by Dale Wiley
While I waited, I considered how I would handle the other thing which had been bothering me since that morning—my car. It was still in the garage, and I wasn’t sure how much longer it would be safe. I flipped through the channels, saw my face on three of them, and basically got the same story; Good boy goes crazy and shoots everybody.
The waiter knocked, and I told him to leave the cart by the door and give himself a ten-dollar tip. He said, “Yes, sir,” and hoofed it down the hall. I took a peek, saw no one watched, and pulled my lunch in. It smelled like heaven on a bun, and I ate it in half a bite.
While I was still eating, another news report came on. “The evidence against Trent Norris just keeps on mounting. Police investigators reported finding bullets matching the brand and caliber used to kill Gregory Timmons and Roger Downing in a dumpster just two blocks from Norris’s Capitol Hill apartment.
“And in Arlington, Virginia, a pawn shop broker reported selling a gun similar to the one which killed both men to a man matching Norris’s description. Police have not shared any additional leads regarding his whereabouts, saying only they have several strong tips.”
The images rolled while the woman calmly convicted me: my apartment building, police standing by the dumpster, photos of Roger and Timmons, and the pawn shops. They all underscored my guilt. After the story, they cut to a lighter story about a singing pig—it sounded more like humming to me—and then to a laxative commercial. I turned the TV off, tried to put the latest round of garbage out of my mind, and began seriously considering what I was going to do with my car.
I thought about driving it a few blocks away, getting out, and leaving the thing running. It would be no time until some industrious District resident would be piloting my car to points unknown. However, I was mainly concerned with my car not being found, and I didn’t want to trust anything to the competency of criminals I hadn’t even elected.
Driving it into the Potomac and making it look like a suicide sounded promising, until I realized I liked being me too much for that. I had known from an early age I would never be cut out for the Witness Protection Program, because you have to change your name and stuff and that gets real inconvenient when you want to call in some old favor and score some free tickets or something. I also wanted to clear my name, make my parents happy again, and give the networks a better picture of me to run. So the faked suicide was out.
Plus, either of these options would involve me losing my car permanently, something I obviously wanted to avoid if at all possible. It was hard for me to think of abandoning it. I had driven it to Mardi Gras, to Savannah for St. Patrick’s Day, and taken it on a hundred adventures. What I wanted was to put it in a place where it wouldn’t be found by anyone.
My best chance for this was the old license plate switcheroo. I considered pulling my blue jeans and T-shirt out of hiding for this occasion but remembered that regardless of where I ended up taking the car I was still going to have to somehow get back into the hotel. And I’d be much less conspicuous coming back in a suit than in a T-shirt. I decided to go with that reasoning, fully understanding I would look much more unusual doing the license plate switcheroo in business apparel.
My shoulder still hurt, even though Howard had done a nice job. I grimaced a couple of times getting back into my clothes, but it was much better than it had been. I took the stairs down to the lobby and made a bee-line for the garage, hoping no one would stop me now.
My mother was the mechanically inclined person in the family, and the very slight knowledge I had of mechanical things came from her. She was the one who suggested I keep a small toolbox in the trunk of my car, and I was very, very grateful at that moment. I had a big screwdriver, which would do the trick, and I set to work.
Of course, I had never done the license plate switcheroo, but I had thought about it often when I would hear stories of some criminal getting caught by not paying enough attention to this very important detail. I had always thought you needed to switch a good number of plates to make it work especially well. If I would’ve had time, I would have switched ten—I figured that was a good, safe figure, but I was going to be lucky to be able to do two without getting caught.
I decided to move to the other side of the garage to get the other plates. I practically sprinted, my butt clenched, and my head turning every which direction looking for interlopers. I hated that dark gray place and its long, concrete echoes. It just seemed like someone could emerge from hiding at any time. Still, I kept moving, searching for my mark. I finally found a nice Maryland car that might work. It was a blue Toyota that was maybe a year or two newer than mine. I walked around to the back but froze as I caught a glimpse of a little red flashing light inside. I had nearly forgotten about car alarms because I never had to deal with them. Until I had lived in DC, I was convinced no one would want to steal my car or anything in it, and, since I had lived in DC, I was too poor from replacing the stolen things to be able to afford an alarm. But here I was, ready to spring on this car and probably set it off and foil my whole plan before it started.
I turned to see if anyone was watching and then began making a slower appraisal of the vehicles, hoping to find one to my liking. I looked for an older car, which was less likely to have an alarm, but it wasn’t an easy task in this ritzy parking lot. Every vehicle I passed seemed to have screaming red lights somewhere near the dash, and I was even informed by mechanical voices that two of the cars were protected by The Viper.
I was halfway back around to my car when I finally found one that might work. It was a maroon Subaru from Pennsylvania with plates on both the front and rear. I knew I was pressing my luck and became even more painfully aware of this when a man and his wife came laughing out of the elevator and around to their car.
They seemed to be heading straight for me. I tucked the screwdriver into my jacket pocket and, knowing I didn’t have time to crouch and hide in front of the car, dropped to all fours facing the path where they would walk just before they turned the corner, hoping they wouldn’t see me and would simply pass by. If they did, though, I decided to go with the old “lost-contact” ploy.
Of course, even the untrained eye notices a six-foot tall man wearing a suit crouching on all fours in the middle of a swanky hotel’s parking garage, and the man asked—in a so polite it was meant to be rude tone—if there was anything they could do to help. I stood up, sighed loudly, and clasped my hand to my forehead, trying both to feign despair—which was not hard to do at that moment—and cover my face. “I lost a contact,” I said as if it were my first-born.
Both of them immediately groaned in empathy and got closer to the ground to help me look. The man, tall and distinguished with gray hair and expensive tortoise shell glasses, did his best to squat like Johnny Bench, and his wife, wearing a sheer black dress that she looked pretty good in despite the fact she was probably fifty, bent from the waist. Both were hoping I wouldn’t notice they had no desire to get their clothes dirty in their efforts.
“Oh no,” I smiled, trying not to make eye contact and quickly returning to looking down. “It’s my own fault. I’m so clumsy.” I said this realizing full well how unlikely it is to lose a contact in a parking garage. I thought about making up a story but figured it would only make things worse.
“Nonsense!” he said in a manly tone. I noticed the wife still hadn’t said anything and was not very interested in looking. She was gazing at a vehicle a few spaces down. He put one knee on the ground, and I could see he was determined to make me his charity case for the day. I looked around but could find nothing which resembled a contact and knew I had no chance of being able to pull one out of my eye without being noticed. He was soon going to be asking me questions like, “where were you standing,” which I didn’t want to answer, so I just decided to try some sleight of hand, even though my hands are far from sleight.
When the man was looking straight down and the woman was still staring at her car, I held my breath and licked my index finger, hoping this
would make it glisten like a contact, and wondered what kind of garage-floor germs were now all over it. “Found it,” I said matter-of-factly, holding up my fingers and hoping they couldn’t see anything. “Better run inside and put it back in.” I groaned inwardly as I thought how stiff and unconvincing that had just sounded and watched them both to see if my cover was blown.
The woman didn’t look at me at all and just walked briskly toward their car. He followed her, probably knowing he was not in her good graces for stopping at all. I made for the nearest door, relieved when I heard the motor behind me. They went in the opposite direction, and, as soon as they made their way toward the surface, I headed back to my mark.
I walked around to the front of the car, which was parked just a little too close to the wall to make this really easy. I was so scared and so nervous by this point that it took me what seemed like the better part of three years to get the plate off. There was no sound except for my clumsiness. After half-a-dozen positions and several curse words, I removed the plate and took it to my car, where I placed it on the back after removing mine. I threw them in the trunk, replaced my screwdriver, and was fully ready to go back to bed. I poured myself in the car and surveyed the damage: one little nice nick on my finger from where the screwdriver caught it, a decent amount of dirt on my knees, which brushed right off, and a car which now looked like it was from the Keystone State. I cranked the ignition and noticed my dashboard clock said it was ten after five.
Now, if I had been thinking clearly—which, at that point, had last happened before this story started—I wouldn’t have started my car, because of the many characters in the thrillers I read had lost their lives due to starting a car rigged to explode on ignition. This revelation hit me about three seconds too late, but I found at least on this one point I had gotten lucky. It’s not often when not being blown up can make your day, but this was just such an occasion. Now I only had to decide what the hell I was going to do next.
Chapter
* * *
Thirteen
I drove the car to Dulles. I always enjoyed that drive; after the stop-and-go tussle of city driving, it’s wonderful to get away to a straight-ahead, high-speed blacktop. However, I had to deal with rush-hour traffic, and I was scared to death I was going to be spotted. But I only had to make it a few blocks to get on the George Washington Parkway, and then I knew I would be safe.
After listening to another innuendo-filled news report about me and my nefarious doings, I turned on WHFS, the alternative radio station. The wonderful thing about rock radio stations is they don’t give a damn about the news unless it can be read in one sentence, and then it’s only to be done with discretion. And, after a couple of songs, my heart sank; they announced my absolute favorite band in the world, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, were set to play an unscheduled gig at the 9:30 Club the next night. I had no realistic hope of wrapping up my governmental troubles by then and, hence, had no hope of going. This was enough to make me sink even lower into whatever funk I was in.
There was fairly heavy traffic up the Parkway, but, once I got on the road to Dulles, everything cooled off. I found long-term parking, took my ticket, and parked the car toward the front. I thought about taking it to the back and then decided it would be more conspicuous there than in the front with dozens of other dirty vehicles. I took out the package that had gotten me in all this trouble, locked the car up, and took the shuttle back to the terminal. There I rode with a very tired businessman who wanted to nap and two Italian lovers who were more interested in sucking face and cooing than in identifying wanted fugitives. I found a taxi once I got back to the airport and headed back to the Watergate. I figured whoever the cops were looking for was not someone returning to DC.
The cabby was in a pissy mood and that was fine with me. He barely even glanced at me when I got in and told him where I wanted to go. I enjoyed being able to slink back and watch everything go by. I wasn’t terribly tired after my nap, so I simply stared at the blue sky and watched it become red, providing me with some sort of uneasy calm, which I desperately needed. I realized I had been on the lam—See? I was already learning the lingo—for almost twenty-four hours and figured that was longer than most fugitives managed to avoid capture. It also made me feel good to realize I was out-witting some terrorist organization as well. Perhaps, I thought, when all of this was over, and if they would ever have me, I could intern at the CIA and show them how it was done.
The white lights of the city began to pop on as we came closer, and soon we were back in front of the Watergate. I started to regret how much I was going to have to pay the cabby, but then I remembered it wasn’t my money. I gave him a generous tip, grabbed my bag, and went inside. I looked at no one and arrived on the eighth floor unscathed. I ran to my room and bolted and chained the door.
I was probably as physically safe as I was going to get. My car was fairly safe, I felt pretty sure no one had seen me, and I was back in my room at a hotel which was noted for foiling break-in attempts. But I wasn’t one iota closer to figuring out how to get out of my mess. I took off and re-folded my suit and collapsed on the bed.
I lay there for a short time, listening to myself breathe and trying not to think. It didn’t work. I grabbed the remote and flipped on the news. You can guess the topic of the piece.
But this was different—worse. The reporters were no longer out to parade the evidence to the public—they had already done that. Now it was time to show what kind of person I was.
“Trent Norris was a loner, acquaintances say,” the same grim-faced reporter began. That was a laugh, I thought. I was the guy spinning on my head at parties. Whatever I was, loner wasn’t it.
They cut from the ugly photo of me to a picture of my last apartment in Atlanta, the one where the bathroom never worked. There a woman, who I didn’t even recognize at first, talked about me. “He was very quiet, always seemed like he was hiding something,” she said. “A little destructive.”
Okay. Now I remembered her. This woman lived three flights below me and was some psycho sixty-year-old divorcee who went back to school for God knows what because by the time she got out she’d probably be dead. I saw her approximately once a month when we rode up together in the elevator with our groceries. And sure, I was quiet. What was I supposed to do? Recite the Gettysburg Address? I really wondered if she honestly remembered me.
Next, they showed this idiot from college, a guy named Rick Mason, who was from the Button-Down Tight-Asses for Freedom or some organization like that. He was one of those college student government types who like to pass resolutions just so they can get in the habit of doing it in the future. I had had a class with him, and my friends and I made fun of him because he was so solemn; I imagined he probably knew it. Now it was his time to get even.
The reporter gave him a great lead-in. “Norris was known on campus to be extremely liberal, especially when it came to Second Amendment Issues.”
Mason, with stars in his eyes from having a camera pointed at him, jumped at the chance. “One of the most liberal operators on campus. Always writing something, always inciting something.” Now, I was not Mr. Conservative by any means, but I looked like Bill Friggin’ Buckley compared to most of the student body. I had campaigned for Bush, after all. I decided if I found out I couldn’t prove my innocence, I would drive back to Atlanta and shoot Rick Mason just to have done something worthwhile.
And then, they hit the lowest blow of all. They found some goofy article I had written for the school paper, protesting something mild in which I comically suggested the student body tie the chancellor to the school library. Of course, they didn’t mention it was humorous, and perhaps they didn’t understand; lots of people don’t get irony and satire. They said it was an “incendiary” article and very little else. The grim reaper signed off, and I was left looking like an unstable loner who believed in the false imprisonment of various authority figures. God dang it, I looked guilty.
Up to this point, I ha
d been alternately scared, worried, terrified, miffed, ticked off, and despondent. Now I was mad. In fact, I was madder than I had ever been before. I was mad at everyone from the police, to the media, and quite a few in between. That was the moment when I decided to both get vindicated and acquitted, although I was far from sure how I would accomplish either.
But I had an idea where to start. I went to the table and picked up the senator’s black book. At least this would give me an idea of what kind of resources I would have at my disposal. There were lots of interesting entries: home phone numbers for very important people, the numbers of two well-known actresses and a news anchor, and the number for a psychic, all of which, while interesting, was of no use to me. There were doctors, lawyers, caterers, and acupuncturists, and I was about to decide that I was out of luck when something written lightly in pencil caught my eye: Discreet Companions.
There was no address, just a phone number, and below it was the name Traci on one line, and Candy and Sandy on the next. I wondered if they were twins—okay, I hoped they were. It was a DC phone number, so I grabbed the latest phone directory and checked for a listing. There was none. High-class, I thought.
If this was what I thought it was, besides being perfect fodder for a news leak, I began to see a plan. If I could get someone here, who would at least have to hear me out and maybe even believe my story, maybe I could convince them to run my errands and help try to save my hide. I would be less than totally honest if I left out that I was also quite enamored with having a Discreet Companion at my beck and call. But at this point, my friends were all out of town, and, if they weren’t, I wouldn’t have wanted to call them anyway, because I knew that was another trap that often got your butt in a sling in these types of situations.
I dialed the number and got ready with my senator voice. When a silky maiden answered, I said, “This is the senatah.”
