CARLOS & KATRINA

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright 2006, 2018

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Chapter 13

As evening fell on the cloudy, rain–threatened central city, Federal Agent Ernest Lukelew lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair.  Locked away again in his shuttered maximum security high–rise office suite, his mood was following the darkening sky which he could not see outside, but could sense was changing.  Big, high–resolution monitors lined the walls around him, and there were more on the numerous tables that filled the rooms.  Various audio monitoring devices hung in racks lining the walls.  Computers whirred and clicked at the large desk where he sat; the monotonous humming noise of their fans coming on and off somehow made him feel better. 

And he desperately wanted to feel better.  Lukelew alternately loathed and enjoyed his line of work, which was surveillance, or to put it more candidly, spying on people.  He loathed it because it was dangerous and stressful, and because the stress took its toll on his mental and physical health.  It was necessary to maintain the highest security around him, and even the building maintenance people were specially screened and chosen.  His job as a federal surveillance agent was hazardous enough, but Lukelew also "moonlighted" as a free–lance agent for various well–heeled clients, some of whom were so secretive that he never actually met them in person.  Lukelew had made many enemies from this very rewarding sideline, some of them powerful and formidable.

Such as Major General Daniel Murdock.  Lukelew had taken on the difficult task of spying on the weighty Air Force commander for a mysterious, anonymous entity that identified itself only as "The Client," and he had come to regret the assignment.  Murdock was a surveillance expert himself, and as such was well–equipped to detect and protect himself from prying eyes and ears. Worse still, the high–ranking officer had all the resources of the military at his disposal and was fully capable of spying himself, as well as taking even more unpleasant actions.  Lukelew had begun to strongly suspect that Murdock was watching and toying with him after he had found his home computer turned on one evening as he sat down to use it, with a picture of himself in his bedroom on the screen.  He had experienced more unnerving things, such as finding his car on the other side of the street he had parked it on the night before, prompting Lukelew to increase his security.  Events such as these were beginning to make him question the wisdom of what he was doing.

On the other hand, he enjoyed his job because it sometimes provided him with excellent entertainment; some of the people he monitored were very interesting, and most of the people that interested him had little or no defense against his skillful electronic trespassing.  In fact, the more interesting they were to him and his clients, the more assuredly they forfeited their privacy.  Between the skyrocketing advances in surveillance technology and the never–ending surplus of sick but very rich peeping toms who paid him to use that technology, no one was safe -- especially pretty girls.  Lukelew was ingeniously proficient when it came to watching anybody, at any location. He could plant a hidden camera or microphone almost anywhere; he or his trusted operatives could gain access to houses, office buildings, airplanes, trains, boats or automobiles through a wide variety of methods, posing as a telephone or television repairman, plumber, electrician or deliveryman to name but a few.  He had the use of the highest technology infra–red and other cameras, and being a high–ranking federal agent could legally tap telephones and camera–phones; he also had recourse to satellite surveillance, as well as high–powered views from spy planes, helicopters and drones.

Lukelew had capitalized on this lucrative side business by selling his "findings" to rich and powerful clients bent on discrediting and/or blackmailing their enemies.  These clients ranged from political manipulators to ordinary citizens who had money to throw around.  And his talents didn't stop at mere spying.  Lukelew had branched off into the extremely profitable business of image–destroying and character assassination.

His clients were ravenous; they wanted dirt on their enemies, and they didn't care what means he used to obtain it.  If surveillance didn't produce satisfactory results, he could fabricate dirt on someone –– for a much higher price.  To meet the unscrupulous demands of his clients, he had necessarily become adept at the art of re–touching photographs and video, using impersonators, models and craftsmen to create contrived scenes and sets, audio tapes and other deceptive things.  And it was this "dishonest" facet of his job that was most responsible for his ever–growing depression and self–loathing.  Some of his clients just took it too far.

Like David Geeken, the super–wealthy "rock starmaker" who had made billions of dollars selling records, most of which ranged from mediocre to disgustingly offensive.  Geeken was obsessed with manipulating his ambitious pawns.  His method of control was simple; using generous advances of cash to gain complete contractual power over the artists that signed up with him, the wimpy tycoon would then maneuver these celebrities like puppets, getting them to sing idiotic, demented lyrics which he paid other low–life losers to write, lyrics designed specifically to taunt and malign people whom Geeken hated.  If an artist took umbrage at being used like an automaton and tried to escape this degrading slavery, Geeken would sue them in court for all they had and more, often totally destroying them.  It was a fairly common practice among the Ushers who controlled the entertainment industry.

Lukelew knew everything about Geeken.  What bothered him most was Geeken's proclivity to use the money he took in from his incredibly incognizant public to "buy" people who held key positions in government, journalism, advertising, filmmaking and of course the music recording industry.  He seemed to do this for the primary purpose of nettling and discrediting his enemies, by inserting infantile barbs and innuendos about them in the most widely circulated media of the day. These insults were delivered by popular media personages whom other Ushers just as cretinous as Geeken had built up and turned into overnight superstars. The cruel irony was that the majority of his so–called "enemies" were actually only people who had voiced their disgust or tried to interfere with his vile, contemptible practices; people like Neil Corona, the hugely popular songwriter and performer whom Geeken had attempted to control like a toy.  When Corona had proven to be smart enough and rich enough to fight back in court, Geeken had been forced to release him from his contract after being assailed from all sides by the countless fans and devotees of this enormously in–demand artist.  But that had been Geeken's only defeat to date; he still maneuvered scores of helpless rock stars and media figures, and had quickly put them to work slandering Neil Corona.  The obsessed magnate was clearly sick in the head; a pathetic, avaricious, power–mad idiot with the mentality of a child, a dangerous child who wielded enormous power.  He was one of Lukelew's best clients.

It hadn't surprised Lukelew at all to learn that Geeken was best friends and partners in crime with Stephen Schidtberger, the movie mogul who had attained unbelievable wealth making cartoon films and other equally childish offerings, and who used his money to pursue the same nefarious and asinine activities as Geeken: the time–honored Usher "art" of destroying the reputations of one's enemies while riling them in the media.  But Schidtberger was even more ridiculous than his star–making friend, in that he also used his overflowing capital to bribe hundreds of leading journalists and critics to extol him in the press.  Clearly, Schidtberger's life–goal was to go down in history as the genius of his time.

Then there was Jacob Rosenberg, the son of the well–connected diplomat and political engineer Henry Rosenberg.  The sickening, rich young socialite had gained access to Lukelew through Schidtberger and Geeken, and had quickly proceeded to exploit their relationship to a nauseating extent.  Rosenberg always assumed a sneering, dictatorial attitude, and Lukelew didn't like the way he talked down to him, as if he were a servant instead of a highly–placed federal agent.  It seemed as if every month Jacob had another victim he wished to embarrass or destroy, and a seemingly endless supply of money with which to do it.  Lukelew thought it was an extremely suspicious coincidence that the main object of his malice was also a very interesting subject of one of Lukelew's own federal investigations, a multi–talented young schoolmate of Rosenberg's who was being watched as a potential political agitator and subversive.  His name was Carlos Fontana, and monitoring his life was like watching a movie.

Lukelew had been watching Fontana and anyone he associated with for years now, both for his federal employers and for Rosenberg.  The oddball musician had proven to be harmless enough, his main offense being that he was one of those rare people who could see through government cover–ups and conspiracies.  The fact that he printed up and attempted to distribute anti–government propoganda pamphlets didn't mark him as even a minor threat to any political party, even though the things he wrote were always pretty damn near the mark; this was because it was the rare bird that took the time to read such boring literature these days.

It seemed to Lukelew that Fontana had been marked as an agitator only so that some extremely wealthy but unseen enemies of his could use the sophisticated and powerful tools of the federal surveillance community to gather embarrassing information on him.  But Fontana didn't do all that much to accommodate them, apart from his noticeable lack of contact with the opposite sex and the resultant monasterial vices that always accompanied that sort of thing.  He didn't even collect hardcore pornography; the only embarrassing thing Lukelew could get on him was that he possessed pictures of girls in underwear and bikinis, which he kept well–hidden away from his mother's prying eyes.   But Rosenberg seemed to feel that Fontana's lack of degeneracy was somehow Lukelew's fault, and he had berated him for his unsatisfactory results.

"What the hell are you giving me? More jack–off pictures? Everybody does that... it's not enough! I want some real dirt! You're supposed to be the best, Lukelew… what the hell am I paying you for?" Rosenberg yelled at him as if he were some lowly chattel.  Lukelew had to try hard to remain calm as he attempted to pacify the spoiled young sickie.

"It's not the fact that everybody does it… it's more of a "do you want everybody watching you do it" type of thing, you see.  By taking away his basic privacy, you rob him of his dignity! Therefore you win," he had tried to explain to Rosenberg with an obsequious smile.

"People get sick of the same shit, over and over again.  For the prices you charge I expect better than that from you, Lukelew! You're supposed to be a professional rat!"

Lukelew had chafed at the remark, but continued trying to humor his unpleasant client.  "Well, if you want extracurricular services, the price goes up accordingly! It's not an easy thing to destroy somebody's reputation, you know.  It takes special skill, knowledge… imagination.  Remember, you only get what you pay for, Jacob," he told him. 

Rosenberg had grudgingly coughed up some more cash and Lukelew had gone to work, using models to set up scenes depicting sexual perversion and bestiality, his old stand–bys.  But something about the insolent young jerk's unrelenting ferver to destroy Fontana had evoked some deeply buried sense of sympathy in Lukelew for the hapless victim of Rosenberg's sadism.  Because he was a professional and took genuine pride in his artwork, Lukelew had tried to make his doctored photographs appear real... but he hadn't tried all that hard.  He had left Fontana an out.  Although Rosenberg had been delighted with his new purchases, an expert would easily be able to tell that the pictures were fakes.

Lukelew smiled as he thought about it.  Someday Rosenberg was going to make a mistake and cross the wrong person.  Someone who had the resources to fight back.  When that day came, Lukelew would be safe; he always covered his ass.  But there would be hell to pay for Rosenberg.

Lukelew finished his cigarette and lit another.  It had been a long day, and now it was time to sit back, relax and watch the Katrina Fury show.

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Copyright 2006, 2018 by Charles Adrian Trevino.