The Doorman

by Roger Weston

  When a group of lawmakers moved on, he stood by the door and observed the goings on with raving fascination. As his gaze drifted from one house member to another, his expressions changed slightly from affection to humor to weariness. When his inquisitive eyes passed over a darling of the talk shows, his mind recalled the secret evidence of scandal, but he did not judge. Nor did his thoughts linger on this member or that. He was looking for one man in particular.

  Today was not just any day for Lionel Ratliff, doorman of the House of Representatives. He had just received an encrypted message from his old pal Chuck Brandt. There was something devious going on around here—something darker than usual with bigger stakes—and Lionel was going to find out what. No matter how hideous, shocking, or debased a secret might be, no matter how hushed and buried in august marble tombs, no secret could long elude Lionel C. Ratliff. He could smell scandal. He could feel it in the air. The vibrations had crossed his wires yesterday, even before Brandt’s contact. Now his gaze wandered, and his eyes filled with dark portents.

  The men falling into his drifting gaze were smooth deflectors and deceivers. They wheeled and dealed, but dark deeds roamed below the righteous facades. Much was being said, and Lionell knew that so much was not being said. Every man had two faces, the one he presented on the stage of congress and the other one, the private face. The second face interested Lionell more than the public one. The public face was a mask while the private face was the secret sin. Every man in Congress had secrets, but Lionel knew almost everything.

  He got out his red velvet dust rag and drifted around the chamber. He worked his way up and down the aisles. He polished a chair here and a railing there, always within earshot of some informal negotiation. He caught snatches of dialogue, heard tidbits of good and evil. Everything that struck him as intriguing he filed away in his prodigious brain.

  A few members stopped by to greet him, but the rest paid as little attention to him as they did the portraits of Marquis de Lafayette or George Washington. The two portraits were hung to the left and to the right of the Speaker’s rostrum, and they’d been there since 1858. They were life-size portraits in prominent positions, but they were always there, so mostly people didn’t pay them much attention. It was just the same with Lionel. He’d been around longer than most of the congressmen and several crops before them, so he was kind of like the statues and the paintings. People said things in front of painting and statues that they wouldn’t say in front of just anyone. It was the same with Lionel, except that he listened and the paintings didn’t.

  Congressmen stood around the House Chamber in groups of two and three. Few noticed the man with the large head and the big, thick-framed glasses who moved up and down the aisles between their chairs. A white plastic trash bag hung down from his left hand.

  In his right hand he carried the red velvet cloth, which he occasionally used to wipe smudges from the shining wood frames of the chairs. It never occurred to any of the duly-elected, immaculately-groomed talking heads around the chamber that the janitors had already done a first class job in here. Lionel Ratliff was known for going above and beyond the call of duty, so nobody noticed that when he was polishing a chair, he was also glancing at documents and papers that had been left unattended. He was a smart guy who could grasp the essence of a page of text in five or ten seconds. Often his photographic memory could imprint a page upon his mind in seconds. Nobody knew this about the humble doorman.

  He resumed his place by the door to cast his eyes upon the spectacle that was taking place right in front of him. He wanted to see every detail so he polished his big-framed glasses with his embroidered handkerchief. This wasn’t just any room, not to Lionel Ratlif. No, this room was a living thing. It was the very center of the world, the seat of power. Every man who came here was indeed a king, a little king perhaps, but a king nonetheless. Lionell’s job was to treat them as kings but never to let anyone bully him or disrespect him. They were the little kings, but Lionell was a player to be reckoned with. These little kings came and went, but Lionell had been the House Doorman for over twenty years. There were some people around Washington who understood who the real power players were.

  A couple of congressmen made brief stops to shake his hand.

  “I owe you, Ratlif.” This from Alaska.

  “Don’t forget my party, Ratlif.” This from Minnesota, who shook Ratlif’s hand and hurried away.

  Lionel surveyed the House. Energy filled the air. A new legislative day would soon begin. Some stood over by rostrum in front of the American flag. Some were there for duty, others for adulation. Some glanced frequently up at the press gallery and drooled in anticipation of their next interview wherein they would tell a string of half-truths and lies. They all looked good, and their smiles were those worn by the victorious. They stood around by brown chairs of wallet leather and tables of antique colors. Lionel watched their every move. He watched how they reacted to each other, and he knew the reasons.

  Senator Slywotzky of Florida, a man with a curled mustache and round glasses approached Lionel. “Bad things are happening around here, Ratlif.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Why don’t I have a bill in my hand? Souls rot in this town, my friend. Watch your back.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I heard Marsha Carver cursing your name to Speaker Galloway.”

  “I’ve been insulted by bigger names than Carver.”

  “Just keep your eye on her.”

  Ratlif frowned. As the doorman of the House of Representatives, he was a smiling face. He had a friendly face for every person he met. He met all the powerful people on the Hill, and he studied the players—all of them. He learned their every need, habit, and corruption. He was a man of many talents. First and foremost, he listened. He listened at all times. He was better than a surveillance bug because he not only listened and stored away vast amounts of information; he also evaluated and sorted that information in his own mind. He was acutely aware of subtleties, of every man’s habits and flaws. He understood that every congressman had weaknesses, needs, and insecurities. Once he understood a man’s traits, he turned on his second skill. He was a servant--a fixer, a runner, a chauffeur, a lawman, and a clown. He was a little prince, and the House of Representatives was his domain. Like a prince, his authority had many tentacles.

  That’s why his old pal Chuck Brandt had contacted him. Chuck wanted Lionel to keep his eyes open and quietly look into the recent murder of a senator.

  Lionell saw who he was looking for, the man in the blue shirt. He saw Congressman Salvador Rosa, the esteemed gentleman from Texas. Behind his big glasses, Lionel’s eyes widened for just a moment. Then they shifted away as he connected various bits of information that were stored in the cubby holes of his mind. He knew that Rosa was a friendly, outgoing man. He always had been, but today he was sitting down, all by himself, evidently thinking about something. It wasn’t Rosa’s normal pattern, but there was something else even more troubling to the doorman. Salvador Rosa’s face was a picture of burden. He was frowning, which was not his pattern. His posture was slouching, which was not his pattern. Ratlif noticed such things because he’d seen the rise and fall of so many.

  The doorman could sense that corruption was omnipresent. He could almost feel the crushing weight and the seductive lure of power. He could see the distress in the eyes of a drowning man.

  When Congressman Salvador Rosa headed for the door, Lionell approached him and shook his hand.

  “Good to see you, my friend. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Rosa shook his head. “Oh, no. You’ve done plenty for me. I owe you, that’s for sure.”

  The doorman made a dismissive gesture. “Nonsense. You look tired. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you? Don’t hesitate to ask. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  The congressman started to say something, but stopped himself. Then he shook his head. “I’m just not feeli
ng well. I’ll return to my office.”

  “Okay sir. I do have a question for you, though. What have you heard about the death of Senator Skorman? Do you believe it was an accident?” Lionel glanced back toward the door to make sure nobody was within earshot.

  “Don’t waste my time with—” Rosa stopped himself. “I’m sorry, Ratlif. I’m just not feeling well.”

  “I won’t hold you up,” Lionel said.

  A vacant look appeared on his face again. He said. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “I’ll escort you back to your office.”

  Rosa raised his hand in protest. “No, please. I’m fine. You are a loyal friend, but I want to be alone right now. Via con dios.”

  “Okay, my friend. Thank you.”

  As Lionel watched Congressman Rosa walk away, he noticed the slouch in the posture, the ambling pace, and the drifting left and right as he walked. He seemed like a man struggling against an unseen current. This was not the Rosa he knew.

  Lionel whipped out his phone and typed. He put it to his ear and waited while it rang.

  “Marcel,” he said to one of his contractors. “Congressman Rosa is not feeling well. He is walking back to his office. Keep an eye on him, but stay out of sight and don’t let him know that you’re following him. I want to know what he’s up to and that he’s okay. Keep me posted.”

  Lionel stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He was an octopus prince. His octopus arms reached onto the House floor, into the cloakrooms, the House press gallery, the rest rooms, the halls, and the prayer rooms. He ruled over messengers, pages, barbers, rest room attendants, lounge attendants, and janitors. He had an army of ears under his authority. He made a point to talk to each of his people at least once a week and often daily. Even if it was just a quick contact, a few words to learn the latest gossip, the last overheard indiscretion, or something shocking that was left on a desk as a janitor came through. They were not his spies; they were simply people, and that meant they had the same weaknesses as congressmen—they were curious, they were gossips, and sneaks. With this little army of ears under his control, Lionell knew more about what was going on around the hill than any forty elected representatives combined.

  A few congressmen with colorful neckties filed past and shook his hand.

  Lionel shook a hand and said, “Sir, about this interim funding bill. I have concerns. I admit I may not be right, but I am never wrong.” That got a few laughs. They moved on.

  Another member entered the chamber. Lionel said, “Welcome, Congressman Dolittle. Sir, one member says he wants the new funding bill to be destroyed. I said, ‘Look, I been around here a lot longer than you. Go ahead and destroy it, but make copies first.” Dolittle laughed. He talked for a few minutes and spotted someone he needed to talk with.

  Lionel pondered what the devil could be stirring behind closed doors. What was Rosa alluding to? Was it somehow connected to the so-called accidental death of Senator Skorman when his plane blew up? And why was Rosa carrying the weight of the world?

  Lionel had no answers, but he would soon.

  Presently, he was starting to suspect that Rosa was mixed up in this. Somehow they’d turned him, and now he had his hands dirty. He was using deflection. Either that or he was in denial. Rosa was covering for someone because a senator had died of unnatural causes, and Rosa was depressed because his conscience was haunting him.

  It was hard for Lionel to admit this because Rosa was one of the last men that he would have expected to give in to the temptations of the dark side.

  CHAPTER 7

  La Plata, Maryland

  Sitting in the driver’s seat of the white van, Gavin Grimes had white hair, thick black eyebrows, and a pointed white goatee. His Bersa 95 .380 pistol lay on the passenger seat next to transcripts of phone calls between Congressman Rosa and the tenant of his Georgetown condominium. Grimes skimmed the Court transcript of Congressman Rosa’s divorce. Grimes highlighted key lines in yellow. On his yellow pad, he wrote down a few questions. He was careful not to become absorbed in the narrative of the court transcript because his main priority at the moment was to watch for the young son of building contractor JJ Johnson, who would be released from school at any minute.

  The van’s window was open, so Grimes heard the bell ring. He saw students line up for the busses. Before the busses left, he spotted the boy in the red jacket, right on time, following his regular route, crutching to his grandparent’s house. They lived just a mile away. Grimes waited a few minutes then drove after the boy. After two blocks, he spotted the kid and pulled over. He watched him until he turned the corner. Grimes sat there in his van for a few minutes contemplating his next move.

  CHAPTER 8

  Washington DC

  Capitol Building

  An hour after questioning Congressman Salvador Rosa in the House wing of the Capitol, Lionell Ratlif was walking down the Great Experiment Hall with its vaulted ceilings and historical artwork highlighting events from American history. Ratlif had been elected to his position as House doorman, and he had hundreds of people under his authority—messengers, pages, cloakroom employees, barbers, ladies’ room attendants, men’s lounge attendants, janitors, and many others. Everywhere a congressman looked he would see one of Lionel Ratlif’s people. Lionel knew every one of his people, and he knew how to pump them for information. Coming his way was Marcel, an art restorer that he occasionally called in for special tasks. The Capitol was full of art, and these people were always hanging around restoring works of historic importance—and occasionally collecting intelligence for Lionel. Multi-colored paint stains and splatter covered the restorer’s white button-down shirt and painter pants. The man had a ferret’s face with a slanted-back forehead and flitting eyes.

  They stopped and stood close.

  “How’s the restoration going?” Ratlif pushed his glasses up on his nose.

  The restorer smiled and looked around with ferret’s eyes to make sure nobody was within earshot. “Not good,” he said. “Found damage in the Atlantic Room.”

  Of course, Lionel knew this was coded language and the man wasn’t talking about art. “Give me the goods. Hurry up.”

  The restorer made a shifty glance over his shoulder. “Congressman Rosa went to a meeting there and came out looking extremely depressed even though the meeting only lasted a few minutes.”

  “He was already depressed.”

  “He was worse when he came out.”

  Lionel shook his head and considered the implications. That wasn’t normal. Congressmen didn’t suffer when they passed a disastrous bill or failed to pass a bill. When they authored a disaster, they always exempted themselves from the consequences. Whatever was going on was not standard business.

  “After Rosa left the room,” the restorer said, “Representative Henderson showed up.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  Marcel nodded. “I matched his face with his photo.” He patted his leg, which Lionel knew included a fold-out photo of all the members.

  “So what happened?”

  “Once again, the meeting lasted just five minutes. When Henderson left, he looked like he might jump off a roof. He was holding his chest as if he had pain.”

  Lionel’s eyes widened behind his big, thick-rimmed glasses. This was curious indeed. He knew that Henderson was a stressed-out guy, but this sounded worse than usual.

  “Who else was in the meeting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nobody else came out of the room.”

  “How long did you wait?”

  “Thirty minutes. I was pretending to do touch ups, but actually I was just dusting and taking a lot of notes on the condition of the art. Finally, I knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so I went in. The room was empty.”

  “How’d you get a key?”

  “To inspect the art work in there, of course.”

  Ratliff saw a couple of congressional staffers heading his way.
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br />   Lionel patted him on the back. “Keep up the good work. I love what you did to the Daniel Webster painting in the Senate. First class.”

  As the doorman walked away, his mind was spinning. He was tremulous with excitement and curiosity. It sounded like whoever was in that meeting had snuck out the door into the side hall to avoid being seen. Some arm twisting was going on. There could be threats in play. Henderson and Congressman Rosa were surely in trouble, yet fear was keeping secrets in the dark.

  Lionel just hoped it was going better for Chuck Brandt, wherever he was.

  CHAPTER 9

  JJ drove his truck through a very nice Potomac neighborhood. The streets were lined with multi-million dollar mansions. The lawns were deep green. The pools were sky blue. Barred gates protected extra-wide driveways.

  “Turn in there,” Chuck said.

  JJ steered his truck into a tree-lined driveway.

  “What are we doing?” JJ said.

  “I thought we covered that.”

  JJ looked out his window at the three-story white mansion.

  “What is this, a joke?”

  “Pull into the garage. You have to keep this truck and camper out of sight.”

  “I haven’t agreed to this job yet.”

  “Come with me.” Chuck got out of JJ’s truck. They walked outside, and Chuck closed the automatic garage door. JJ followed him up the front path. The lawn was overgrown. The grass was a foot high.

  Abbey Manor, as the mansion was called, looked like a French chateaux to Chuck, but he knew more about boats than he did styles of architecture.

  “Brandt, you’re wasting my time. I can’t afford a house like this. Do you have any idea what a property like this costs?”

  “We have permission to begin fix-up before closing.”

  “You have this under contract?”