This chapter from my new novel, Early Warning, was written well before the Times Square bomber made his abortive attempt to bring fiction to life. Remember: everything in it is not only possible but, on some level, probable.

Times Square -

Jake Sinclair’s face was forty feet high on the Jumbotron above Times Square, smiling at some private joke only he was privy to.  Since he pretty much owned the media in the U.S.,, that was not an outrageous supposition.  Underneath his picture, the Zipper was proclaiming to the world: “WITH BLAST AT TYLER, SINCLAIR HOLDINGS SELLS MANHATTAN HEADQUARTERS TO GERMAN MEDIA CONSORTIUM.  CORP. HQ TO RE-LOCATE TO LOS ANGELES.”

Those who looked up at the Jumbotron at that moment would have seen Sinclair, speaking now, praising Tyler’s rival in the upcoming election.  “The Tyler Administration,” he was saying, “has forfeited all claims to credibility.  The attacks last year on the homeland — the first since September 11th — proved that this administration is not to be trusted with our national security.  Despite his gross and flagrant violation of civil liberties, President Tyler has not kept us safe and, in my opinion, it’s time for a change.  That’s why every patriotic American should send a message to Tyler and his part at the polls this November.  Not just ‘throw the bums out,’ but hell yes, throw the bums out.” He smiled the oleaginous smile that had made him a favorite of most of the media, for Jake Sinclair had long ago learned the first and most important lesson of Hollywood, which had since translated to journalism: if you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.

“I hate that sonofabitch,” said Morris Acker to his wife, Shirley, as they traversed the new pedestrian zone and waited to cross over to 42nd Street, heading for the theater where Mary Poppins was still playing.  Once upon a time, this had been the crossroads of the world, the place where Broadway and Seventh Avenue intersected, collided, and then split to go their separate ways.  In the old days — the very old days — it had been a concatenation of pedestrians, pushcarts, horse-drawn vehicles and motorcars, but gradually order had been imposed upon civic chaos.  Now, where traffic once had rushed, pretty girls sat and gawked at the buildings while the boys sat and gawked at them.  Meanwhile, cars fought for space in the few lanes still allotted to them.  It was a typically lunatic idea of the former mayor, a nasty little busybody, who had finally been driven from office when he attempted to delink the price of a slice of pizza from the subway fare by raising the former fourfold, on the grounds that would improve the health of the average New York if he ate less pizza.  And then he raised the subway fare anyway, on the grounds that people would be even healthier if they had to walk forty blocks instead of spending $5 for the subway ride.

“We should have parked closer,” said Shirley.  “If we’d parked closer, we’d be there by now.”

Morris shrugged.  He hadn’t gotten this far in life by wasting money when he could save it, and he hadn’t saved it when he could prudently spend it on Mrs. Acker.  It was one of the many reasons they had lasted this long together, longer than most couples their age, longer than most couples they knew.  An occasional trip to the diamond district nobody knew about, the merchants who conducted their business out of anonymous, well-fortified, buzzer-entry buildings on the west side in the 20s and 30s, not cheap but off-price, not open to the public unless you were mishpocheh.  You didn’t even have to be Jewish, just haimish — and if you had lived long enough in New York, you probably were.

Anyway, the parking garages around here were outrageous, and for a few bucks a trip uptown to the cheaper lots on the Upper West Side was well worth it, even with the new subway fares.  The Ackers were in from Rye for the day to catch a matinee on Broadway, an early dinner and then home to Westchester.  Mr. Acker was a recently retired employee of Time Warner, who over the course of his career had managed to upgrade his life by two neighborhoods, four automobiles, one boat and zero wives from his humble beginnings in the Five Towns.  In his opinion, if he never set foot again on Long Island, it would be too soon. (more…)