The First Councel Page 35

  “This is stupid,” I say as the waitress delivers a pitcher of beer to our table.

  “Don’t talk to me about stupid,” Trey says, pouring himself a glass. “I was there today-I saw it myself. The best thing now is to plan your way out.”

  As he says the words, my eyes are locked on the waitress who’s clearing the table next to us. Like the crane in the old carnival game, she lowers her arm and lifts all the important stuff: glassware, menus, a dish of peanuts. Everything else is trash. With a sweep of her arm, empty bottles and used napkins are brushed into the busboy’s plastic bin. With one quick move, it’s gone. That’s what she did-after the fun, jettisoned the trash. Still, I refuse to believe it. “Maybe Vaughn had it wrong. Maybe when Nora gets back-”

  “Wait a minute, you’re gonna give her a chance to explain? After what she did tonight… Are you out of your head?”

  “It’s not like I have a choice.”

  “There’re plenty of choices. Whole shopping-carts-ful of them: Hate her, despise her, curse her, scorn her, pretend you’re nature and abhor her like a vacuum-”

  “Enough!” I interrupt, my eyes still locked on the waitress. “I know what it looks like… I just… We don’t have all the facts.”

  “What else do you need, Michael? She’s sleeping with Simon!”

  My chest constricts. Just the thought of it…

  “I’m serious,” he whispers, looking suspiciously at the tables around us. “That’s why Caroline got killed. She found out the two of them were doing the horizontal Electric Slide, and when she started blackmailing them, they decided to push back. The only problem was, they needed someone to blame.”

  “Me,” I mutter. It certainly makes sense.

  “Think about the way it played out. It wasn’t just a coincidence that you wound up in the bar that night; it was a setup. She took you there on purpose. The whole thing-losing the Service, pretending to be lost, even taking the money-that was all part of their plan.”

  “No,” I whisper, pushing myself away from the table. “Not like that.”

  “What’re you-”

  “C’mon, Trey, there’s no way they knew the D.C. police were going to pull us over for speeding.”

  “No, you’re right-that was pure chance. But if you didn’t get pulled over, she would’ve planted it in your car. Think about it. They set Vaughn up and make it look like you let him in the building. Then when Caroline shows up dead the next morning, between Vaughn and the money, you’ve got the smoking gun.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, if that’s the case, then why haven’t they turned me in? I’ve still got the ‘gun.’ It’s just in police custody.”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe they’re worried the cop’ll identify Nora. Maybe they’re waiting until after the election. Or maybe they’re waiting for the FBI to do it on their own. Five o’clock tomorrow.”

  We sit in silence and I stare at my beer, studying its rising bubbles. Eventually, I look up at Trey. “I still have to speak to her.” Before he can react, I add, “Don’t ask me why, Trey-it’s just… I know you think she’s a whack-job-believe me, I know she’s a whack-job-but underneath… you’ve never seen it, Trey. All you see is someone you work for-but behind all the tough-stuff posturing and all the public-face nonsense, in a different set of circumstances, she can just as easily be you or me.”

  “Really? So when was the last time we did Special K in the bowling alley?”

  “I said underneath. There’s still a girl underneath.”

  “See, now you’re sounding like Mithridates.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who survived an assassination attempt by eating a little bit of poison every day. When they finally put it in his wine, his body was immune to it.”

  “And what’s so bad about that?”

  “Pay attention to the details, Michael. Even though he survived, he still spent every day eating poison.”

  I can’t help but shake my head. “I just want to hear what she says. Your theory’s one possibility; there’re plenty of others. For all we know, Pam’s the one who-”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? It’s like you’re on permanent autopilot!”

  “You don’t understand… ”

  “I do understand. And I know how you feel about her. Hell, even forgetting Nora, I still have my own questions about Pam-but take a step back and put on your rational pants. You’re trusting Nora and Vaughn-two complete strangers you’ve known less than a month-and questioning Pam, a good friend who’s been by your side for two years. Please, Michael, look at the facts! Does that make any sense to you? I mean, today alone… what’re you thinking?”

  My eyes drop back to my beer. I don’t have an answer.

  Early Friday morning, I tear through all four newspapers, checking to see if Adenauer kept his word. The Herald has a short piece on some of the conspiracy theories that’re starting to develop around Caroline’s death, but that’s to be expected. More important, Hartson bounced up six points in the polls, a giant leap that takes him out of the margin of error. It’s not hard to see why. The front photo in the Post is a shot of the whole family on Dateline. On the far right, Nora’s laughing at her mother’s joke. Just another day in the life.

  Beyond that, as far as I can tell, it’s all okay. Nothing by Inez. Nothing by anyone. Now all I have to do is the hard part. According to the schedule, they should be landing any minute. I tighten my tie and pull it extra tight. Time to see Nora.

  Once the Secret Service waves me in, I head straight to her bedroom on the third floor. I stop at her door, my hand poised to knock. Inside, I hear her talking to someone, so I lean in close. But just as I do, the door flies open and there’s Nora, radiant in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, cradling a cell phone to her ear, and grinning at me for all of a split second.

  “I don’t care if he raises two million,” she shouts into the phone. “I’m not going to dinner with his son!” As I step in, she puts up her pointer finger and gives me the “one more minute” sign.

  Based on the schedule, this must be about yesterday’s donor receptions. When we first met, she told me it’s always like this after the fund-raisers. Every letch with a checkbook starts calling in favors. For the President, they’re usually business requests. For Nora, they’re personal.

  “What the hell is wrong with these people?” she says into the phone, continuing to pace. She gestures me to the daybed, to sit down. “Why can’t they buy a Humvee and some Ralph Lauren furniture like everyone else?” With a swing of her arm, she adds, “Tell them the truth. Tell them I think Daddy’s little stock baron is a roach and that… ” She pauses, listening to the person on the other line. “I don’t care if he went to Harvard-what the hell does that-” She cuts herself off. “Y’know what? That actually does matter. It matters a lot. Do you have a pencil, because I just figured out what you should say. Are you writing this down? When you get his parents back on the line, tell them that while I am keenly excited by the prospect of having their son cop a feel while sticking his tongue in my ear, I regret that I will not be able to make it. Indeed, while a student at Princeton, I took a vaginal oath that forbids me to date two types of people: First, men from Harvard. And second”-here she starts shouting-“sons of self-important, pretentious, trumpeteering parents who think that just because they know how to get preview-night seats at the trendiest restaurant-of-the-moment, the entire free world must have a price tag on it! Sadly, their darling Jake qualifies for both! Sincerely yours, Nora. P.S.-You’re not hot shit, the Hamptons are overrated, and no matter what the maître d’ says, he hates you too!” Glaring furiously at the receiver, she shuts off the phone.

  “Sorry about that,” she says to me, still breathing heavily.

  I’m breathing heavily myself and can hardly hear over the thump of my own heartbeat. “Nora, I have something impor-”

  Once again, the phone rings.

  “Damn!” she shouts, grabbing it. “Yes…?”

  As No
ra grudgingly agrees to another round of fund-raiser appearances, my eyes roll over to the two framed letters on her nightstand. The first one’s in bright red crayon and reads, “Dear Nora: You’re hot. Love, Matt, age 8.” The other reads, “Dear Nora: Fuck ’ em all. Your friends, Joel Chris.” Both are dated during the first months of her father’s administration. When everything was fun.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she says into the phone. “When? Yesterday?”

  Listening, she walks across the room toward an antique desk and rifles through a pile of newspapers on top. As she pulls out one of them, I see that it’s the Herald. “What page?” she asks. “No, I got it right here. Thanks-I’ll call you later.”

  Putting down the phone, she thumbs through the paper and finds what she’s looking for. A wide smile breaks over her face. “Have you seen this?” she asks, shoving the paper in my face. “They asked a hundred fifth-graders if they wanted to be me. Guess how many said yes?”

  I shake my head. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Just guess.”

  “I don’t want to guess.”

  “Why? Afraid to be wrong? Afraid to compete? Afraid to-”

  “Nineteen,” I blurt. “Nineteen said yes. Eighty-one would rather keep their souls.”

  She throws the paper aside. “Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday… ”

  “This isn’t about yesterday!”

  “Then why’re you acting like I stole your Big Wheel?”

  “Nora, this isn’t the time for jokes!” I seize her by the wrist. “Come with-”

  Once again, the phone rings. She freezes. I refuse to let go. We look at each other.

  “Are you sleeping with Edgar Simon?” I blurt.

  “What?” Behind her, the phone continues to ring.

  “I’m serious, Nora. Say it to my face.”

  Nora crosses her arms and stares blankly at me. The phone finally quits. Then, out of nowhere, Nora laughs. She laughs her heartfelt, deep, little-girl laugh-as honest and free as they come.

  “I’m not playing around, Nora.”

  She’s still laughing, panting, slowing down. Now she looks into my eyes. “C’mon, Michael, you can’t be-”

  “I want an answer. Are you sleeping with Simon?”

  Her mouth clamps shut. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “What’s your answer?”

  “Michael, I swear to you, I’d never… I’d never do that to you. I’d rather die than be with someone like that.”

  “So that means no?”

  “Of course it means no. Why would I-” She cuts herself off. “You think I’m working against you? You really think I’d do that?”

  I don’t bother to reply.

  “I’d never hurt you, Michael. Not after all this.”

  “What about before all this?”

  “What’re you saying? That I had my own reason to kill Caroline? That I set this whole thing up?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Michael!” She grabs me by both hands. “How could you think that… I’d never…!” This time, she’s the one who won’t let go. “I swear to you, I’ve never touched him-I’d never want to touch him”-her voice cracks-“in my life.” She drops my hands and turns away.

  “God,” she says. “How’d you even get that in your head?”

  “It just seemed to make sense,” I say.

  She stops where she is. Her whole body locks up. Facing just her back, I can tell that one hurt. I didn’t mean to-

  “Is that what you think of me?” she whispers.

  “Nora-”

  “Is that what you think?” she repeats, her voice quivering. Before I can answer, she turns back to me, searching for the answer. Her eyes are all red. Her shoulders sag. I know that stance-it’s the same one my mom had when she left. The posture of defeat. When I don’t answer, the tears trickle down her cheeks. “You really think I’m that much of a whore?”

  I shake my head and go to reach out. When I’d thought about how she’d react, I always assumed it’d be raging anger. I never expected a breakdown. “Nora, you have to understand… ”

  She’s not even listening.

  Stepping into my arms, she curls into a ball and presses her face against my chest. Her body’s shaking. Unlike with Pam, I can’t argue. Nora’s different.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobs, her voice once again cracking. “I’m sorry you even had to think it.”

  As her fingers brush against the back of my neck, I hear the hurt in her voice and see the loneliness in her eyes. But as she nuzzles in close, for once, I hold back. Unlike before, I’m not as easily convinced. Not yet. Not until I talk to Vaughn.

  Although my destination is the Woodley Park Metro stop, I hop off the train at Dupont Circle. Throughout the twenty-minute walk between the two, I weave through sidestreets, cut across traffic, and race against the grain of every one-way I can find. If they’re following me in a car, they’re lost. If they’re on foot… well, at least I have a chance. Anything to avoid a rerun of the zoo.

  Walking past the restaurants and cafés of Woodley Park, I finally feel at home. There’s Lebanese Taverna, where Trey and I came to celebrate his third promotion. And the sushi place where Pam and I ate when her sister came to town. This is where I live-my turf-which is why I notice the unusually clean garbage truck that’s coasting up the block.

  As it stops on the corner, I barely give it a second glance. Sure, the driver and the guy emptying the nearby trash cans look a little too chiseled, but it’s not a weak man’s job. Then I notice the sign on the side of the truck-“G B Removal.” Below the company’s name is its phone number, which starts with a 703 area code. Virginia. What’s a Virginia truck doing this far in D.C.? Maybe the work’s contracted out. Knowing D.C.’s public services, it’s certainly possible. But just as I turn away, I hear the broken-glass-raining-bottle-sliding-garbage sound of the metal-can being emptied into the back of the truck. Sound of the city. A sound I hear every night, just as I go to b-My legs cramp up. At night. That’s when I hear it. That’s when they come. Never during the day.

  I spin around and look down the block. On the far corner, there’s a trash can overflowing with garbage. That’s where the truck was coming from. A full trash can. Behind the truck. Pretending not to notice, I dart into the video store midway up the block.

  “Can I help you?” a girl wearing head-to-toe black asks.

  “No.” Holding imaginary binoculars in front of my eyes, I press them against the plate glass window, block out the glare of the sun, and stare out at the truck. Neither of the two men has given chase. They’re just sitting there. While the loading guy fidgets with something in the back, the driver twists open his thermos, as if he’s suddenly decided to take a break.

  The video clerk is getting anxious. “Sir, are you sure I can’t-”

  Before she can finish, I rush out of the video store and into the dry cleaners next door. There’s no one at the counter, and I don’t ring the bell for service. Instead, I dash to the window and stare outside. Still haven’t moved. This time, I wait a full minute before I bolt next door to the coffee bar.

  A girl wearing an “Eat the Rich” T-shirt asks, “Can I help you with something?”

  “No thanks.” Glued to the front window, I give it two minutes and a third “Can-I-help-you?” before I race out the door and into the storefront on my left. I keep it going for two more stores-dart inside, wait, then out and to the left; dart inside, wait, then out and to the left. That’s how I make my way up the block. Each one I go into, I wait a little longer. Let them think it’s a pattern. One more store to go.

  At the end of the block I run for the local drugstore, CVS. The way I figure it, I’m up to about a five-minute wait. But this time, after I push open the doors, I just keep running. Straight up the cosmetics aisle. Shampoos on my left, shaving cream on my right. Pharmacy-whiff floats through the air. Without stopping, I dash to the back of the store, around a bend, and down an
undecorated back hall. That’s when I spot my destination-it’s what only a local would know, and what the guys in the garbage truck would never guess-that this CVS is the only store on the block with two entrances. Smiling to myself, I throw open the back door and blow out of there like a cannonball. I look back only once. No one’s in pursuit.

  Crossing 24th Street, I’m a rage of adrenaline. My body’s flushed with the raw energy of victory. Around the corner is the side entrance of the Woodley Park Marriott. Nothing’s going to get in my way.

  Inside the lobby, I reach into my pants pocket, looking for the note with the exact location. Not there. I reach into my left pocket. Then inside my jacket. Oh, crap, don’t tell me it’s… Frantically, I pull apart each of my back pockets and pat myself down. It’s not in my wallet or my… I close my eyes and retrace my steps. I had it this morning; I had it with Nora… but when I got up to leave… Oh, no. My lungs collapse. If it fell out of my pocket, it could still be sitting on her bed.

  Struggling to stay calm, I remember the operator’s instructions from when I called this morning. Somewhere on the Ballroom Level. As I approach the Information Desk, I stare suspiciously at the three bellmen in the front corner of the lobby. Dressed in starched black vests, they look right at home, but something seems off. Just as the tallest one turns my way, I notice the closing elevator on my immediate right. A quick burst of speed lets me squeeze through the doors just as they’re about to slam shut. Whipping around, the last thing I see is the tall bellman. He’s not even watching. I’m still okay.

  “You got a favorite floor?” a man with a bolo tie and cowboy hat asks.

  “Ballrooms,” I say, studying him carefully. He hits the appropriate button. He’s already pressed 8 for himself.

  “You okay there, son?” he quickly asks.