Jesus, DeMarco said, do we have to go through this every damn time?
Yeah, the man at the workbench said. We have to go through this every damn time because theyre idiots and because you look like Sonny fuckin Corleone. Then the man wiped his right hand on the leg of his coveralls, walked over, and shook hands with DeMarco.
Hows your boy, Curtis? DeMarco asked. Curtis Jacksons oldest son played catcher for the Mets triple-A team. Last week he had blocked the plate when a first baseman the size of New Jersey slid into home. He didnt drop the ball but he was out cold for two innings.
Hes okay. Got a head like his mother. Hell be back playin next week.
Thats good.
Hey, Dee-Mar-ko, one of the cardplayers said. You noticed you the only white guy in the building got an office in the basement?
He aint white, cardplayer number two said, hes I-talian. He darker than you, Clark, he got a tan.
You oughta join a union, DeMarco, cardplayer one said. That way you get seniority, you get an upstairs office.
Hell, no, DeMarco said. If I joined a union, Id have to wear them ugly coveralls and get my name sewn on the pocket.
DeMarco, you fool, cardplayer two said, you never sews your own name on your pocket.
Yeah, said cardplayer three, I got your name on my shirts, DeMarco, and one of these days they gonna fire your lazy ass.
As the cardplayers whooped and high-fived each other, DeMarco said to Curtis, Why arent those guys working?
Not that its any of your business but their shift doesnt start for an hour. They come early to play cards and get away from their wives. You need something, Joe?
Yeah. Can I borrow your TV and VCR?
Sure, Curtis said, but bring em back before tomorrow afternoon. The Skins got an exhibition game.
This prompted a fifteen-minute discussion between DeMarco, a die-hard Redskins fan, and the cardplayers. The cardplayers, unhampered by sentiment or geographic loyalty, ran down the coach, the defensive line, the offensive line, and a fullback who they said ran like a fat girl. They were unanimous, however, in their support of the cheerleaders.
Back in his own office, DeMarco popped a borrowed copy of the assassination tape into the VCR. He tapped the play button on the remote then sat back, finger poised to pause the tape. He was ready to assess the hinkiness of Billy Ray Mattis.
The television commentators and their hired experts had, for the last four days, endlessly discussed the fact that Mattis had dropped his sunglasses before the first shot. And they had all reached the same conclusion: Mattiss fumble was a clear sign that God was a Democrat. Had Mattis not dropped his sunglasses, Montgomery would not have bumped into Mattiss ass, and, in turn, Montgomery would not have bumped into the President in which case the first bullet would have blown the Presidents head apart. The lads and lasses at the FBI didnt disagree with this interpretation of events, yet neither they nor the journalists had seen the warning note.
As DeMarco watched the tape this time he thought that Mattis was maybe more nervous than the other agents. And as the Presidents group approached the helicopter, right before the first shot, Mattis seemed to scrunch his head down into his Windbreaker, like a turtle trying to make its head disappear. Yet, DeMarco noticed, Mattis moved quickly and without hesitation to protect the President and he had fired his weapon before any of the other agents.
There was nothing conclusive about the film yet DeMarco now understood what Banks meant. Mattis did look different than the other agents but it was difficult to articulate how and there was nothing you could point to with any certainty. More important, DeMarco knew that by now the FBI had positively Zaprudered the video: they had taken it apart pixel by pixel, blown up every frame, and built 3-D computer simulations. If the FBI and its legions of white-coated techies had found nothing suspicious on the tape there was no way that DeMarcos naked eyeball would find a smoking gun. After watching the video five times, DeMarco gave up; the tape either showed a very alert agent acting as hed been trained or a very nervous agent with foreknowledge of a shooting that was about to occur.
DeMarco looked at his watch. It was four p.m. The sun was over the yardarm at least in the mid-Atlantic it was and that was close enough for DeMarco. He called Alice.
8
The Monocle was a historic drinking establishment on the senate side of the Capitol, a block from Union Station. The walls were covered with photographs of smiling, glassy-eyed politicians. Mahoneys own picture was displayed prominently near the entrance, a thick arm around the neck of a rival who looked decidedly uncomfortable.
DeMarco liked the place. The kitchen served an adequate meal, the bar an excellent martini, and from his favorite stool he could watch the young ladies who worked on the Hill fast-walk by in their tight skirts as they hustled to catch the Metro at Union Station.
Mr William, the Monocles afternoon bartender, brought DeMarco his martini, the expression on his face as solemn as if he were bearing the Eucharistic wine. Mr William was in his sixties, black, skinny, and six foot six. He had inherited from his forebears the dignified, mournful face of an undertaker a face which belied a filthy, adolescent mind.
You watch the Birds against Seattle last night, Joe? Mr William asked.
We have discussed this before, sir, DeMarco said, and you know my feelings on this subject. I will watch the Orioles only when the Senators return to Washington.
In 1971 the Washington Senators left D.C. and moved to Texas to become the Texas Rangers, and all good D.C. baseball fans mourned the teams departure as if their sainted mothers had expired. For years Washingtonians had lobbied to return a major league team to the capital but the owner of the Baltimore Orioles blocked every effort, rightfully concluding that a team in D.C. would take butts out of the seats at Camden Yards. It appeared that Washington might finally prevail in the coming year, but only by giving major financial concessions to the Orioles owner, a man DeMarco had come to loathe with a passion that could only be understood by other baseball fanatics.
Then you didnt see Rodriguezs triple play followed by Rodriguezs inside-the-park home run? Mr William said.
Shit. Either a triple play or an inside-the-park home run was as rare as dinosaur droppings. And hed missed em both. Fuckin Orioles. Their owner was an avaricious spoiler, their front office cheaper than Scrooges offspring, and their pitchers not fit to play at the high-school level but they had Alonzo Rodriguez, currently the best player in either league. But DeMarco would not lift his embargo. Ever.
Screw Rodriguez and his triple play, DeMarco said, trying to act as if he meant it.
Youre a stubborn man, Joe.
He was. DeMarco sipped from his martini, nodded his gratitude to the martinis creator, and said, Excellent, Mr William. May I use your phone please?
You dont have a cell phone, like all the other yahoos who come in here?
Screw Rodriguez and his triple play, DeMarco said, trying to act as if he meant it.
Youre a stubborn man, Joe.
He was. DeMarco sipped from his martini, nodded his gratitude to the martinis creator, and said, Excellent, Mr William. May I use your phone please?
You dont have a cell phone, like all the other yahoos who come in here?
Yeah, but I dont want to use up my minutes. Come on, gimme the phone. Its not like you pay the bill.
DeMarco dialed. Its Joe, he said when Emma answered.
Say it aint so, Joe, Emma said.
You sound cheery, Emma.
Im healthy, wealthy, and wise and unlike you, I have an active sex life. Why shouldnt I be cheery? So what do you want? Im doing my nails.
Id like to borrow one of your associates for surveillance duty.
The Mattis thing?
Yeah.
Goin whole hog, are you?
Whats an investigation without surveillance, Em? Ill have your man tail Billy for a day or two then Ill report back to Banks that hes as pure as the fallen snow.
The fallen snow is black from pollutants, Joe. Anyway, what will you be doing while my guys tailing Billy?
DeMarco told her.
I think Mikes free, she said. Ill have him call you.
Is this the same Mike you loaned me in February?
Yes.
Good. Hes an okay guy. By the way, Emma, whats his background? DeMarco rolled his eyes when he asked the question, knowing he was wasting his breath but as Mr William had observed, he was a stubborn man.
Oh, the usual, Emma said. Navy SEAL, licensed to kill, that sort of thing. Emma hung up.
The truth was Mike could be licensed to kill. DeMarco had discovered in the years he had known her that Emma had access to a wide variety of talented people: ex-cops, ex-soldiers, and, he suspected, ex-criminals. She knew wiretap experts, document forgers, and computer hackers. They were all competent and for reasons he was sure he would never know, completely loyal to Emma.
DeMarco had met Emma by giving her a ride. He had just dropped off a friend at Reagan National. He was parked ahead of the cab lane, checking traffic on his left, ready to pull out, when his passenger door opened and a woman entered his car. She was attractive, middle aged, and dressed in an elegant white pantsuit that was rumpled from travel. She was also out of breath, and it didnt look as if shed slept for a while. The only thing she was carrying was a purse.
DeMarco said, Hey, what
In about ten seconds, the woman said, two men are going to come out of the terminal. Theyre armed and theyre going to try to kill me. Theyll probably kill you too since youre with me. Now drive. Please.
The woman was desperate, DeMarco could tell, but not panicking.
Hey, look DeMarco said.
You now have less than five seconds. I work for the government and Im not lying.
DeMarco almost said Ive heard that line before but he didnt. He was starting to get scared. He looked intently at the woman. She could be someone running from the cops or a mule hauling drugs. But he didnt think so. She didnt have a particularly kind face but it seemed to be one you could trust.
DeMarco glanced into his rearview mirror at that moment and saw two dark-complexioned men run out of the terminal. They looked frantically up and down the sidewalk in front of the terminal, and then one of them pointed at DeMarcos car.
Shit, he said, and he stepped on the gas and pulled into the arriving airport traffic. Why didnt you just take a damn cab? he said to the woman.
Did you see the line at the cabstand? she answered. She looked behind her. Damnit, they had a car waiting.
DeMarco checked his rearview mirror. The two men were getting into a black Mercedes sedan.
Whats going
Just get me to the Pentagon, the woman said. And if a cop tries to pull you over, dont stop.
Wait a
Youll get the cop killed. Now drive. Fast.
The woman checked the traffic behind them. The Mercedes was gaining on them. She pulled a cell phone out of her purse.
Its me, she said into the phone. I just got in from Cairo. Ive got the sample but they were waiting for me at baggage claim. That wasnt supposed to happen, you moron! She was silent for a moment. No, I dont have a gun. How the hell was I supposed to get a gun on the plane? Look Shut up. Listen to me. Im with a civilian. Were in a 19 She looked over at DeMarco.
Ninety-four, he said.
A 1994 Volvo, maroon in color. Were just leaving National and headed for the GW Parkway. Youll be able to tell its us because well be going a hundred miles an hour with a Mercedes on our tail. Now scramble someone. Fast! She closed the cell phone.
Whats your name? she said to DeMarco.
Joe, he said.
Well, Joe, you need to put the pedal to the metal. A wreck is the least of your problems at this point.
The Mercedes was directly behind them now but it wasnt trying to pass or cut them off.
The woman glanced back at the other car. Theyre going to wait until youre on the parkway, then Im guessing one of those guys is going to pull out an automatic weapon and shred your tires.
Jesus! DeMarco said. Why dont you just throw whatever the fuck they want outta the window?
The woman laughed, apparently not realizing that DeMarco hadnt been joking.
DeMarco reached the George Washington Parkway with the Mercedes fifty yards behind him. He was soon going ninety miles an hour and was thankful that traffic was light. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw one of the guys in the Mercedes stick half his body out the passenger-side window. Then he saw flashes of orange light erupt from the end of the mans arm he didnt hear any shots being fired then he saw sparks, about a dozen of them, fly up from the asphalt next to the Volvo.
Son of a bitch! DeMarco screamed. He jammed his foot down on the gas pedal, but it didnt move. The Volvo couldnt go any faster.
Then it was over.
A helicopter, a big black one, was suddenly above the Mercedes shining a spotlight down on it and DeMarco could see a guy hanging out of the helicopter holding a rifle. Where the helicopter came from, DeMarco didnt know. The Mercedes slowed down slightly, apparently looking for an exit or a turnaround. DeMarco didnt slow down; he kept the gas pedal jammed to the floor. A minute later he saw red-and-blue lights from five or six cars flashing in his rearview mirror and the Mercedes was surrounded.
You can pull over now, the woman said.
DeMarco kept going.
Its okay, the woman said. Calm down. Pull over.
DeMarco did and when the car stopped he put his head on the steering wheel for a moment and closed his eyes. Without raising his head he said, Would you mind telling me
Sorry, Joe, but I cant.
The damn woman would never let him finish a sentence.
A white van with government plates pulled up behind DeMarcos Volvo. The woman got out but before she closed the door she said, By the way, Im Emma. And thank you. Then she got back into the van and took off.
The next morning DeMarco was sitting in his office, flipping through the paper to see if last nights incident had made the news. It hadnt. A moment later there was a knock on his door, which surprised him as people rarely visited his office. He opened the door. It was Emma.