Read Friends at Homeland Security for Free Online

you get that, or do you want me to go over it again real slow so that you can get it?”
    He looks at me like he is talking down to a six-year-old schoolboy and a moron to boot.
    “Creds,” I say.
    He looks at me like he is a mean principal looking down at a miscreant boy. His usually placid frown becomes more on the malevolent side.
    “Shut up!” he says.
    “No,” I say. “This is my office, and I call the shots. First, I see the creds; then I find out why you are invading my space; then, maybe—or maybe not—I talk about what I know. I’ll decide.”
    Two of the heavies standing behind the older agent take two menacing steps forward—close enough that we can almost rub noses. At that moment, Ivory White starts to walk into my office, obviously having been directed there by my eavesdropping office manager. There are only four of them, and I am afraid that Ivory might take it into his head to put a hurt on them—and that would be unseemly—so I motion for him to come in but to keep his distance for the time being.
    “That your thug?” Older Man asks, disrespecting Ivory—which is not usually a wise thing to do according to my observation of how he handles such things.
    Ivory’s face loses its usual placidly friendly countenance, and he advances close enough to become part of the inner circle. It is tense. The four agents are used to being obeyed promptly; Ivory is used to being respected constantly; and I generally do not like being bullied in my own bailiwick.
    “Time for you to leave,” I announce to Older Man and hiss it enough to spray a bit of saliva into his too-close face.
    The agent who has been standing off from the other three now advances. He is fingering a bulge in his left armpit, and I am pretty sure that he does not have an itch. It is getting tenser.
    Just to throw a little more gas on the fire, I call out to my manager, “Hey, Vera, Ivory and I are being accosted by people who won’t leave when asked to do so politely. Please call security … no, strike that. Get NYPD up here. We inoffensive citizens are being assaulted by federal officers under the color of authority.”
    She pirouettes crisply and starts back to her desk and her telephone.
    Older Man breaks the tension, “Assaulted?” he asks, incredulously.
    “Yes, Agent. It’s a fine point in criminal law that you likely skipped over in FBI school or whichever night school you attended. Assault is a verbal attack; battery is when you resort to touching or other physical violence. Am I to interpret your assault as a preliminary to battery?”
    My voice is intentionally insulting—more so than I want it to be, but I am mad—and intend to have my adversary understand that his condescension toward me is mutual.
    “So, which is it to be? NYPD or your creds and reasons, or you just leave. Take your pick,” I say in a slightly more moderated tone.
    Vera’s hand is poised over her phone.
    There is an angry pause, complete with ozone in the air—the sort that one imagines in a Mexican stand-off.
    Older Man thinks for a moment, then says, “We’re special agents of Homeland Security. I think you get my message. Back off.”
    I realize it is repetitive, but I tell him again, “Creds.”
    He grits his teeth and turns to his fellow agents and orders, “Back off for the moment.”
    All three of them remove their noses from the proximity of my nose, take their hands away from their gun holsters, and back away three steps.
    I nod to Ivory, and he backs away two steps.
    With almost theatrical reluctance, Older Man reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a standard federal cred-pack and flips it open for a second.
    “Keep it open until I can read it,” I demand.
    Even more reluctantly, he does it until I am satisfied.
    “Thank you for your courtesy, Special Agent,” I say sweet as saccharine, and sincerely keeping to my motto for such situations always to be sincere whether you mean it or not.
    “Stuff it, smart…,” he starts