We left Kunt Tower as ugly as we had found it, seconds after Cohn jumped with Joy into the back of a Yellow Toyota Camry Hybrid taxi-cab to “Pick up some overweight baggage,” which was fine by Monica who’d insisted we ride with Jay-B anyway.

The cab was one of 34 medallions ‘The Fixer’ owned: “Worth over $1 million a pop until the city let Uber and Lyft butt-fuck me. Now I’d be lucky to get a fifth of that,” he groaned at Joy who turned the other cheek toward Jay-B’s G-Wagon and a ride that better suited her Fendi ‘F’ girl two-tone off-the-chain persona.[i]

We were to regroup at the SHELTAIR Lounge of the Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia Airport for our flight to West Palm Beach at 11:00 AM because Kunt’s Golden Ostrich was, at 100,000 pounds, too obese to land anywhere else.

We stutter-stepped west along 54th Street behind a garbage truck and swung north at Park Avenue towards a chain of charcoal-grey blanket clouds that had put daylight on hold and clung to Gotham like a great depression.

At East 59th Street we turned right and bumped our way across the avenues and onto the lower roadway of Queensborough Bridge where we were buffered full frontal by the force of the strong winds blowing in over the East River and pounded by plus-sized grenades that splattered on the windshield, streaking right to left.

I turned my head around to say something sweet to Monica.

But, she was sleeping beautifully on the back seat.

So, I rubbernecked as an electrical storm raged over Gotham City slicing and dicing a morning that had many of the dark qualities of night.

By the time Jay-B unexpectedly dragged the G-Wagon off the Queensborough Bridge, the Joker had stolen a crop-duster and was attempting to poison thousands of people celebrating Halloween in the streets of Gotham City, and Batman’s cape was caught in the plane’s propeller.

We made a quick left onto Northern Boulevard and we snuggled-up to Dutch Kill Green, a 1.5-acre urban-wetlands surrounded by elevated subway trains, mad traffic and abandoned, empty buildings.

Jay-B tucked us in neatly behind twin black Chevy Suburban 2500 HD’s, muttering: “Malditos Federales.”

The Suburban’s escorted us the rest of the way, which was just over half a mile north up Northern Boulevard, tip-toeing though a jumble jungle of warehouses, body shops and used car dealers, before turning left on 41st Street into PV Parking Garage-  a vast, dark, empty chamber with polished concrete floors, where a third Black Suburban was waiting for us with its rear right door wide open.

Leaning against it in a grey-blue suit was James Comey, the towering, dapper, 7th Director of the FBI.

Comey was as seen on TV, tall, dark, and central casting Cary Grant, clean-cut, handsome, carrying huge water-bags under his puppy dog eyes. He was either stronger than he expected or weaker than we expected or making a play for my good graces.

He welcomed me with a righteous handshake and Monica with a smooth, familiar “It’s good to see you again Ms. Rivera,”

“Mr. Degas —”

“Elia.” I insisted, my voice bouncing around the car park from pillar to post.

“We don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll get right to the point.” He said confidentially, before digressing to sell me syrup.

“I come from a law enforcement family. My grandfather, William J. Comey, was a police officer. Pop Comey is one of my heroes. I have a picture of him on the wall in my office at the FBI, reminding me of the legacy I’ve inherited and that I must honor. The promise I’ve made to myself is uphold the rule of law and protect the design of the founders.  We at the bureau think of ourselves as a fourth branch of government, watching over the judiciary, Congress and the President.  
And making sure they play it straight”

I was about to give him a standing ovation for mere mortals everywhere, when he looked down at his watch and then back at us as if time was of the essence, so I put my hands back in my pockets and zippered my awe behind tight lips.

“Elia, we at the FBI believe that Russia is the greatest threat to our values of any nation on Earth, given their intent and capability, and that Putin’s operatives have infiltrated the Kunt Administration at the highest levels.  We have also come to understand that Putin’s hold over Kunt is real because the tape Monica supplied us of Kunt and two hookers playing watersports on the bed of the Ritz Carlton in Moscow is genuine. We also know from matching your DNA with the President’s that you are either his son or half-brother – “

I turned to Monica.

“What did you give them? En que equipo estas?

“I don’t do teams Degas, hay demasiados hijos de puta para decepcionarte. I make my own plays, that way I owe nothing if they work out.” She said turning away, but I caught her world of doubts and double-crosses reflected on the side of Comey’s truck anyway.

“And if they don’t, your playmates pay the price?”

“I don’t have any-kind-of-mates Degas, I have stories, most of which are tragedies in need of happier endings,” she argued.

“Puta hada madrina” I called her like I meant a witch.  Which rhymes with “bitch” and that set her off.

“Biatch,” then:

“Beyatch,” then:

“Biyatch,” then:

“Beyotch,” then:

“Biyotch,” then:


This was all a bit much for Comey, who ratcheted up his brows a notch, drilled me between the eyes and put the record straighter (from up on the high-road) in a frustratingly even tone of voice trained to beat a polygraph: “Elia, Monica came to us because her life had been threatened. She was concerned that Beatriz might, after all these years of hiding the truth, become vulnerable should the truth get out. With Monica’s help, we performed a DNA test on the blood you left on Eagle-eye’s gloves and we have determined beyond all reasonable doubt that you are related to Kunt, who has defrauded you.  I am not asking you to wear a wire nor am I asking you to cooperate with the Bureau, today. However, we are aware that through Michael Cohen, Kunt has offered you $25,000,000 to go away and that you are to meet him later today to settle things. I am simply telling you that it’s not enough money and warning you that taking it will not set you free!”

“Is this where you hand me your card” I said chomping on the bit.

“We don’t do that anymore, out of respect to the planet. Monica knows how to reach me.” he said with moral certainty, feeling his Quaker Oats.

And then he pumped my hand, sild onto the back seat of the Suburban and drove away leading a Suburban procession.

Jay-B had heard every word and was standing to attention, holding the right rear door of his truck open for me, genuflecting: Es hora de derribar al hijo de puta presidente, señor y buscar lo que es tuyo.

A few minutes later we were crawling northeast on 41st Street toward 34th Avenue in the company of a long line of cars and trucks, driven by tired men with miles to travel, shuffling for feet and inches.  The rain was strong enough now to distort our outlook and the day was dark enough to be mistaken for dusk. The headlights of oncoming cars made bling jewels of dirty rain-drops.

Jay-B turned the radio on to La Mega 97.9 FM where ACE award winner Alex Sensation was spinning Despacito by Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee, the song of the moment, on the hour, every hour on power-play with multiple spins in between, and by now we knew the chorus.

Which we sang.


We erupted into giggles when Jay-B licked his lips at what may be the most explicit cunnilingual reference in pop-music history:

“Que le enseñes a mi boca, tus lugares favoritos. Déjame sobrepasar tus zonas de peligro,”

We turned right onto Astoria Blvd and then left onto Grand Central Parkway, continuing past the unattached and forlorn, stale-chocolate box houses with false fronts that line the east side of Ditmars Blvd.

At 81st Street we made a left to hop over the river of traffic crawling up and down the Grand Central Parkway.

Rolling down Bowery Bay Boulevard as we approached the Marine Air Terminal, Kunt’s golden bird was like a gaudy pawnbrokers’ neon sign in the hood, impossible to miss.

Kunt  bought his 37-year-old, Boeing 757-200 from a company controlled by the Microsoft lottery-winner Paul Allen, in 1995, who had already transformed it from a cattle cart operated by the now-defunct TAESA, low cost Mexican Airline, into a hyper-luxury private jet, with master suite, bar, dining table and 12 sleeper seats.

Kunt paid $100 million and then spent another $40 million adding gold and other weighty, gas-guzzling fixings to his beloved “K-Bird,” which was now worth less than $20 million, but became a nice little earner during the election when a company Kunt owned charged his campaign approximately $3.7 million to cart the candidate here, there and everywhere red caps could be found in mass.

When asked by the New York Times to comment on the plane, Greg Raiff, chief executive officer of Private Jet Services, an aviation consulting firm and private-jet charter broker for corporations and individuals, said the Boeing was an unusual aircraft for a man of Kunt’s purported wealth: “Buying a 25-year-old 757 is like buying a bag of Cheetos. It’s a lot of food for a low price.”

At the Marine Air Terminal, a valet that had greeted Kunt for more than a decade, strode across a gushing gutter to greet us, holding up a Kunt branded umbrella with both his white-gloved hands to stop it from blowing away.

He was wearing a scarlet top hat and tails that fit too tightly and scarlet cheeks that fit rather loosely and a subservient smile which had evolved over many years, etched deep long valleys into the skin around his pale thin lips.

He escorted us through the terminals recently renovated deco lobby to the Sheltair lounge, where he handed us back to Joy, who pointed us to a gathering of club-chairs around a low-slung table and a gallery of rogues, whom I guessed were coming to dinner.

Loudest at the table was Stephen K. Bannon, a former investment banker at Goldman Sachs and Editor of the shrill fake-discount-news outlet Blackheart News, who was Kunt’s campaign manager, White House Chief Strategist and Senior Counselor.  He’d been charged with misdemeanor domestic violence, battery and dissuading a witness following an incident in early January 1996 when he tried to strangle his ex-wife but walked because his ex-wife was the witness he dissuaded.

Richest at the table was Isaac “Ike” Mercer, a veteran of the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, owner of Marvelous Comics, CEO of Rebirth Capital, owner of the shrill fake-discount-news outlet Blackheart News, money launderer for Putin and part-owner of Cambridge Analytica Ltd, a British political consulting firm which combined data mining, data brokerage, and data analysis with strategic communication during the electoral process which is under criminal investigation for its role in both the United States and the United Kingdom for using this data to illegally influence the results of the BREXIT referendum and the 2016 Presidential election.

The ugliest man at the table was Kunt’s Secretary of Commerce, the fund manager and grifter: Wilbur Louis Ross Jr. He’s famously known for grabbing handfuls of Sweet ‘n’ Low wherever he goes, making charitable pledges he does not honor,  and pocketing fees he wasn’t entitled to (or belonged to his partners) to his $4.1 billion WL Ross Private Equity Fund, resulting in a $2.3 million fine being levied against the fund in 2016 by the SEC and out of court settlements of over $100 million.

The best story at the table was being told by David Jay Pecker, the publisher of the National Enquirer with help from Cohen.

The way he told it, Kunt was the elephant in the room in August 2015 when Cohen and Pecker discussed ways Pecker could help counter negative stories about Kunt’s affairs with Stormy and former Playmate-of-the-month Karen McDougal and helped with the planning of the hush money payments to both lasses.

“They were big checks,” said Cohen pointing to his dick. “$130,000 to Stormy and $150,000 to Karen.  But not as big as the check I just gave this Kunt,” he added extending his arm to size his dick.

“Gentlemen, you’ve all met Monica, well, I’d like to introduce you to Elia Degas, the President’s half-brother and a freshly-minted $25,000,000 Kunt.”

That stung.

Nobody likes being call a Kunt.

Kunts’ least of all.

I’d save it for later.