m retired. I want to stay retired. I didn’t ever want to make a call like this again. But I had to.”
What was wrong with the man? It was Fontenot, all right, but his native accent had thickened drastically. It was as if the man were speaking through a digital “Cajun Dialect” vocoder. “To meek a caw lak diss …”
“Jules, you know that I always respect your advice. Your leaving the business hasn’t changed that for me. Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“Haitian refugees. You get me? A camp for Haitians.”
“Did you just say ‘Haitians’? Do you mean black, Francophone people from the Caribbean?”
“That’s right! Church people from Haiti. Huey gave ’em political asylum. Built a little model village for ’em, in the backwoods. They’re living way back in mah swamps now.”
“I’m with you, Jules. Disaster evacuations, Haitian refugees, charity housing, French language, that’s all very Huey. So what is the problem?”
“Well, it’s somethin’. It’s not just that they’re foreigners. Religious foreigners. Black, voodoo, religious, refugee foreigners who speak Creole. It’s something lots weirder than that. Huey’s done something strange to those people. Drugs, I think. Genetics maybe. They are acting weird. Really weird.”
“Jules, forgive me, but I have to make sure that I have this straight.” Oscar lifted his hand silently and began gesturing frantically at Kevin—Get This On Tape. Open Your Laptop. Take Notes! “Jules, are you telling me that the Governor of Louisiana is using Haitian refugees as human guinea pigs for behavioral experiments?”
“I wouldn’t swear to that in a court of law—because I cain’t get anyone to come out here and look! Nobody’s complaining about it, that’s the problem. They’re the happiest goddamn Haitians in the whole world.”
“It must be neural, then. Some kind of mood-altering treatment.”
“Maybe. But it’s not like any kind of dope I ever saw or heard tell of. I just don’t have the words to properly describe this situation. I just don’t have the words.”
“And you want me to come and see it with you.”
“I’m not saying that, Oscar. I’m just saying … well, the parish police are crooked, the state militia is crooked, the Secret Service won’t listen to me anymore, and nobody even cares. They’re Haitians, from a barren, drowning island, and nobody cares. Not a damn soul cares.”
“Oh, believe me, I care, Jules. Trust me on that one.”
“It’s more than I can stand, that’s all. I can’t sleep nights, thinkin’ about it.”
“Rest easy. You have done the right and proper thing. I am definitely going to take steps. Is there a way that I can contact you? Safely, confidentially?”
“Nope. Not anymore. I threw all my phones away.”
“How can I pursue this matter, then?”
“I’m retired! Hell, Oscar, don’t let anybody know that I outed this thing! I live here now. I love