Chapter Twenty-Six

HEADQUARTERS

BY MANHATTAN STANDARDS it's a modest-sized building, a couple dozen stories. The color is battleship gray. The style is generic, unremarkable, so that as one passes down the streets one is unlikely to notice the structure. Even when you search for it, Literature Police Headquarters is difficult to find. Its most noteworthy feature is an absence of windows of any kind.

Inside, the Man in the Black Hat is dazzled by the ground floor's orange-and-purple art deco design. This one area, a tribute to American lit's history, is a temple to a great cultural legacy; an ornate ceiling in the main hall done in pewabic tile. Series of displays pay homage to giants like Whitman, Twain, Katherine Anne Porter, Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway. Toward the end of the room are newer names like Jack Kerouac. Workers ready a glass case for the memory of Norman Mailer. The hall is a museum.

Chief Lopate greets Black Hat near the elevators.

"So good to meet you!" the Chief exclaims enthusiastically, though they saw each other yesterday.

Chief Lopate is a kind of ultimate sycophant; the literary bureaucrat triumphant. Throughout his career-- indeed, his life-- he's followed every rule, obediently. In every area, to the strictures of the system he's loyally complied, without the merest hinted whisper of complaint, and has risen through the ranks accordingly with a comfortable weekly paycheck (all he really cares about) and a title which is meaningless: "Chief."

A glorified servant, like a hotel doorman in purple general's cap, and purple greatcoat with two rows of brass buttons, and clapboards on the shoulders. Lopate saves such clown costume for ceremonial occasions, but it's visible through every part of his being anyway. The man reminds Black Hat of a large dog he owns which greets him eagerly, with expectant look on its face, waiting to be given a command, told to do something, without which the dog is lost, can only creep back into its corner near a window to sleep.

"Today I want a tour," Black Hat tells the man. "Top two floors only."

"Yes. Yes!" Lopate proclaims. "No, no, not there! Those are for ordinary people."

The Chief steers his master away from the normal elevators toward one marked, "Express. Authorized Personnel Only."

They step into the transport to hierarchy with smiles.

The first floor they examine is filled with cubicles of busily working people.

"This is the Truth Department," Chief Lopate says. "As you know, its mission is to suppress Truth!"

Lopate says these words with some glee; the air of a man announcing a game rigged to always ensure victory. He rubs his hands together involuntarily; happily.

The floor spreads over a large area. Most of the workers wear crisp gray Literature Police uniforms. Technology: Computers at every work station, and large screen TV's across the walls which display silent interviews of current writers, give a sense of power and money. The movement of people in the office is regimented, like that of a machine.

Black Hat is impressed with the evident efficiency.

Everything is antiseptically clean.

In a cubicle nearby, prim Officer R. Donadio finishes a report on CIA involvement in literature which states there isn't any! Never been. A few accidental indications over the years which mean nothing. Black Hat peers over her shoulder to read the report. Officer Donadio doesn't mind. As he reads, Black Hat nods his head in agreement. The slate has been wiped clean.

At the center of the floor, equidistant from all sides, is the Room of Secrets. A uniformed guard stands at attention. A red steel door-- the only color to be seen above the first floor-- leads into what is actually a room inside a room. Through this door shredders await, along with TV screens, telephones, and weapons; first line of defense-- given a revolution which makes it this high.

"The key?" Black Hat asks.

"Two of them," Lopate says, pointing to two locks side-by-side which must be opened simultaneously. "The guard on duty has one. I frankly don't know who retains the other. Mr. Plimpton once did. Now--?"

Lopate shrugs.

"Do you ever think about who could hold the Second key?" Black Hat asks.

"It's not my position to think!" the Chief exclaims.

The other suppresses reaction. The Second key hangs around his own neck.

The other side of the floor contains the Marketing department, where staffers create writers to be given to conglomerates to hype, often fake revolutionaries. Posters of Miranda July decorate this area.

The highest floor is as quiet as a monastery, its loudest sound the gentle flow of air conditioning. A handful of studious individuals in white shirts and black ties read silently. "The Harvard Room," an embossed sign announces at the entrance to this area.

"The Investigators," Lopate says in a hushed voice. "Our best people."

"Do they investiage the Rebellion?" Black Hat asks.

Lopate frowns.

"Over here," he says.

The camera follows them to another part of the floor, at the end of the wide movie screen, where sits a large computer screen on a white steel desk.

"Many people fight the Rebellion," Lopate relates in a scripted way. "There are several counter-insurgency actions taking place this minute which are beyond my job category to know the details. But we do our part! Don't think we're not steadily working in approved Literature Police way."

He types in a password, then clicks on a screen:

http://www.undergroundprofiles.blogspot.com/

"This site is the result of the work of Floor 8. It represents thousands of man-and-woman hours."

Black Hat scrolls through it.

"It appears," the Overdog remarks, "that more work is needed."

Lopate takes the rebuke silently. He stands at attention and willfully empties his mind. Anger is suppressed except when dealing with bad guys.

"Come along," his master orders.

Chief Lopate, titular head of the Literature Police, mechanically follows the man.

They're back in the Harvard Room with the Investigators. The Man in the Black Hat observes the many certificates, diplomas, and awards adorning the muted walls. On this floor, as on all others, there are no windows. The Investigators continue to read under soft artificial light, not saying anything. It's a closed room; isolated. The workers could be wearing blindfolds. Fitting for a corrupt town where gang bosses control so much territory. The Police are ultimately on someone's payroll, including his own.

Black Hat strolls about the desks, glancing at the employees, noting the name tags of the Best of the Best: Birkerts, Sante, Menand, Wood. No one of the faceless persons looks up. All continue deliberately to read.

"What do they investigate?" Black Hat asks.

"Why-- nothing," Chief Lopate replies.