Patchworks

By B.A. East

America’S Next Gun Massacre Is In-Evitable, Unless Government Intern Gabriel Dunne Can Make A Miracle Of His Odd Jobs In Washington, Dc.

Gabriel Dunne’s federal internship has him tracking gun violence in America. But before he can start, his boss Chloe tasks him with planning her wedding; Parker wants help seducing their fellow intern; security chief Hubbard hounds him about expired passwords; the shredder guy needs saving from his deadly machine; and Congress threatens a government shutdown that’ll send them all packing. When a colleague is victimized by just the kind of violence their office exists to prevent, these ordinary bureaucrats must fight back, or become statistics in America’s next mad shooting spree.

“I should tell you this right now. I don’t think it’s going to stick. Your report won’t get past Dvorak, never mind Ms. Marci. And the seventh floor...” She shook her head. “But I do want to say this. You’re the first person to stand up to those arrogant, racist pricks at the NRA and K Street by at least putting truth to paper.” She nodded before turning away. She stopped.
“And if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“I still have to get it all down. I still have some work to do. But I thought, even before you said so, I knew the chances of getting it through were slim. So, if there’s another way...”
LaRhonda smiled. “You a very discreet young man. Talk like that, you may not need those supplies very long. Destined for things greater than this office.”
“Or my demise.”
“It’s a lose-lose world.”

“A lively, moving book in the tradition of Joseph Heller... this page-turner has great heart.”-Tony D'Souza, author of Whiteman and Mule.

“One of those need-to-read books - Ben East, with a penchant for authentic dialogue, acerbic commentary on the government's inability to govern, and a searing end-game, serves up an indictment and, ultimately, a call to arms.”-Karl Luntta, author of Know It by Heart and Swimming
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“East constructs narratives as a cinematographer might, only cinema would not pack the same wallop with tone-perfect lines like: ‘The shredder guy in the no-water room whose name nobody could remember...’”-Daniel Whitman, author of Answer Coming Soon and Blaming No One
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“Powerful and funny and horribly relevant.”-Preston Lang, author of The Sin Tax and The Blind Rooster.

“A tragicomic requiem for America-a once shining dream of democracy that has fallen prey to its own bureaucratic government that operates ‘besides the people, despite the people, and against the people.’ ”-David Suarez Gomez, author of Heaven Is Coming Home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: XinXii
• Release date: Sep 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9783958308961

Book preview

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Author and diplomat B.A. East published his first novel, Two Pumps for the Body Man, as a Bush-Cheney era black comedy. Set in Saudi Arabia, Two Pumps did for American diplomacy and the War on Terror what Catch-22 did for military logic in World War II: The enemy can’t kill us if our institutions kill us first. His second novel, Patchworks, examines American government and gun culture in a similar light.

Originally from Connecticut, diplomatic assignments have taken the author to Washington, Mexico, Ghana, Nicaragua, and Saudi Arabia. Prior to joining the State Department’s Foreign Service he taught Literature and Composition at the American School of Asuncion in Paraguay; at Brooklyn College Academy in New York; and as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malawi. His manuscript about drug trafficking, espionage, and e-waste dumping in West Africa was shortlisted for the Dundee International Book Prize in 2014.

Mr. East lives in northern Virginia with his wife and sons, working on adult fiction for juveniles and juvenile fiction for adults. He wards off evil with doses of black humor posted to:

www.BenEastBooks.com

Acknowledgment

My appreciation to those who offered honest criticism and moral support. You are first reader Eileen Molinari (Bunky), David Suarez, Gretchen Krantz Evans, Lindsey Schubert, Dan Whitman, and Brandon Cohen. Brother John. Myra Michelle Brown, Bruno Passos, Ted Prokash all offered comments, as did many others around the office and in the Returned Peace Corps Volunteer network. It’s nice to have the confidence of one’s parents.

Deepa, Vikram, and Mohan, who always enjoy mulling the ridiculous and the sublime.

Much appreciation goes to Gene D. Robinson at Moonshine Cove Publishing for seeing this project through.

America was never innocent.

—James Ellroy

PATCHWORKS

Part One

Graves’ End

Chapter 1

Lockdown

Sometimes we sheltered in place. Other times the building was locked down. My first lockdown, a gunman opened fire at the Navy Yard across town. Every federal office in DC was locked down, nobody in or out.

That time, Miles Miles stopped by my cube and invited me to breakfast.

They’re still serving breakfast?

Miles shrugged and pushed up his glasses. Call it lunch.

I checked my watch. It’s early for lunch.

Look kid, you’re smart. You work in intelligence. Best hurry.

Was he teasing? It was my first week at the Bureau of Government Intelligence and Execution. Surely intelligence work had yet to make me smart.

BOGIE cafeteria gets crowded when there’s a shooting, Miles said. The short, pudgy old-timer with wispy hair and bristles in his ears had come out of retirement to mentor us interns and other young bloods. His arms were too short for his body and his tie stopped three buttons above his belt.

Lockdowns happen often?

Often enough. Either you eat now, or you eat crumbs.

I’ll eat now. But I have a question.

What.

Why’s your tie so short?

Short ties make my arms look longer.

Do they?

Without the short tie, I have the arms of a T-Rex. He tucked in his elbows and raised his hands like they were claws.

He was a dinosaur all right. But more like something soft and lame at the bottom of the food chain than any king of the Jurassic food court.

Beyond my cube the shredder guy continued grinding classified papers. His shredder growled from nine to five. I found it impossible to think beside the no-water room where the shredder guy — nobody could remember his name — destroyed classified intelligence all day long.

I rose to join Miles. Can’t think here anyway, with all that noise.

We left the dim cube farm for the cafeteria, and it surprised me how fast Miles moved when in search of food.

Chapter 2

The Fed Buffet

Quick steps on short legs carried Miles through the BOGIE corridors, crooked ceiling tiles overhead. We passed the forbidden elevators and as we approached the cafeteria the odor of cooling bacon killed my appetite.

Grab a tray, Miles said. Load up.

I’m not hungry.

Don’t be shy. Everything’s half off at the end of any meal.

It’s not the money.

Right cashier won’t charge you anything. Wink-wink, I still know the right cashier. Look. Poached eggs. He waddled on, following the green tray clutched in his eager fingers.

At the steaming buffet he piled eggs, bacon, and sausage atop his pancakes and French toast, then went around to add potatoes and grab the last waffle. He appeared as master and commander of the buffet. It was much different from how he’d be in six months, writhing on the floor in the slops from his plate, gravy and ketchup soiling that crazy blue patchwork shirt he got from Manny Teague.

Miles stopped short, noting the dry toast on my tray. What’s this?

I’ll also get coffee.

Oh, no. He shook his head. Don’t do that.

Why not?

"Three dollars a cup. No discount any time. They have to charge you. They count the cups. Paper cups. He made a face. Know what I used to pay for coffee when I started here? One nickel. Bottomless coffee for one round nickel. And I didn’t have to drink from paper."

I’ll stick with toast, then.

Saving room for lunch, eh? I’ll show you how to make the most of the condiments and samples next. Wink-wink.

He led me to a bored cashier who waved us through. Miles sat beside the windows overlooking the courtyard and lowered his head to eat.

All around us the tables began to fill.

People here really do eat early, I said. It wasn’t yet 11:00.

Told you. Miles pointed his fork at my toast. Gonna eat that?

Go ahead.

Lockdown. Nobody in or out. Everybody’s got to eat here.

Last I heard, almost a dozen killed.

Miles shrugged, shoveled, chewed. It’s bad. But it was worse last month.

He shoveled. He chewed. He swallowed. You settling in okay?

I haven’t had a lot to do.

Things’ll pick up after Congress settles the budget feud. When they do, follow Howard’s lead.

Howard Graves? I thought Dvorak was in charge.

Ralph Dvorak just seems like he’s in charge because he has nothing to do. But Graves, who’s filling three jobs – Marci’s office manager, acting deputy director, and division chief – is running around like some overworked intern. Miles wiped his mouth. No offense.

None taken. Why not hire someone to help?

Can’t. Sequestration.

So Graves is in charge.

Yes. And the budget feud and sequestration also mean we can’t promote him. And since its up or out for him, Graves will be lucky to last through summer. Meanwhile Dvorak, who wants nothing more than to be top banana — his term for it – can’t be trusted. Miles shoveled, chewed, swallowed. Someone bumped my chair from behind.

What about the director? I asked.

You’ll seldom see her.

Teague?

Most you’ll learn from Manny Teague is how to be a good family man. It’s important. But it’s not enough.

He tells me about his twins every day.

He’ll update you on everything, down to how much they ate for breakfast.

What about Chloe?

Sweet Chloe. She knows her job, but she’s distracted. Wedding’s got her off-kilter. It’ll be up to you to approach her. Prove you want a government job. Miles jabbed the air with his fork.

"I’m not sure I do want a government job."

He looked hurt. You’re young. You’ll see. Government’s the only work left that offers a pension.

The word sounded strange and foreign. I had a six-month internship and a Masters Degree to complete. Who was I to think of a pension?

Here’s a chance to get experience. But you have to remind Chloe you’re around. People get wrapped up in their projects and forget about you interns. My advice?

He leaned forward, looked side-to-side, eager to protect his great secret to success from all the feds around us. Best way to get a plumb assignment is to get in people’s way.

Get in their way?

They’ll explain the work to get you out of their hair.

I seem to be getting in LaRhonda’s hair.

Great institutional knowledge. Been here almost as long as I have.

She’s not very friendly.

She can be bitter. She’s unhappy now that she’s an OMS.

OMS?

Office Management Specialist.

What’s an Office Management Specialist?

It’s what we used to call a secretary.

I asked why we didn’t just call her a secretary.

Now you see why she’s unhappy. She’ll give you trouble about supplies, but it’s not her fault. It’s the regulations. And the regulations are our fault. They’re based on our reports. If you need supplies, come see me.

LaRhonda told me there’s a form for supplies.

There’s a form for everything. Miles sipped his OJ.

What about Harcourt?

Senior Editor in Electronic. Family trouble at home because of his affairs here at work. Best advice: avoid Harcourt. What else?

I was curious about the office mantra.

Yes. ‘To observe and detect.’ We don’t advise and we don’t prescribe. Think of us as the government watch-dog.

I thought the Inspectors General were the oversight watch-dogs.

We’re the oversight watch-dog of the oversight watch-dogs.

They say our role is self-perpetuation.

But it is!

But if we did it right, wouldn’t we work ourselves out of a job?

Impossible. Our job is to prove we are indispensable.

The last of Miles’ OJ came slurping up through his straw.

Without that, he said, We would cease to exist.

I sat back, dismayed.

Miles leaned in. We’re a simple office. G/PAP. Government Push and Publish. We observe. We detect. To do otherwise, to recommend a course of action, is to risk error. You done?

I’d eaten nothing, yet I felt sick. Still, I had a question. I sit next to the no-water room.

That, well. We used to take a collection for deliveries. But we lost track, so…

It’s not about the water. It’s about the shredder. The noise.

Nothing to be done. That stuff’s got to be destroyed.

"I can’t hear myself think."

Should save you a lot of trouble, wink-wink.

Miles smiled until he saw I was serious. If you need a quiet place, come down here. Except during lockdown. As you can see, this place gets pretty busy when there’s a shooting going on. And since you don’t get paid, you might as well enjoy the subsidized food. All I ask is you show the other intern and report back to me.

Justin. Don’t you want to show him yourself?

Miles shook his head. Better if you show him. Then you get credit for doing something with your training, and I get credit for training you. I can put it on my review. You see?

I did see. Miles was justifying a free meal on government time by making it a mentoring opportunity. It turned out to be one of the most useful breakfasts ever, and it didn’t even cost a cup of coffee.

Miles punched his chest and held his fist to his mouth. He punched again. Ticker, he said. Gotta cut back on the eggs.

He glanced at his watch. Let’s get some free lunch before the hordes pick over the condiments.

How long you think we’ll be locked down?

Hopefully it ends before it messes up the commute home.

Chapter 3

Chloe

On Miles’ advice I made an effort with Chloe. I visited her part of the cube farm, far from the growling shredder in the no-water room. I tapped the frame, startling her.

She rummaged her desktop to mask her daydreaming, slapping and lifting piles of paper. She shot off a few questions.

You finished the check-in?

Yesterday.

All your courtesy calls?

A few still pending.

Met with Miles?

He treated me to breakfast.

This slowed her. She smiled at some fond memory. "You mean lunch, right? He’s been doing that a long time."

Miles, I said, and shook my head. Mocking him felt like something he’d expect me to do, to get the ball rolling with Chloe. A sweet, innocent nature peaked through her cold, professional veneer.

She leaned toward me and I felt drawn into her cube. Her perfume and photographs and pastel sweaters gave it the feel of a small apartment. Stepping into her world I left behind the dozens of cubes on the brown Dura-carpet of the G/PAP cube farm. She made me dizzy.

Did he explain the office mantra?

‘To observe and detect.’ We don’t advise. We don’t prescribe.

Less scattered, she challenged me with a new battery. So. Have you read all of last year’s working papers?

Right-sizing and government accountability. Back to 2001.

What about the Branches reports?

I’m studying them for my thesis.

Right. She nodded, as if some document from long ago, my resume, stood before her now in the flesh. How’s it going?

I’m thinking of quitting. If it weren’t for the stipend I’d have quit already. Research into government success and failure infuriated me. But staying enrolled keeps the loan sharks off my back.

I hear you.

She bent her knee and massaged her foot. Anyway, the Branches reports are essential. They’re foundational to the work of BOGIE in general, and Push and Publish in particular.

Her premise was common among federal workers. Job security required describing one’s work in the most patriotic terms possible, and what could be more patriotic than reproducing, year after year, new and improved foundational documents?

Just let me know where I can jump in, I said.

She massaged her foot. You’ve read the working papers on incumbency? Campaign finance? Hollywood? Lobbying?

I’d read them all.

She smiled, perhaps the kinks worked out of her foot.

Well, to be honest, you kind of got here at a slow time.

You mean because of the lockdown?

What, this? This happens all the time. No, we’re slow because we just finished the annual papers, and we’re waiting for new data to start the semi-annuals.

Then why request an intern?

We usually have special papers to write. Committee requests. Right to life, discrimination, gun control. But not this year.

No budget?

Exactly. Thanks Congress.

So there’s nothing?

There’s nothing now, but there will be. In the meantime you should learn as much as you can. Ask me anything.

I asked her how the reports were implemented.

Excuse me? Her tone was sharp.

What’s the impact? We observe and detect. So what’s the result?

She leaned back, screwed up her eyes. Mr. Dunne, if you joined our office to be a naysayer, maybe you belong on the other side.

No, I said. I’d done no such thing. What do you mean, ‘The other side’?

The Office of Execution. Corridor K. The lobbyists.

No. No way. I have no interest in joining them. But it might help if I learn something about their work.

"Out of the question. We are intelligence, Mr. Dunne. We are the smart people who work in intelligence. The activity you’re asking about is strictly for the Office of Execution. They’re the ones with blood on their hands."

I felt flushed and hot, in over my head. But Chloe softened and became again the blonde sweetheart posing as professional.

Never mind. It’s just too much for the first week. And on top of it we have the stress of this shooting.

Is it stressful? The building’s locked down, and Navy Yard’s far away.

Fifteen dead. Two dozen wounded.

But they got the gunman.

I just pray it doesn’t happen again tomorrow.

Why not tomorrow?

Wedding appointment. You know how many I’ve missed because of these lockdowns?

She straightened and I felt a presence behind me. I turned to find Brad Harcourt, debonair even with the scar across his chin, slow to pass.

I’m getting a bite, he said.

Chloe blushed, checked her watch. Harcourt moved on.

Sorry. So. She swiveled her chair and pushed her feet around under her desk. Shoes, she said, feet probing for a pair amid the dozen she kept down there.

Why so many? I asked.

She sighed. It’s worse now that I have to commute in them. In case he sees me.

Who?

My fiancé. She lifted her hand, displaying an enormous, dangerous-looking ring. Tommy. The IT guy?

Oh yeah. I recalled a slovenly guy, scruffed and bed-headed. I wondered how he’d scored an all-American sweetheart like Chloe. He’s into footwear?

It’s not that. It’s those tramps on corridor K. You should see how they dress. I don’t want Tommy thinking they’re better than I am. She went off about hating her shoes, how they hurt her feet.

You know what? she said, standing in triumph with high heels on. She looked so powerful and pretty I could barely keep from dropping to my knees. You came here looking for a project, right?

Whatever I can help with.

There really is something you can do.

I held my breath.

My wedding invitation.

Your —?

"I know, I know. But it’s not like that. I work long hours most of the time, so doing a few personal things now isn’t an ethical issue. And honestly? I don’t know how to use the graphics software. But you’re young. You must know."

Sure, I said, ignoring the fact that Chloe looked no more than a few years older. I knew little about graphics, but Justin Parker would. He’d complained about being overlooked, his tech skills ignored.

Great. You’re an angel. I knew we’d be lucky to have you. I’ll drop by your cube later. Where have they got you sitting?

Next to the no-water room, I said. Speaking of… Any chance I can change it?

Aww, she said, tossing her blonde curls to the side. Can’t.

It’s just so loud.

Too much traffic? With the microwave and the TV?

It’s the shredder.

Of course. The shredder.

Why’s it called the ‘no-water’ room, anyway?

Because. She held up her palms. "No water. But we do have a water cooler. For if we ever get water again. Saying it must have sounded crazy to her, because she added an apologetic coda. We also have a Mr. Coffee. And a fridge. Use it sparingly, though. Odors. Did I mention the microwave? Look Gabe, sorry. But I’ve really got to run." She strained, looking in Harcourt’s direction.

Chapter 4

Loyalty

I spent a lot of time that summer with Justin Parker, a senior intern who cloaked his insecurity with hipster fashion. He kept his head shaved and wore tight suits and large, blocky glasses. He wasn’t shy about speaking his mind and he asked a lot of questions, which made him a reliable source of gossip. I visited him at the far end of our suite, taking the long way around past the window offices reserved for people like Marci Apron and Howard Graves.

When I told him about Chloe’s project, he said, Great! then made an obscene gesture to demonstrate the impossible size of her breasts.

Hey. She’s my supervisor.

Fine. Play it straight. But don’t tell me you’re not looking.

I’m not looking.

Speaking of looking, Justin said, his voice secretive. He waved me close.

Yeah?

What do you think of Karen?

I shrugged. Karen Ung was a slender young woman with straight black hair and subtle Asian features. Justin thought her a great beauty, and he asked me to have lunch with her so he could join us by surprise.

Why not just come with us?

Nah, man. That’s not my strategy.

What strategy?

I’ll come late and pretend I have no interest in her. Then I’ll wow her with my intellect and my clever observations.

It sounded like an odd strategy for lovemaking, but I had little experience in that department. What did I know about impressing a woman? And Justin did agree