Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  So why bother to read it at all? Because someone, somewhere, might ask him a question or, more likely, ask the A.D. a question and the A.D., flummoxed, treading water, would toss the question to Mitch. And if Mitch didn’t know the answer well, what more could you expect from a goddam affirmative action hire.

  Except, of course, Mitch wasn’t an affirmative action hire. He was hired long before there was affirmative action, when there was negative action; when that prissy little bigot, J. Edgar Himself, wielded iron control over the Bureau. Back then, Mitch’s credentials were so shiny that even a racist like Hoover had to acknowledge them. Born in Trinidad; grew up in Harlem; NYC police lieutenant at twenty-six; quit to join the Marine Corps; wounded at Khe Sanh and mustered out with both a Silver Star and a Purple Heart; returned to get his degree at Howard, finishing first in his class, which earned him a full scholarship to the University of Maryland, law review, Moot Court winner. Mitch could have earned some serious money, but he decided he would see whether he had what it took to be an Agent in the Bureau. As it turned out, it took less than he had imagined.

  He met the Great Man shortly after he joined the Bureau. His supervisor arranged an audience because, he explained, all new Agents should have the experience, at least once, of meeting a “Character Out of History.”

  So the two of them waited in the lobby outside of Hoover’s office. After a half-hour, a male secretary ushered them into an immense room. At the far end stood J. Edgar Hoover, as grave as a statue.

  “Good morning, Director,” Mitch’s boss shouted from the doorway, nearly standing at attention. He had a death grip on Mitch’s right bicep. “This is Mitch Dennis, a new agent.”

  The Director nodded imperceptibly, and the supervisor marched toward the desk, hand still around Mitch’s arm. Mitch felt a little bit like a prisoner being brought in for interrogation.

  Mitch’s boss recited his accomplishments. Mitch thought he saw Hoover nod again at the mention of Vietnam but he wasn’t sure.

  At the end of the spiel, Hoover bent slightly at his waist and held out his hand. “Glad to have you with us, boy,” he said or Mitch thought he said; the old man mushed his words like he had tobacco juice in his mouth; he may not have uttered the slur at all. Mitch leaned in to grasp the hand and saw that Hoover was standing on a platform. Everything was raised about eight inches off the ground so that the Director appeared to be of normal height, or even tall.

  Well, that had been the high point. Six months later Hoover was dead and Mitch’s career was on a terminally blighted path. He watched younger, less skilled, less credentialed, whiter agents get the bigger, higher-visibility assignments and, eventually, the promotions that went with them. When he and the Bureau’s few other Black agents filed a class-action lawsuit, the Carter Administration was eager to settle and Mitch finally got his promotion to GS-15. But the Bureau’s permanent government had a long memory, and made sure that Mitch’s duties were confined to reviewing meaningless documents for high-level officials and corresponding with minor dignitaries.

  “Mitch? The A.D. wants to see you.” Mitch picked up the intercom, thanked Sheila, and pushed himself away from the desk. Since Hoover’s death they had hired female secretaries, at least. Even a few women agents.

  When Mitch entered A.D. Henderson’s office he saw an attractive young Black woman sitting attentively on the A.D.’s low-slung couch. Henderson balanced himself rather uncomfortably on a corner of his desk, a smile determinedly plastered onto his face. P.R. woman, Mitch guessed immediately; the A.D. would never assume so casual a posture with someone from government.

  “Dennis!” the A.D. cried out, as though he was surprised to see Mitch respond to his summons. “I’d like you to meet Yvonne Brown. She’s the head writer for—I’m sure you’ve watched this show more than a few times—Beat Cops of Miami.”

  “Great show,” Mitch said, though he in fact had never seen it. He threw out the TV right after Helen died. Judging from Henderson’s remark, though, the show had to be about Black people. Henderson assumed Mitch watched all shows that had any Black people in them, regardless of genre or quality, and constantly assured Mitch of his own appreciation of the dramatic talents of Richard Roundtree. “Mitch Dennis,” Mitch said to the young lady, shaking her hand.

  “Miz Brown has come up with a terrific new story line for the show,” Henderson explained with startling enthusiasm. “The lead character is joining the Bureau. Miz Brown needs to learn about our operations in order to write accurate scripts. Naturally, we’ll be giving her our full cooperation.”

  “That’s great, A.D.” Outsiders thought that agents addressed their supervisors by their initials, like Hollywood moguls. Ms. Brown would undoubtedly call Henderson A.D. after this and it was the least Mitch could do for him.

  “Well, that’s where you come in, Dennis. I need somebody very senior to introduce her to the Bureau. Take her around, show her what a day in the life of a typical agent is like.”

  “A day in my life would involve reviewing the White-Collar Crime Report for the Special Senate Committee,” Mitch reminded him. He was surprised by how tight his mouth had become.

  “This takes priority,” Henderson said with a little wave of his hand. “Good to see you again, Dennis.” The A.D. took Yvonne’s hand—her fingertips, really. “I leave you in good hands.”

  “So, do you prefer ‘Dennis’ or ‘Mitch?’” Yvonne said when they were back out in the hall. “I was a little confused.”

  “My name is Mitch Dennis,” Mitch said, looking straight ahead, walking slowly. He sensed her amusement; didn’t like it. Nor did he like the smirks he was getting from his co-workers as he walked with her. He hated the assumption that when a Black man was with an attractive Black woman, sex was somehow involved.

  “He must be a motherfucker to work for,” Yvonne said casually, “Did you notice that smile? He was using muscles he’s never used before in his life.”

  “I try to avoid him.” They had reached Mitch’s office and he stepped aside for her to enter. He was trying to avoid her, but it didn’t look like he was going to be able to.

  “Ms. Brown, I need to—”

  “Yvonne.”

  “Yvonne. I need to tell you that if you’re trying to show a realistic depiction of what day-to-day life is like in the FBI you’re going to have some very, very bad television.” His office wasn’t as big as Henderson’s but it was nice; roomy, with good furniture, including a little table. He sat down on one side of it and gestured for Yvonne to sit in the other chair. “We are a government bureaucracy. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not gunfire and car chases. Most of my time is spent horsing through jurisdictional squabbles with the local police. You might be better off watching that old TV series with Ephram Zimbalist Jr.”

  “Do you do kidnappings, Mr. Dennis?”

  “Kidnapping is a Federal crime,” Mitch answered slowly, “and the FBI investigates Federal crimes. Why do you ask?”

  “My friend’s been kidnapped,” Yvonne said. “Two DC cops forced us off the side of the road and hauled her out of my car.”

  “I’m confused. Is this your story line?” he asked. “Are you shooting here in DC?”

  “No. It’s all true. Do you mind if I smoke?” Tears glistened in her large hazel eyes.

  “No—ah, I don’t have an ashtray.” He walked over to the door; closed it, and brought a coffee cup back to the table. “Here, use this.” He watched her stick the cigarette in her mouth, steady her right hand with her left, bring her match to the end, breathe in, try to calm down. “How do you know they were officers?”

  “They said they were. I’m sorry—it’s so stupid for me to cry like this.” For several moments she sat there with big tears running down her face. Her carefully-coifed hair began to unravel; her carefully applied makeup started to run; it was like watching a gorgeous ice cream sundae melt in the sun. Mitch wished he could hand her a hankie or something but he had nothing.

  He watch
ed her drill the half-smoked butt into the coffee cup, draw in a deep breath, and take out another cigarette. “Your friend was kidnapped, and I gather you were present at the time,” he encouraged. “The kidnappers were policemen from the District, or at least said that they were.”

  Yvonne nodded. She was struggling with tears again.

  Mitch waited for her to launch into her story; and she did, at first looking away from him but slowly coming around to stare straight into his face. She covered it all: Evelyn’s mysterious arrival at her house; her moody, haunted look; the torn strips of the Washington Post on the kitchen table; the night at the The Fun Factory—not leaving out the trip to the ladies’ room; Evelyn’s thousand-dollar snort—the screaming; the confrontation with the bouncer; Jimmy Ray Mallory; the mad race to the car; and off to the distance—tires squealing in the shadow-drunk moonlight; salt air punishing their straining hearts and lungs; the huge Caddy overtaking their little Corvette; and in the end, the door opening, Evelyn following them like a lamb to the slaughterhouse; and afterward, Maltby and Ford, chattering and laughing. Finished, Yvonne opened her purse and dropped a baggie full of money on the table.

  “What’s that?” Mitch asked.

  “Money,” Yvonne said. “After the crash the older guy peeled off a thousand dollars and threw it through the window. He said it was to pay for damages to the car. It might have his fingerprints on it.”

  “It might.” Mitch was thoughtful. “So I presume he wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  “No.” This meant that they weren’t dealing with professional criminals. Indeed, this was a very odd duck, or pair of ducks, apologetic ducks, almost.

  “Ms. Boone ever give you any idea what was bothering her?”

  “Evelyn was very evasive. She said it had nothing to do with work or a man, though.”

  “What was the deal with the Post?”

  “She never said. Oh, wait—she did get real wound up about a funeral. I can’t remember who it was for.”

  “Like, she read something from the obituary page?”

  “No. It was a front page story.” Mitch tried to think of who died recently who was important enough to merit a front-page story in the Post, and decided that it was no one. “The Mayor was involved.”

  “Sharon Scott.” The Scott funeral was on the front page of the Metro section, not the whole paper, but it was undoubtedly what this young lady meant. Mitch remembered it well: that the Mayor would speak at the funeral of his doxy showed that he was beyond the capacity to be embarrassed, or shamed.

  “Could be,” Yvonne admitted. “She kept saying,‘that hypocrite! That hypocrite!’”

  Well, that sounded like Wendell Watson. “Did she know Miss Scott?”

  “She said no.”

  “How about the Mayor?”

  “The Mayor? I don’t think so.”

  “Well, why not?” Mitch said reasonably. “You said that she was an ambitious young woman.”

  “Not was,” Yvonne called out, dismayed.

  Mitch threw up his hands. “I have no reason to believe that your friend has come to harm.” God, this was going to be hard.

  Yvonne looked at him balefully. Finally, she said, “Evelyn wasn’t into politics.”

  Mitch was already forming a working hypothesis. The Mayor’s endless, degrading search for sexual partners had found another victim. Evelyn Boone—young, healthy, athletic—could well have caught his eye. They had a brief affair which Evelyn, in her naïveté, thought established some sort of bond between them. The death of the unfortunate Ms. Scott somehow temporarily affected our lust-drenched Chief Executive. Perhaps his reaction to Scott’s death unhinged Ms. Boone, who fled to Florida. Fearing some sort of confession on the Oprah Show or whatever, Hizzoner sent his goons—who could well have been part of DC’s finest—after her and Evelyn, dreaming of reconciliation, agreed to return.

  Mitch had his own dream—that Wendell Watson, Jr., an embarrassment to the hundreds of thousands of law-abiding, church-going, decent Black people in the City of Washington, would be blown up politically into a thousand pieces by this scandal, and that he, Mitch Dennis, would have something to do with bringing it about. For nearly twelve years, Mitch seethed as white agents, all comfortably ensconced in Bethesda or Alexandria or McLean, Virginia, sneered at Watson and his scandals; his bumbling, corrupt police force; the DC school system, the worst in the nation; or the City’s mysterious accounting system, from which hundreds of thousands of dollars disappeared without explanation. Though they never said it, their subtext clearly was: this is what happens if you give DC home rule—if you give Black people self-rule—and as long as Wendell Watson Jr. was Mayor of Washington, Mitch knew that the City would never achieve statehood or even representation in Congress. Mitch’s dream was to erase Watson; to erase him and place in the Mayor’s office any one of the thousands of competent and good Black men or women who could run this City.

  “You may have something, Ms. Brown,” he said, steepling his fingers under his chin. “I’m going to put you in touch with a specialist in our violent crimes division—” Mitch reached for the phone.

  “No!” Mitch was astonished how quickly the young woman stood up. “It’s got to be you.”

  “Miss Brown,” Mitch smiled helplessly; gestured to the mounds of paperwork on his desk. “I’m a—”

  “I don’t care what you are,” Yvonne said. “I will not deal with another white cop. They think we’re all cokeheads and idiots. To them, when a Black woman is beaten, or raped, or kidnapped, it’s just another day in the life.”

  Mitch looked at her steadily. “Your friend was pretty badly coked up,” he observed.

  “That’s not the point. We deserve justice anyway. A white person doesn’t have to do everything right in order to get justice. If a white woman had snorted coke, and then gotten kidnapped, you bet your ass those white cops would have gone looking for her.”

  “I admire your passion,” Mitch said, looking at her. Admired and remembered it, vaguely.

  “When I met with Henderson, I told him I wanted to work with the highest-ranking Black officer he had.” Yvonne was calmer now. “He told me to work with you.”

  Mitch smiled mirthlessly. Of course: when she explained her supposed mission to the Bureau, they sent her to Henderson, who was, properly understood, the Assistant Director for Fluff. And Mitch was the highest-ranking Black man in his office.

  “I have an idea,” Mitch said.

  He knew he should have left that geeky clerk alone and departed the building like Elvis. I can resist anything but temptation, P. Traum sighed as he turned onto 93, north, toward Caliente. But really, this was a huge temptation. His imitation of the great DeForrest Kelly was a disgrace. “Dammit, Spock, I’m a surgeon, not a dancing bear.” It didn’t even make sense! And he missed everything about Kelly that made him brilliant when he delivered that line, the subtle note of resignation, so that you knew that McCoy was going to do whatever bizarre thing Spock had asked him to do. All this young punk could do was slip into a drawl a tiny bit thicker than his normal speech. If you pretend to art, do art. So, seeing as it was just the two of them, P. Traum brought out the Glock and blew him away.

  But—and here was why P. figured he was a subconscious genius—this was turning out very well for him anyway. The cops had concluded, not unreasonably, that the security guards, who were the only people in the registry book, were actually the folks who popped the clerk, and were now engaged in a furious search for them. P. was following it with great interest on his police-wave radio. He learned that they were traveling under the names of Aaron Moore and Ted Wilson; that they were driving a gold Cadillac Seville with Florida license plates; and that they had just been spotted by a gas station attendant on Route 20, headed east. P., who knew this territory well, surmised that they would continue east on 20 for three reasons. The first was that they had to get to DC. The second was that they wouldn’t take the quickest route, north on 95, because 95 was a superhighway, and he
avily patrolled. The third was that they would want to get out of redneck territory as soon as possible. That meant that they would be running for the coast. P., mulling it over, concluded that they would probably stay on 20 until it ended in Florence, and then continue east on 76 until they could go up the coast on 17.

  If they got arrested, it would be okay. Few things were easier than getting into a jail. He had done it half a dozen times, and in each case he got his man; it would be no big deal to do these security guards. Or he could bail out Evelyn, who was probably only being held as an accessory (she wasn’t on the registry), and take her out to the woods and slit her throat. She, after all, was the real prize.

  P. pulled into a 7-Eleven to stretch his legs and pick up a paper. Although he could go many hours without sleep, he needed to read the news now and then to renew his contact with the outside world. He was looking for information—important information—and he was disappointed when he didn’t find it until page eighteen, - Electoral College Makes it Official, and then he felt his heart dip. The electors, he thought mournfully, had forgotten their ancient and traditional charge: to use their judgment in the selection of the American President. He felt betrayed as an American; surely it was clear to any fair person that Dukakis, a Harvard man who had done such miracles for Massachusetts, would be the better President. The country is going to hell. He sat back and rested; the targets had a head start on him, but it didn’t matter; he knew who they were; and before he had his next night’s sleep they would be dead.