by Dale Wiley
Before I could cross the street, I noticed several people looking toward the west, as if they were trying to look past the capitol. Of course, I looked with them, past the row of Pennsylvania Avenue businesses. I couldn’t see anything unusual, but I could hear sirens. I’ve never been able to tell one siren from another, so I had absolutely no idea what was going on. No one else in my group of gawkers seemed to know any more than I did, so I turned, checked the traffic, and walked home, giving some change to a homeless guy who had positioned himself underneath the Bread and Chocolate window.
I got to my apartment building—still hearing sirens in the distance—and went immediately behind it toward my car, hoping against hope it wouldn’t once again be broken into. Luckily, it wasn’t, and I threw the bag I had brought from work in the back seat. I was planning on driving to work the next day, and this way I would make sure I’d get those papers back to the office.
When I climbed up the stairs to my abode, I turned the million locks that tried to keep me safe at night. Once I navigated through the mess on the “living room” floor—I hesitate to call anything that small a living room—I saw my answering machine light was on. To my delight, it was Stephanie.
“Hey, Trent, just wanted to get ahold of you for a minute. Give me a call if you will.” She left her phone number and drew out the word “bye” over two syllables. Of course I had already tattooed her number into my brain right next to my birthdate and Social Security number, so I didn’t even bother to write it down. I picked up the phone and dialed, but she didn’t answer. In an attempt to be mysterious, I didn’t leave a message.
The minute I got done with this, I turned on the television, hoping to find something about the weirdness I had just experienced on Capitol Hill. Though before I made my way to CNN, ESPN dropped a bombshell as I was passing the channel: Mike Carroll, point guard extraordinaire for my beloved Atlanta Hawks, had been traded to Toronto for Jimmy Henderson and another player I had never even heard of. Ugh! Carroll led the Hawks in scoring, and it looked like his best years were ahead of him. I turned up the TV so I could hear all of the trade gossip and went into the kitchen.
I made my traditional bachelor dinner of pasta without sauce—sauce is messy and requires much more effort cleaning up—sesame seed breadsticks, and a Popsicle for dessert. I watched some more SportsCenter, found that most pundits thought Toronto had gotten the better end of the deal—big surprise there—and turned the TV off when I finished eating. I needed something to do for the evening.
I called my college friend Kimberly, but she was on a date. I called my drinking buddy Rick to talk about the Hawks trade and to ask if he wanted to get a beer but received a message from him reminding me that he was in Boston for the week. No bands that I liked were playing, there was no good movie at the Kennedy Center, and it looked as if I was simply going to be stuck doing some reading or something boring like that. I had just finished a Patricia Cornwell novel and wasn’t up to the long titles I had in my bookcase, so I decided to get out of the house and go to the bookstore. I negotiated through the old, narrow DC streets toward Virginia, past the Capitol, silhouetted against a postcard sky, down Constitution, past the gigantic phallus which was the Washington Monument.
There was a Borders bookstore in Tyson’s Corner, which I liked, and since it was a pretty fall evening, I thought it the best option for a nice drive. To get there, I wound up on the George Washington Parkway, a beautiful, tree-lined stretch of road more gorgeous than any other highway in the area.
I always loved taking that route after the evening rush hour had cleared out. The view of the Potomac helped me forget the hectic and silly world of politics. I put the new Mercy Rule album on, turned it up loud, and revved up my Toyota like it was a Jaguar.
And, as with all good drives, I was sad to see it end, but I was happy to get to Borders’—one of those huge bookstores which stretch into the next world—with title after wonderful title inside. There was a terrible acoustic band strumming angst-ridden songs with lots of harmony and no melody and throngs of dazed people circling the shelves and bargain tables. I stayed a while, picked up several titles, put them back down, looked at others, and then came back, each time looking at the cover and reading the back, as if my life depended on this one choice. I finally chose a Kinky Friedman novel and took it to the counter. The guitar player broke a string, probably adding to his angst, and I paid for my book and left.
There was nothing on the radio when I got back in my car, so I turned to public radio to hear the news. Trumpets played a short, martial intro, and a serious-sounding woman intoned, “What was supposed to be a red-letter day in Washington for the gun lobby has quickly become a nightmare. Congressman Gregory Timmons was killed by a sniper’s bullet as he delivered a speech on the Capitol steps this afternoon. Heidi Strauss has more.”
Heidi reported that shortly after 3:30 pm Timmons had been gunned down on the Capitol steps. I nearly drove off the road. I felt quite sick and quite scared, and I found myself slowing down to a granny’s speed as I tried to keep my composure. I couldn’t help thinking about the strange little message I had left on the desk of Mark Helper—the “problem” would be terminated at the Capitol at 3:30—and I also thought of my pretty little neck, which I loved very dearly. I wondered if I hadn’t made several big mistakes.
I regained some of my nerve and listened to the rest of the broadcast, which talked about the Congressman’s record as a Second Amendment preservationist. They had some tearful quotes from friends and reported that little was known about the police investigation. I sped up as I rationalized that it was probably just a coincidence. But could Helper be involved? Oh, God. My mind was taking me a dozen different ways when I realized I needed to listen to the broadcast. I slowed down again when they started talking about the search for Timmons’ killer. I wondered if he’d be waiting at my house on Helper’s instructions. When I walked in, I found that he wasn’t waiting for me; he had already been there.
Chapter
* * *
Five
I noticed the jimmy marks on the door. The door gave way. The place was decimated. Papers were strewn everywhere like some sort of pulp snowstorm, and my heart attempted to inch its way toward the floor as I looked at the mess. Actually, I decided, it didn’t look all that much worse than it normally did. I sat down, put my head in my hands, and tried to think straight. First things first—what was gone? I walked into my room and nearly cried as I saw the space once occupied by my computer. I noticed that the door to Angie’s room was still closed, and I peeked in and saw her Macintosh was still there. I looked around and could see nothing else missing. I went into the living room and saw all the stereo equipment was intact. A few CDs which had been sitting on top of a speaker were no longer there, and, of all things, the answering machine was gone.
I was still trying to decide if this was just an absurd coincidence or a dark conspiracy when I found the clue that I needed: my Martin. There, in plain sight, not five feet away from where the answering machine had been, was my beautiful Martin D-28 acoustic guitar, a gorgeous blond with the most natural ring you ever heard in your life, worth more than my computer, my stereo, and my TV combined, and probably a lot easier to sell, too. It was in a hard-shell case with “Martin” written on it, so, unless they were dumber than most criminals, they had missed the real mother lode and taken my answering machine, which I wouldn’t have bought back for ten bucks, with all the messages on it. I swallowed hard. My knees shook.
I called the cops from my bedroom and lied, telling them that I thought the prowler might still be around, just so they’d get there quicker. Even with that added detail, it still took them twenty minutes, and I sat outside and tried to keep breathing and avoid sobbing while I waited. It was a pleasant evening, and cars whizzed by toward the ghetto hell in front of them. A small woman with her baby walked past, obviously unnerved that I watched them. I dropped my eyes until she passed and watched her go up the block, not knowing if I
’d have the energy to do anything if someone were to attack her.
Could this all just be coincidence? Possibly. It was, after all, a very vague message, and I might have been reading too much into it. But there was also the problem of my house being burgled very shortly thereafter. Again, it simply could’ve been my unlucky day. But hadn’t I stopped believing in coincidence when my ex-girlfriend broke up with me and started dating my ex-friend the same day?
I wondered if I was safe there—perhaps my foe watched me—but I felt safer on the street than waiting inside, and I didn’t know any of my fellow tenants. That was a big problem. I didn’t know enough people in DC. When I was just about to give up, a police car, lights like a carnival ride, screeched to a halt in front of my house, and two officers got out. The one who had driven, tall and thin and wired like a rookie on his first bust, looked like he was going to draw his gun as I stood up, but I quickly put my hands toward the sky and said, “I’m the one who called.”
“You said the perp might still be around,” the antsy cop said. I imagined he used words like “perp” a lot.
“Maybe,” I said, not wanting them to know I had lied. I waited with the calm, collected cop, while the antsy one checked out back. When he returned, they walked up the stairs with me. I told them how long I had been gone and what had been stolen. They raised their eyebrows when I pointed out the Martin, but I didn’t want to tell them too much.
“Probably got scared off,” the older one shrugged. He didn’t like to look people in the eyes.
“We’ll get the paperwork started,” the antsy one said, looking a little perturbed at his partner. Antsy wanted to stay and investigate and solve. His partner wanted to get back in the squad car. “Come down, fill out a report, and tell us what you lost.” He handed me a card, and I nodded, sad and scared that they were leaving so quickly.
I watched them walk down the stairs, the older cop falling farther and farther behind his antsy partner, and then went back to the sofa and resumed the head-in-hands bit. I wasn’t going to stay there, although I didn’t want to tell them that; they’d think I was nuts. But where would I go? I thought of my punk rock friend Miriam, but remembered sadly that she was out of town, going to see her sister in Chicago. I tried Kimberley again, hoping at least that her roommate would be in, but I got no answer. Then I realized just how shaken I was—I had forgotten all about Stephanie!
This was the perfect excuse, the one every guy would love to have early in his relationship with a new, hot girlfriend; a sob story that would involve getting to spend the night at her house. Oh poor baby! I just can’t believe it! Of COURSE you can stay here! I felt a little guilty going to her place, knowing there was at least some chance that international conspirators were hot on my heels, but not guilty enough to keep me from making the call. I got a busy signal and decided I’d just have to drive on over.
I put a few items into a hanging bag and threw in my other suit and a different tie, just so I could impress her in the morning—even though I knew I would have to take some razzing from Damon and those at the office, who were as used to seeing me in a jacket and tie as they were in seeing me in a clown outfit.
I thought it might be a little presumptuous, walking up to the door with the clothes, so I decided I’d leave them in the car until she said yes. I could tell her I was going to have to stay some place either way, either with her or at a hotel, which was the truth. I went out, making sure my other two locks worked, and headed to my car—more cautious than ever.
I checked my rear view mirror constantly, wondering if I could spot a tail if there were one. I thought about the numerous mistakes I had made that day, chief among them was leaving a note for Helper broadcasting that I knew—or thought I knew—what he was doing. That was just brilliant.
About a block before I got to her house, I started looking for a parking space, which could still be akin to a quest for the Holy Grail even late at night. I finally found a spot, which was actually bigger than my car, pulled in and out three times, and got out. It was over a block past her house, and I tried to be as nonchalant as possible, while I constantly looked over my shoulder for conspirators. I was so preoccupied that when I walked up the stairs leading into her building, it took me a minute to see the next shock of the evening.
After ascending the last step, I stood in front of her door and looked quickly in the window. Unfortunately, the shade was up, just like the night before, and, as I glanced in, I could see no one resembling my dear Stephanie, but there was someone sitting there who looked like me. I froze for a moment, my eyes stuck on him, and prayed he wouldn’t see. He was engrossed in a book. I realized it wouldn’t take long to be spotted, so I darted back down the stairs and practically sprinted down the block.
Roger, I thought. That was Roger—just like the pictures I’d seen: same height, same weight, same hair. He was probably enough like me that I would hate him. I was a stand-in, but I wasn’t needed now that the original was back. I was barely breathing by the time I approached my car. But as I got closer, I saw a man silhouetted against the streetlights, standing over my vehicle.
I stopped cold. For an instant, I thought someone had followed me, but then I understood. And then I got pissed.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted, not really thinking about the time. I knew damn well what the man was doing. I looked farther down the block and saw his car parked in the street, hazard lights on, the thing still running. The DC Parking Gestapo, handing out tickets like politicians did pork, was the only thing in Washington you saw more than a fat man in a polyester suit. They were not my favorites in any situation, but this was war.
“Ain’t ever no parking here,” he said, as he spoke into a walkie talkie. “You’re parked in front of a hydrant.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, moving toward the driver’s side, my head spinning.
“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to stay here. You have seven unpaid tickets, and they’re coming with The Boot,”
Oh shit. The Boot. A big orange contraption they lock on the wheel until you pay your fines. In DC, it meant almost certainly getting your windows smashed in addition to being without transportation and having to pay all your tickets to get the stupid thing off.
I walked back around to try to reason with the guy. “I was here less than three minutes. You can’t …”
“Sir, step away from the car.” He didn’t look at me.
I wanted to try to reason some more, but no words came. I just stood there, eyes half-closed, about to explode. Although I had read the warning on parking tickets which said assaults on parking personnel would be prosecuted, it just didn’t seem to mean much right then. I noticed that I was much bigger than he was. When I saw he had gone back to writing my latest fine, I moved in quick and hit him hard on the jaw with a solid right, the first one I had thrown since the third grade. I yelled, “Come on!” and motioned like you see in the movies. The man stumbled and looked at me like I was blowing fire out of my nose, thought for just a second about responding, and then turned and ran, grabbing his walkie-talkie and trying hard to speak as he did. I jumped into my car and felt my hand begin to throb, but that mattered little. I was the winner by a first-round knockout.
I gunned the Toyota and threw it into reverse, nudging the car behind me. I had to eek back and forth twice before getting out of the space, knowing that a cop would probably be coming at any moment. I screamed down the block, barely even noticing the stop sign, realizing that, counting my grade school fights, I was now 3-0 in my boxing career and wondering what in the hell I was going to do for the rest of the night.
Chapter
* * *
Six
It was, I admit, a rather strange decision, one born of the strange existence I was beginning to lead. I chose it because my friends were out of town or incommunicado, I had no way of getting the numbers of my co-workers, my apartment had been broken into, and I was involved in some sort of deadly game. Most importantly, I was probably
now a wanted fugitive, and I knew being hauled into jail was absolutely the last thing I needed.
So I went to the Watergate. It seemed the thing to do when one was just getting embroiled in some amazing Washington scandal. You don’t hide out at the Hampton Inn; you go straight to the source, the same place Howard Hunt and G. Gordon Liddy did.
There were other reasons for choosing the Watergate as well. I didn’t want to drive far and increase the chance of being pulled over and found out. Even if I had wanted to drive, I didn’t know the suburbs that well, and the hotels probably weren’t that much cheaper anyway. I knew of hotels I assumed to be cheaper in the city, but they were in such wonderful neighborhoods that I didn’t want to take the chance of avoiding my pursuers only to succumb to some random mugging. I also knew right where it was and could get there without wasting a minute of time. I had been to the Watergate once before, to drink with my college friend Susan, so, along with remembering their overpriced gin and tonics, I knew it had a parking garage the size of Philadelphia, which would probably keep my car from being discovered during the night. And, most importantly, I thought it would be really cool to stay at the Watergate.
However, I was no dummy. Careful to avoid the pitfalls made both by Nixon’s plumbers and by the various characters in John Grisham novels, I withdrew a good bit of my money—most of what was left of my graduation funds, $350—from an ATM and decided I would check in under an assumed name. I got the money out of the machine, some three blocks from the hotel, and was scared to death I’d be mugged.
I got back into my car unscathed and drove the remaining distance. I took a ticket from a silly-looking machine, found a suitable spot in a dark corner, and proceeded to the front desk, my heart still pounding. I merited a couple of looks—I wasn’t dressed well, and Lord knows what expression was on my face.
