Roaches Run

by John Wasowicz

  McLuhan nodded. “You’ve chosen a historical event rather than a personal one.” Turning to the guests around the room, he said, “One of the values of my twelve-year cycle is that it can be applied not only to your personal life experiences but also to the progression of historical events, whether you’re looking at a sports team or a nation’s march through history. You can define trends and figure out ways to effect change in subsequent cycles.”

  He watched as the dinner guests ran calculations through their minds, focusing on events that were meaningful to them. “The crux of 9/11 was less about Middle Eastern terrorism taking place on our shores than about America’s resolve to identify and defeat an adversary bent upon destroying our way of life,” he said. “So let’s look at it that way.”

  The guests nodded their heads in agreement.

  “It was exactly 60 years to the day, on September 11, 1941, that Charles Lindbergh delivered a speech in Des Moines, Iowa,” McLuhan began. “It’s hard to describe the division within our country between Lindbergh and the isolationists, on the one hand, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt and those who recognized that our entry into the war was imperative, on the other.

  “People were repulsed by Lindbergh’s isolationist rhetoric,” McLuhan continued. “They denounced him and rejected his ideology. People saw through the falsehood of his speech and they formed a collective mindset against the real enemy. At that time, it was Nazi fascism. On 9/11, it was radical Middle Eastern terrorism. Today, it’s domestic extremism.”

  Katz surveyed the intent faces around the room. They were seduced by McLuhan’s apparent insight. Katz saw something else, namely a showman pulling off a magician’s stunt.

  McLuhan probably had a list of 50 events that people would select, Katz figured. For each event, there was an answer. If necessary, McLuhan would redefine the question, weave other events and trends into the response, and provide an answer that appeared spontaneous. In fact, it was fabricated and rehearsed ad nauseam. Katz understood it only too well; it was his own modus operandi in preparing his opening statements in jury trials.

  “There was a book by Lynne Olson titled Those Angry Days written ten years ago,” McLuhan added. “She explained the nation’s mood far better than I’m able to do and she singled out September 11, 1941, as the turning point between pro- and anti-interventionist sentiments in the months leading up to World War II.” McLuhan spent the next ten minutes reciting events in 1953, 1965, 1977, and 1989 that reinforced his theory about a twelve-year repetitive cycle. To Katz, it was farce compounded by deceit.

  **

  “He was amazing,” Snowe said an hour later as they walked six blocks toward a large white tent erected on the side street beside DAR Constitution Hall.

  “He’s a charlatan,” Katz replied.

  “You’re just jealous he was the center of attention. It’s a position you prefer reserved for yourself.” Snowe sounded irritated and exhausted. The search for Katie Fortune was weighing on her, Katz thought, but so was the difficulty they were having as a couple in navigating the next step of their relationship.

  “I’m not jealous,” Katz said. “That 9/11 thing was a total scam. McLuhan simply researched important dates and gathered facts to support his theory. It sounds great, but it’s a rip-off.”

  Snowe looked unconvinced.

  “Trust me,” he said. “I’m not proud to say it, but I’ve done the same thing hundreds of times in front of juries. Everything about his delivery — the understated showmanship, drawing comparisons that elude other people, making everything fit together so perfectly. It’s all a show.”

  “You’re such a — the word escapes me,” Snowe said.

  “Realist?”

  “No,” she replied briskly. “Cynic. That’s the word. You’re a cynic.”

  “Abby,” Katz said. “Everyone runs a hustle. It’s the way the world works. We spend our lives hustling others or being hustled by them. The sooner you figure that out, the sooner you realize not to take anything at face value.”

  “Maybe in your world,” she reproached him, “but not in mine.”

  “It’s true in everyone’s world,” he replied, “whether you admit it or not.”

  She resented his insinuation, which was that she was naïve and idealistic. “I hoped you would be impressed,” she said. “That’s why I invited you. Now I wish I had brought someone else who would have appreciated his insights.”

  When they arrived at the tent set up alongside DAR Constitution Hall, their conversation ceased. They took their seats, separated six feet from one another, appropriate for their present mood.

  Despite the small crowd, McLuhan appeared to thunderous applause. He sat on a four-legged bar stool in the center of a wooden stage about six feet high. A microphone was clipped to his lapel. The event was streaming online, with thousands of adoring fans watching in rapt attention. An empty glass and a pitcher filled with ice water stood on a thin-legged table off to the side. Next to the glass were blue, yellow, and red markers. Behind the table was a whiteboard.

  “Good evening,” he began. People seated throughout the tent applauded loudly. “The Rhythmic Cycle of Life is a self-help book,” he said when the applause finally died down. “It’s based on a simple premise, which is that your life, like history, repeats itself. Life is not linear; it occurs in cycles. And, since your life is cyclical, the key to a successful life is to repeat your past successes and avoid your previous blunders. There is no easier way to accomplish that objective than to understand the cycles of your own existence. It’s all about you, literally. You’ve already been around the block a couple of times.”

  Everyone laughed.

  He filled the glass with water, took a sip, and placed it back on the table. “Provided you haven’t burned out — and, from the looks of this audience, you are bursting with energy and facing the future with enthusiasm and optimism — you can take your life to a higher level simply by charting the past events of your life.”

  **

  LANDRY PARKED in the alley behind the GreyStone Hotel. Earlier, he had paid the hotel’s technician to disable the security cameras for three hours. He wondered why the hotel bothered to monitor its lobby with cameras, given the fact that bookings had plummeted due to the coronavirus. But, since the policy was still in practice, he paid whenever he had a rendezvous with Maria Pena. In fact, it had become routine, an easy way for the tech guy to pocket a few extra bucks about once a month, pandemic or no pandemic.

  After looking around the alley to make sure no one was watching, Landry cautiously removed one of the three H-Pack backpacks from the trunk of his car and placed it in a large duffel bag. He entered the back entrance, took the service elevator to the ninth floor, unlocked the door to room 909, and gingerly placed the backpack against the credenza. Then he went back downstairs and repeated the process two more times.

  **

  “LET’S RECAP,” McLuhan said. He held a blue marker. The whiteboard now showed a large circle he had drawn, along with years, events, and notes printed around it. “Once you’ve been through at least two cycles, you begin to see the rhythm of your life. You should be able to spot when good things happen in your cycle. By the same token, you should be able to identify when bad things happen. You need to study those progressions in order to figure out how to avoid bad things from repeating themselves and how to encourage good things to occur over and over again.”

  He took another sip of water from the glass on the table. “These are all ways to shake things up. Redirect your energy and take yourself off the road that previously led to bad destinations. Use today — right now, tonight, in real time — to change the past. You can do it.” Then he paused. You may have good instincts, but mine are a little bit better. “You can definitely do it.”

  From the corner of her eye, Snowe saw Katz suddenly fidget in his chair. She turned her head and raised her eyebrows at him questioningly. He shook his head in response. But she knew something had happened, like he’d
been hit with something from behind.

  **

  LANDRY SAT on the edge of the bed. Three backpacks were lined against the credenza. His phone vibrated. He saw the name Maria appear on the screen. He answered the call, but it must have been too late. A second later, a text appeared. ‘I’m here. Same routine!’ He replied: ‘OK. Give me 15 minutes. Same routine as always.’

  She was right down the hall. How convenient, he thought. She would be in the bathroom when he arrived. He’d get undressed, except for his socks, lie on the bed, and turn off the lights. She’d open the bathroom door dressed in a lace nightie, straddle him, and ask, “What’s your pleasure?”

  And, just as they used a routine to get started, things always ended the same way. Landry would turn a sensual evening into something disgusting and demeaning. He would slap and punch her, twist her hair, degrade her with lewd words and force her to submit to his perverted whims. Why she tolerated this treatment she was helpless to understand.

  Landry reached in his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. He popped one into his mouth and waddled to the bathroom, where he scooped water from the faucet to wash it down. He knew Maria Pena was mentally challenged. She had had very few lovers, he believed, and probably didn’t know the difference between being loved and being manipulated. Good for me, he thought. He reveled in the way he treated her, inflicting pain and humiliation. It got him off. That was all that mattered.

  Landry looked at the bedside clock. He’d wait another five minutes before heading to the room. He planned to make it a night to remember.

  **

  A LONG LINE snaked along the sidewalk adjacent to DAR Constitution Hall as admirers queued up at the desk inside the tent where Henry David McLuhan autographed their copy of The Rhythmic Cycle of Life. Now wearing latex gloves and a mask, the author occasionally rose and fist- or elbow-bumped an admirer.

  Snowe and Katz were near the front of the line. For Katz, the evening had been mildly entertaining. He still had no doubt that McLuhan was a fraud. The smoke-and-mirrors that the author used at dinner earlier in the evening were in full display inside the hall.

  Looking at the stately building next to them, Katz said, “You know, we’ve been here before. I don’t know if you remember, but I got us tickets to see Robin Williams’ Weapons of Self Destruction.”

  “I remember,” Snowe said. “It was filmed as an HBO special. It was back in 2009.”

  **

  AN EMPLOYEE at a restaurant on Fayette Street was carrying out the trash when he spotted a bundle of clothes in the alley. Upon closer examination, there were legs and hands curled under the clothes. It was a little girl, probably around four years old. Beside her were scraps of food fished out of the dumpster. The employee alerted the owner, who rushed outside, picked up the little girl, and brought her inside the restaurant. The child placed a tiny arm over the woman’s shoulder, embraced the warm body, and uttered an exhausted breath.

  “Call the Alexandria police,” the woman said. “This must be the girl they’re looking for.”

  A policeman arrived in ten minutes. It was the same officer who’d been huffing and puffing in his pursuit of Katie earlier in the day. He was a father of four and he’d never stopped looking, even when others had called it a night. Once he got Katie safely to the station, he would be able to go home.

  **

  KATZ AND SNOWE returned to their townhouse a little after 10. Snowe went to the kitchen to get something to drink while Katz went upstairs to change. When he came back down, he found her hunched over her phone typing a response to an email.

  “What’s going on?”

  “They found Katie outside Meggrolls on Fayette Street. She’s in family care overnight.” She put down the phone. “Maggie’s nowhere to be found. The police went back to the camp, but it’s deserted. I’ve got a bad feeling, Mo. I’m afraid she might do something stupid.”

  “There’s nothing to be done tonight.” Katz poured himself a glass of wine. He turned on the television in the kitchen.

  Snowe walked to the back of the townhome and opened the French doors to the slate patio. “Mo,” she called. Piled against the wooden fence was a fleece jacket, a wool blanket, and a crumpled piece of paper. The jacket and blanket smelled of outdoor fires and body odors. The crumpled note was written in longhand, in large, oval letters composing short sentences. Snowe picked it up and took it inside. It read:

  No one but me to blame.

  I miss Tony. I kid myself that I can get along without him.

  If something happens, you and Mo raise our little girl.

  You’ll know what to do. I don’t have a clue.

  Snowe found herself shivering. Katz put down his glass of wine and held her. “We should notify the police and see if they can redouble their efforts tomorrow.”

  Katz called the commonwealth attorney and the sheriff. Snowe contacted Child Protective Services, the city attorney, and a local nonprofit that provided 24-hour service to the homeless. Then Snowe sat and reread the letter. Her eyes welled with tears.

  “Let’s go to bed,” Katz said. He turned off the television as the 11 o’clock news came on.

  “We have to go look for her tonight,” Snowe said. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “Okay,” Katz said. “Let me grab a couple of flashlights first.”

  They drove to the edge of Old Town near the location of the makeshift camp and parked on Duke Street below the Masonic Temple. They got out of the car and took opposite sides of the street checking bushes, front stoops, parking lots, dark corners, and deserted alleys. At Daingerfield Street, Katz crossed over to Snowe’s side and together they walked down the narrow brick sidewalk along Hooff’s Run to Jamieson Avenue and the cemetery.

  A thick mist floated through the beams of their flashlights. A myriad of tiny winged creatures danced in the light as though auditioning for a fairy’s play. In the distance, the rectangles of house windows glowed yellow and white in the night. To their left was the Wilkes Street Cemetery complex and ahead of them the Grave of the Female Stranger.

  “This way,” Snowe said, pointing her beam straight. They walked past gravestones dating back to colonial days. The moon cast shadows across the stones, some of which stood upright while others tilted to the side, finding their natural place in the soil, like trees. They spied the silhouette of a person slumped beside a gravestone. A hood covered the face and a blanket was wrapped around the body’s legs.

  Snowe focused her light on the lump. The light was intense in the dark, as though it was coming from a spacecraft landing in the cemetery. A head appeared. Snowe recognized the face. “That’s the guy who was with her this morning,” she said. What a scumbag, she thought. The man remained in a stupefied state as they drew alongside. He stumbled to get up, as though bound by tree roots to the plot of ground.

  “Maybe death’s pulling him down,” Katz whispered.

  Kneeling beside him, Snowe asked, “Where’s Maggie?”

  “No idea,” he said with difficulty. The words were accompanied by a strong odor of alcohol. “I haven’t seen her.” Then he squinted his eyes at Snowe. “You busted up our place this morning.” Katz gripped the man by his collar. Snowe touched Katz’s sleeve and he slackened his hold.

  “Where do you think she went?” Snowe asked. “Is she out here somewhere?”

  The man shivered and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His breath formed clouds. “She might have gone to a shooting gallery,” he said, slurring his words. “In the city,” he added.

  Then the man dozed off.

  Snowe turned to Katz. “He’s useless,” she said.

  Katz let go of the man’s collar. “Do you want to drive downtown?”

  “Where would we even look?”

  “No clue.”

  She lowered the flashlight to her side. “I’ll check to see if there are any leads first thing in the morning.” They wended their way through the cemetery. Then they walked up Jamieson Avenue to Holland Lane and back to
the car. It was 1 a.m. by the time they returned home.

  **

  LEVIN WALLACE stayed indoors all day. From the moment he returned from the railroad line with the H-Pack backpack, he had barricaded himself in the Anacostia apartment. He had received an advance of $25,000. And another $25k was coming as soon as he finished the job.

  He had given clear instructions to his wife, Bonita, to hide the money. With $50k, they could do things. Move, put a down payment on a small condo out in the x-burbs. Start a family. Wallace hugged the backpack like it was his best friend.

  PART II

  Sunday, May 30

  Chapter Five: The Rhythmic Cycle of Life

  Review

  Did you complete your work on the cycle, as instructed in the past chapter? If not, please do it now. This isn’t intended as something for you to read. It’s intended as something for you to do.

  Done? Okay. Let’s continue.

  What you have written down is actually a summary of your entire life. Not just the first twelve years. Everything. All that has been. All that will be. You have just sketched it all out.

  That’s not possible, you’re thinking. You’re always opening new doors, exploring new chapters. Evolving. It cannot possibly be that who you are, where you’ve been, and where you’re headed is all encapsulated in one puny twelve-year cycle. I mean, you’re just getting started. Everything’s ahead of you, right?

  Well, you’re right. There are a myriad of experiences that lie ahead. But the footprint of your life - the genius strokes, mistakes, successes, failures, highs, and lows - are already charted on that piece of paper of the first cycle of your life.

  Consider a major interstate highway. If you look at old road maps going back hundreds of years, you will discover, almost without exception, that the road existed first as a footpath (perhaps for Native Americans and certainly for early settlers), then as a dirt road (for horse-drawn carts and stagecoaches), and then as a two-lane and eventually a four-lane, six-lane or even a twelve-lane highway.