The Frenzy the Grievance

By Leon Miller

The Frenzy and the Grievance are both narrated by Murray Schenps, a retired I.R.S investigator whos heavily medicated, and, at times, paranoid. When the Frenzy opens, America is getting ready to invade Iraq, and people in New York are still jittery from 9/11. Coming home from his job as a security guard early one morning, Murray spots a group of naked people in Chelsea dancing around an open drum. Hes disturbed by this (are the people drugged, sick? Is the air poisoned?), and goes from trying to investigate whats going on (as well as checking out a similar event in the West Village, where two naked men were killed in the street) to writing a book about what hes seen and found out. Doing the book (where he makes the leader of the group a possible terrorist) he enlists the aid of a female investigator from the Board of Health, and continually argues with a female reporter from The New York Post, who is also writing about both problemsleading to terrible consequences for Murray and both women.
The Grievance opens nearly three years laterright after Abu Ghraib revelations. Murray is now teaching writing in New York, having published his book about what happened earlier, but made little money from it. Hes still angry at Marlene Ward, The New York Post reporter, and eventually tries to pay her back for thing she did to ruin his possible career as a writer. When a student submits a manuscript about killing Iraqi prisoners at a black site in New Jersey, Murray tries to find out if its the truth and not get killed in the process. This leads to confrontations with the soldiers uncle, and Marlene Wardwho gets wind in the story. Again, problems are solved by violence, the grievances that Murray, Paul Jones, and his superiors as well as Joness uncle have, being resolved in deadly ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465362476

Leon Miller

Leon Miller is a former government investigator and English teacher.

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Copyright © 2011 by Leon Miller.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4653-6246-9

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-6247-6

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

THE FRENZY

PART ONE

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

PART TWO

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

PART THREE

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

PART FOUR

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

Thirty Five

Thirty Six

Thirty Seven

Thirty Eight

Thirty Nine

Forty

Forty One

THE GRIEVANCE

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

THE FRENZY

PART ONE

ONE

IT IS COMING

The words, painted in large red letters on 26th. St, and 11th Avenue, look stark, like a prophetic sign. On both sides of the half-lit streets, whores scurry, like birds of prey.

‘So much for quality of life’ I tell myself disgustedly, waiting for the light to turn green—

But then we don’t have Giuliani, the so-called savior of our city, but a rich man who could care less about who gets killed in the streets.

As if to confirm my grim thoughts, a lovely child approaches me—as beautiful as Tyra Banks, but wearing considerably less. Orange hair, dirty feet, tattered shorts, her breasts bulging through a red halter, she moves up to me quickly now. When she sees my windows are closed (because the air smells terrible), she dumbly mouths YOU WANT TO PARTY?

SORRY, I mouth back, BUT I’M MARRIED.

SO WHAT. SHE DON’T BE HERE WITH YOU. ANYWAY, SHE WHITE, ISN’T SHE?

YES, I mechanically reply, BUT WHAT’S THAT GOT TO DO WITH IT?

SHE BE WHITE SHE BE DRY INSIDE, the hooker nastily replies, with a mean self-satisfied air. YOU BE WITH ME, she coldly snarls, revealing one fat golden tooth, I SHOW YOU THINGS SHE NEVER DREAMED OF.

SORRY, I CAN’T, I hopelessly grin, wondering how much it would cost to get rid of this parasite—when, from the corner of my eye, I spot a crowd—women and men, young and old, all of them undressed—moving around a fiery drum. Some are white, some are black, all look frenzied—except for a short well-dressed black, wearing a goatee, and dark glasses. Since he’s dressed, and the others aren’t, he looks like he’s leading the group, as they perform some kind of dance.

SORRY IS SHIT, the young girl says, banging angrily on my window; and for a moment I consider asking her to get in the car. ‘But that’d be crazy’ I think. ‘After all, who knows what she’s got tucked away into those white shorts? A great snatch, sure (although, I think, she probably would be diseased), ‘but maybe a razor as well.’

But now, as the light turns to green, my attention is on the group dancing around the fiery drum—And I remember the wild words—IT IS COMING—marked on the street.

What’s coming? I say to myself, an awful chill bending my spine; and when the hooker screams at me BASTARDFAG, I accelerate, leaving her standing in the street, screaming like a sick frightened child.

TWO

I grab a bite at The Square Diner; and because it isn’t that busy, George is hovering over me—And we go through the charade again of how I’ll put him in my next movie. A flashy, balding well-built Greek, who bought into the place last year, George thinks because I’ve gotten published (not that he understood what I showed him), I’m like this hot shot screen writer—not some asshole security guard—

Or maybe, sensing my disappointment at what a waste my life has been, he sympathetically plays along, helping me maintain my dumb fantasy I’m going to become rich and famous—

Anyway, he reminds me now, as I bite into a huge muffin, he’s done karate for twenty-five years, so he has to do an action role—Not like those pretty boys—Cruise, or Chan—Real action—like Eastwood, George laughs. Like the man who rides in from nowhere—cleans up the town, and rides away.

You mean like Kissinger?

Kissinger? Where’s Kissinger now? he replies and I respond Advising Bush. Getting ready for the big bang. Pay back the bastards.

Kill the bastards.

The bastards who killed us, I say; and he smiles, bigger than ever now, saying Yes, that’s the role I want. Kissinger, and Eastwood, he laughs. Killing the bastards who killed us.

Of course I’ll never write that script; but how do I alienate George? Anyway, I’ve got bigger problems, wondering, as he walks away, to regale other customers, what to do about what I saw. I mean I’ve driven down Eleventh Avenue many times in these early hours, been propositioned by lots of hookers—

But the sight of those naked dancers moving around the fiery drum, their bodies charged up and excited, burns vividly against my brain. It’s not just the fact they were naked that makes me feel uncomfortable. What upsets me—what sickens me is how awful their faces looked—lost, tortured, so out of control they looked as if some awful drug had destroyed their desire to live.

Could it be that—some deadly drug they had taken unknowingly, or, even worse, some toxic agent someone had loosened in the air? But if that really was the case why was that short black man so composed? (Unless, of course, he’d administered it—conned the group into taking it—Or, maybe, was immune to it?)

More, I think, slurping down my coffee, what’s my responsibility here? Should I report this to the police (as if the fucking police would care?) Report what? Because what do I know? What have I seen but some naked people dancing crazily in the street? Or should I, if I really want answers, check this shit out at The Board of Health—not just so I might understand what I just witnessed happening, but to inform them of the fact—so they can check it out themselves, and, possibly, do something about it?

No refill, I wave the waiter off, starting to feel uncomfortable, as the place begins filling up.

Because what if it’s chemical, or, maybe, biological? What if some plague has been unleashed, and it’s threatening our existence? Isn’t it my responsibility to make people aware of it?

My name is Schneps, and, for awhile, I was a substitute English teacher, and a Welfare investigator. I’d also worked for IRS, doing criminal investigations. After I’d been there eighteen years, I took what they called early retirement. Since I’m licensed to carry a gun, and managed, after Uncle dumped me, to get a handgun of my own, I’ve gotten into security work.

I had been married, and divorced; and at the time these things occurred, I was forty-six, in fair health, and living alone in Tribeca. I had been writing all my life, and managed to publish some stories, but never any of my books.

I didn’t want to be paranoid, but what you have to understand: when the planes hit on 9/11 I was not only scared to death; but, as I moved through my awful streets, surrounded by ashen-faced people who looked like they’d come back from hell, I felt like I’d become somebody who nobody would really miss if I suddenly disappeared.

I mean it probably would be noticed if I never appeared at The Square, or never had a beer at The Depot, or checked out galleries in Soho, and got books from Your Spring Street Books—

But, face it, like those frightened people, I’d been reduced to a statistic—a number for The Census Bureau.

But, as I finished my lukewarm coffee, I felt like I had been reprieved, given a chance to create myself (like I Was The Man Who Discovered The Frenzy). I had to be at work by eight, but I wasn’t worried about work now, given the shit that was going on. I mean I wasn’t sure what I’d do; but I felt charged, ready to act.

And so, before I left The Square, I made sure that my gun was loaded. I doubted I would have to use it, but it makes sense to be prepared. And, given the shit that was going on now, who knew but that some terrorists weren’t involved in this wild stuff that I had just witnessed in Chelsea?

So, before I got chickenhearted, I started to The Board of Health.

THREE

I reach The Board of Health by nine, get routed by Security up to The Office of Complaints; and after I’ve filled out a form describing the events I’ve seen, I’m sitting down with an inspector in a small cluttered conference room.

She’s heavy-set, bespectacled, sexy in an unpleasant way, in a loose sweater, and frayed jeans—a woman obviously uncomfortable with her weight, and sedentary job. The way I pick up all of this is by her sour-looking expression, her shabby look, and her harsh voice, as she nastily asks me now What is it you say that you saw?

I’m not saying something, I answer. It was there. I didn’t invent it.

Who said you did? she challenges me. I’m just trying to get a clear picture. Naked dancers, and fiery drums? she laughs at me obscenely now, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. And this happened where? she confronts me.

Twenty Sixth Street off Eleventh Avenue, I answer her disgustedly, deciding now not to tell her about the words marked on the street. Why I hold this back I’m not sure; but I’m not comfortable with this woman, and not sure I can really trust her. But, figuring since I’ve come here I ought to get my story out, I add, Right, there were several dancers—at least ten people by the drum.

Dancing? Was there music? she asks. Excuse me—I mean was there someone who seemed to be leading the group? Were the people shouting, or singing?

No, it wasn’t like that, I say. What makes it scary, I continue, was that they looked like they’d been drugged. Like they weren’t dancing for pleasure, but because they were out of control.

Really? she perks up. Isn’t that interesting?

Interesting? I angrily respond; and she replies Of course you know about the gay men who were killed—this only happened yesterday on Leroy Street, in The West Village. I mean like they were naked, too, the woman earnestly explains; and when I can’t respond to her—so surprised by what she’s reported—she tells me, No, you didn’t know? But it was in the newspapers? Then, because I still haven’t answered, she replies, But that’s really wild—amazing, And before I know, she’s standing up, and telling me Please wait here one minute. Two minutes later she’s returned, carrying yesterday’s New York Post.

Isn’t that something? she replies, practically thrusting the paper at me; and I’m immediately shaken up when I see this picture in the paper of two naked men lying down on some side street in The West Village.

The story’s headline reads NUDE MEN FOUND LYING DEAD ON LEROY STREET; and as I read it I discover that the men (not identified yet) were discovered the previous evening—several hours before I saw the dancers. Probably, they weren’t part of that group; but the fact both of them were naked makes me think there might be a connection.

In any case, as I read on, it becomes apparent to me that somebody had seen these men before their bodies were discovered—because, according to the story, they had both been hit by a car.

But, since the driver hadn’t stopped, or reported an accident, what they’d been doing in the street (dancing, or simply wandering blindly, or simply trying to find help), wasn’t clear—

And while I was pissed that the driver had taken off, I really was more curious about who these dead people were, and, of course, if they might have been connected to the group I’d seen.

I don’t share any of my thoughts with this shabby glaring inspector, feeling so anxious now, so wired, I immediately have to stand. ‘Let her find out for herself’, I think, doubting that whatever she learns, she’s likely to share it with me. And curtly grunting Interesting, I begin moving to the door, not pausing now when she calls out Thanks very much for coming in, knowing she’s not being sincere, and really seriously doubting I’ll ever hear from her again.

FOUR

The anger didn’t stay with me as I walked back to my apartment. After all, I assured myself, what had I really told the woman (or written on the goddam form), that constituted a health hazard. I mean like from her point of view, even if what I said was true, why should she take it seriously?

And, even if she did, I thought, and managed to convince her manager that some people were acting crazy, what were they supposed to do about it? I mean would they send someone there, and if they witnessed naked people dancing crazily in the street, ask them why they were doing it?

What if the people wouldn’t answer—either because they felt put upon, or because they’d really flipped out? Would the inspector, or investigator call in the police to make arrests, or force the people to answer questions?

Knowing that probably was unlikely, I wondered now what to do next. I mean I’d reported what I’d seen to the proper authority. Was I obliged to call the police, too?

Let it wait, I convinced myself. After all, I’d left my phone number in the report I had submitted—in case the agency did something, and wanted me to know about it. But I felt sick now, really stressed at the thought that they might do nothing. What if something was really wrong, and the dancers had been effected by something awful in the air? What if the black man was behind it?

But if I wasn’t comfortable in contacting the police this fast, couldn’t I contact the reporter who’d done the story in The Post? And tell her what? I asked myself; because I didn’t really want to share everything I had seen. I’m not sure why, since, at this time, I really still hadn’t considered writing about what I had seen—But I felt, if I called the reporter, I should be careful what I told her; and I spent several awful hours trying to figure out what to say.

What I decided not to say was that there was a sign in the street (IT IS COMING, in bold red letters), and that there was a short black man who seemed to be leading the dancers. Having done that, I called The Post; and when I got an operator, I asked to speak to Marlene Ward.

What about? she coldly responded; I told her The story she wrote about the gay men who were killed.

And who are you? the lady asked; and even though it bothered me being screened by a low level person, I answered I work for the government, and we’re interested in Ms. Ward’s story.

One moment, she curtly replied but when she finally put me through it wasn’t to Ms. Ward herself, but to her voice message recording. Uncomfortable at the idea of leaving any kind of message, I left the briefest message possible: I’m Murray Schneps, from CID, and I’d like to speak to you about the guys who were killed in the Village. I also left my cell phone number, knowing it would be idiotic to leave my old CID number, and have her call there, and find out I was no longer with CID.

I didn’t think Ward would call back (I mean like who was Murray Schneps?); but even before I’d had dinner there was a jingling on my phone; and she was coolly apologizing Sorry you had to wait this long, but we get a lot of crazy callers.

I understand, I answered her. Somebody has to screen your calls.

Right, she responded tentatively. Then she said, You mentioned CID on my machine. What’s CID?

It stands for Criminal Investigations. It’s like a branch of IRS?

I don’t understand, she replied. The government’s interested in these men?

I let that go, responding now The reason I called you, Ms. Ward, is because I saw several people—this happened earlier this morning—dancing nakedly in the street.

You saw what?

Eight to ten naked people dancing crazily up in Chelsea. And then, when I looked at your story—when I went to The Board of Health to tell them about what I’d seen—

You did what? Look, Murray, she said, you haven’t answered my question. Why is CID interested?

Actually, I lied about that, to get you to return my call.

Really? Then there’s no CID? The government’s not interested?

Not as far as I know, I said. But since the guys who got killed in the Village were also nude—

And then I heard an angry blaring on the line; and knew that she’d hung up on me.

I was annoyed, of course, by her manners; at the same time I realized she was pissed that I’d lied to her. What’s important, I told myself, is that I’d told her what I’d seen, and if she wanted to check it out (to see if there was a connection between what happened in the Village, and what I’d seen in Chelsea), I had made her job easier—

But it didn’t make me feel good, like I’d really accomplished something.

I also had the nagging feeling that in telling her what I’d seen I might have thrown away something precious. After all, if there was a story—some connection between what I’d seen, and what had happened in the Village—why couldn’t I check it out myself? And even if there’s not, I thought, surely what happened out in Chelsea is serious enough in itself to merit real consideration.

FIVE

This is why, about two hours later, I’ve driven back into Chelsea, turning East on 26th. Street, and heading towards Tenth Avenue. I’ve prepared a whole list of questions that I’m hoping to ask the dancers, or, possibly, the small black man—if anyone will talk to me.

First of all I would like to know the significance of the dance. Is it some kind of ritual—some supplication of the gods—or some meaningless empty gesture? Worst case scenario, I thought, what if it’s like St. Vitus dance (or some other weird malady), and these people are really sick?

But, of course, there’s no way I’ll know short of contacting the dancers, and, possibly, their ringleader. Sweating, my heart beating like mad, I’m half thinking that this is crazy, that I’m like way out of my depth, when I realize that I’ve arrived at the place where I saw the dancers, and that the street is empty now. Obviously it’s an industrial street, yet many of the buildings are closed.

Maybe it’s that, I tell myself. Maybe like I’ve arrived too late; and the action (whatever it is) takes place before the work day starts.

But it gets worse: coming up the street, I also see that there’s no hookers hanging out on Eleventh Ave.—so that there’s no one to confirm anything ever really happened—that I wasn’t hallucinating from taking too much medicine. But, no, it can’t be that, I think. No way I didn’t see those dancers.

It’s the hour; it has to be the hour, I anxiously assure myself—But now, even though I feel calm, certain I haven’t dreamt all this up, I’m not satisfied doing nothing. Maybe I’ve gotten here too late to see the dancers do their dance; but since I’m not that far away why not head down to Leroy Street, and see what I can find out there?

Because what if I’m right, I think, as I turn on Eighth Avenue. What if something wild’s going on? Why can’t I find out what’s behind it? More: if there’s a real story here, why can’t I be the one to tell it?

To tell the truth, of course, I think—because it hasn’t occurred to me I can embroider anything—

But when I got to Hudson Street, and Leroy Street, in the West Village, the place was really not more lively than the street I’d just visited. There’s a small playground on the corner, an upscale crowded restaurant—But it seems ridiculous to me to barge into Anglers and Writers, and ask the guys who run the place ‘Did you witness the accident? Do you know the guys who were killed, and why they were running around naked?’

No, if I’m going to pursue this story my best bet is to wait till morning, and return to Eleventh Avenue. There, at least, I witnessed some action, had some sense of something disturbing.

But now, terribly frustrated, I decide to go further west, past the highway, up to the pier—where, I excitedly remember, there supposedly are these trucks where gay men indulge in group sex.

Obviously I’m not going to push it (the thought of watching men have sex is something I find ludicrous), but maybe I can find someone hanging out there who knows something—like who were these guys who were killed, and whether they were out of it, wandering blindly through the streets, like the crowd I witnessed in Chelsea.

Excited now by the idea that I might find out something useful, I drive up there, and within minutes, I’ve parked my car, and started moving towards several empty-looking trucks. Disappointed (the place looks deserted), I’m suddenly enthused again when I spot two men near the railing overlooking the quiet waters, smoking, and seemingly mellowing out. They seem harmless enough to me (one’s short, and decked out in black leather; the older bearded one is thin, and dressed down in a fatigue jacket, baggy jeans, and scuffed desert boots), and since they’re not intimately engaged I don’t feel like I’m really intruding—

Nonetheless, not wanting to offend them, I move up to them gingerly, having already prepared the lie I hope will make them more forthcoming.

Hi, I say, without extending my hand, I’m wondering if I can ask you something. My name’s Dave, and I write for The Voice.

Really? the taller one coldly smirks. Am I supposed to be impressed? Then, almost like they’ve worked this out, the short one coolly follows up "What makes you think we read The Voice? Because we happen to be here trying to