The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description

by Dale Wiley

  “Hello? Oh … Yeah … Now? … Are you okay? Where are you?” She grabbed a pen, frowned, scribbled, put down the phone, and took a deep breath. “That was Tabitha. I have to go pick her up,” she said, looking at the note she had just made.

  I was stricken and tried not to show it. She was leaving. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” She looked honestly apologetic, fixing me with a sad look for a second before she finally stood up. I did the same. For the first time that evening, she seemed unsure of herself. “But I had such a great time, and I want to do it again.” She looked me in the eyes again. I was looking for signs of irony or deception but wasn’t seeing any.

  She walked me to the door, kissed me with lips still cold from ice water, and said goodbye as I stepped out and tried not to trip.

  I walked down the block, trying to decide what had just happened. I couldn’t. Even if I had been able to tell something, I still would be suckered into the waiting and hoping game.

  Tuesday

  Chapter

  * * *

  Four

  I must’ve hit the snooze button thirty-seven times. I hadn’t fallen asleep until after one, mainly from staring at the ceiling with knots in my stomach thinking about Stephanie. I ran through scenarios where she liked me, where something actually wound up going well, but most of my time was spent wondering why in the hell she had to go pick up Tabitha at eleven-thirty at night. Wasn’t that the way women blew you off? “Best friend needs me?” I tried to read, but the minute I would start something I would think about Stephanie and her love of books and be right back in the same place.

  My roommate Angie banged on the door. I heard her take a shower already, and I imagined she was now dressed. “You’re gonna be late,” she said just before my alarm went off yet again. It was 7:50; she was right. I mumbled a “thank you,” which she may or may not have heard, and headed into the shower. I wouldn’t have time for breakfast, so I’d have to grab something at work.

  I made it to work by a quarter ‘til nine and took a detour to the atrium, where there were a number of eating places arrayed among the plants and faux marble. I got a cinnamon roll the size of a beehive and a Coke—my alternative to coffee—and made my way to the office. If Joe or Kurt or Damon gave me any grief, I’d bribe them with some of my breakfast.

  Joe was running toward the conference room. One of an intern’s talents must be to talk very quickly and convey an entire message in the size of a sound bite, thus allowing the boss to comprehend and not slow down at the same time. I managed to cram the fact that I would be in and out of the panel, because I was going to work on his project, into about five words and two gestures, and he gave me a quick thumbs up and kept going. Then before I had turned around, he turned on his heels and came back.

  “Oh yeah. Mark Helper has some information in his office for you. I’m so tired of all of this Regionarts shit,” he said to anyone who cared to listen. He resumed his trot toward the panel, and I headed for my cozy little office. After I ate my breakfast and returned two calls, I decided to head down to Helper’s office. I walked around the corridor and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

  Helper was one of the big-wigs—the chief financial officer—brought in by the Chairman at the beginning of her reign. He seemed more competent than some of the other higher-ups, and he was quite a bit younger, too; I couldn’t imagine he was too much over thirty. He looked like a runner, short with practically zero body fat, and he was losing enough hair that he was starting to do the comb-over. Even though he was younger, he was just as snooty—or snootier—as the rest of the management types, unwilling to smile at anyone who he felt wasn’t his equal.

  Any time I got on the elevator with him, he would gander longingly at his Rolex, pretending to look at it for so long that I wanted to buy him a digital. Sometimes he would fix his gaze on the floor numbers or examine his suit for lint, all so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with peasants like me. During those annoying moments, I always had the nearly irresistible urge to punch him in the esophagus, but I had managed to keep myself in check—so far, at least. I hoped he wouldn’t be around.

  For once, my prayer was answered. Mr. Helper was gone, leaving his secretary all alone. She was tall, redheaded, thin, and so pretty I thought her face would break. I tried to flirt but she didn’t seem to care. She frowned and told me that Helper knew someone would be coming and had left word to give me everything I needed. He was obviously just as tired as Joe of the whole Regionarts mess, and I was there to clean up. I walked into his pristine, softly-lit office, filled with expensive plants and tasteful—but boring—artwork. His desk was neat, which made me dislike him even more. Right in the middle, there was a stack of papers with a sticky note marked “Joe,” which she handed to me.

  I smiled politely—something I figured she didn’t see too much of from ol’ Helper—and was about to leave when she told me to wait. “I need to run downstairs for five or ten minutes. Can you stay and watch the phones?” As she said this, she touched my wrist and smiled. Now that she needed me, she was a little more interested in flirting.

  I shrugged my shoulders and told her yes. She thanked me and swiftly exited. I walked around her desk and sat down. Her chair was even less comfortable than mine. I scanned her desktop, interested to see what was going on in Helper’s little world, but nothing caught my eye

  Maybe I was moving up. I had previously answered phones in several departments but never before for anyone on the Management Floor. I half-expected to hear the Washington Symphony Orchestra signaling incoming calls.

  But when the phone rang, it sounded just like any other. It was the third line from the top; I picked it up. The Caller ID screen said the call was coming from the McHolland Foundation—interesting—maybe there was Regionarts dirt. Before I could even speak, the person on the other line started in, talking quickly, nervously, and hushed. “Sorry to call you here, but I wanted you to know. I’ve gotta catch a plane because I’m getting out of here. If he doesn’t hear differently, our friend at the Sheraton is going to terminate the problem at the Capitol at 3:30.” I was writing furiously and waiting for a moment to tell this guy that I wasn’t Helper and had no idea when he would be back. He never gave me a chance. He gave me a phone number at the Sheraton, said, “It’s out of my hands,” and hung up.

  As I tried to make this into a comprehensible message, I glanced at a piece of paper next to the phone. I noticed that the line that I had just picked up was Helper’s private line. Oh shit. That was a bright thing to do. I thought about apologizing for picking it up in my note but decided I’d play ignorant—I do that very well; it’s what eastern people expect out of southerners anyway. I was just finishing up the note as the secretary came back in. She told me to put it on his desk.

  I felt a little uneasy as I left. What did “terminate the problem” mean? Was Helper trying to sabotage Regionarts? That just didn’t make any sense. Especially if someone from the McHolland Foundation was in on it too. But there were probably a million other things it could be related to, and I wasn’t going to mention it to anyone else. I went back to my office space, settled in, and after a game of Tetris, I sorted through my newest pile of information. Most of it was background, lists of grantees, quotes from happy artists, stuff that really wasn’t going to help much. But I did need the hard cash figures; I’d have to work them in someplace. I separated those papers from the PR stuff and went back to the panel.

  I slipped in next to Ann, as yet another grant was discussed. Everything seemed to be more peaceful, and the panel was obviously in the second-day groove. By tomorrow they would be dreadfully tired of all of this, but they were having fun—comparatively, anyway—right now.

  It didn’t take me long to fall into a reverie, wondering about the strange message I had taken and thinking about Stephanie. Should I call her today, or should I wait? Should I send her anything? No, still too early. And last night ended too we
ird. Don’t get going too fast. Should I get up out of this boring panel and work on my report? No, wait a little while at least. Helper may be sabotaging the whole thing anyway. I performed mental variations on these themes for the next hour.

  Finally, we took a break, and I let Joe know I had gotten everything I needed to get the report done, trying not to betray the fact I had new, possibly pertinent information. Since he was standing there, I asked him exactly what he wanted, and he shrugged his shoulders; he hadn’t ever been in this position before of having to defend one of our projects. “Just make it look good,” he said.

  After a few more false starts and much handwringing, I finally began to come up with something worthwhile. I produced a semi-coherent three-page document and knew it wouldn’t take long to get to four. Noon came, and I decided to go to lunch early since things were going so well.

  The Pavilion is a very quiet building, and once you hit the door, you notice a change as you reenter the asphalt world of the city. Still muggy, even on that cloudy, late-September day, DC seemed to me to always be either hot or cold, and I pitied the suit-wearers as I ventured down the street to lunch. Sometimes I went to eat with Lori, who was an NEA “fellow,” which is just like an intern, but you get paid, and it sounds better. But she was out of town, so I decided to indulge myself in some fast-food grease for lunch. When she was around, I had to eat more hoity-toity since she was a former dancer, and I just sort of got the impression she disapproved of fast-food.

  On my way back to work, I saw a huge crowd gathering. I was perplexed for a moment and then remembered that Tuesday was the beginning of the “Right to Bear Arms” rally, which would bring lovers of the AK-47 from far and wide to the seat of government. I could see a long line of marchers heading toward the Capitol, parading with what I really hoped were toy weapons in an attempt to show the collective strength of those who refused to relinquish their arms. There were the stereotypes—burly men, who looked like hunters, carrying placards and chanting alongside scary little bean-eyed guys, who wore their mustaches as disguises—but there were also women and children joining their voices, and men in Armani suits who marched right along. They had a determination in their eyes that all marchers have, the same look that gay rights protesters or animal activists have when they march the same route, the look of those who truly mean business. I did not want to disturb them.

  I stopped by the panel for a bit, but headed back to my office. Joe followed me into my space, and I let him take a look at what I had. He suggested a couple of changes, and I printed it out again. “This may work,” he said. “I’ll take it down to Helper. You just sit tight and we’ll see.”

  I have always been very good at sitting tight. That’s another trait an intern needs. I picked up an old NEA brochure and flipped through it while I waited. I didn’t think Joe would take long, since he needed to get back to the panel, but fifteen minutes had gone by, and I was still sitting as tightly as ever.

  After half an hour, mostly spent thinking about Stephanie and whether Helper was ruining the NEA, Joe walked by, looking sallow and mad. He walked straight by my space and into his own, then yelled, “Trent, can you come here?”

  From his tone, I could tell I didn’t want to, but I went. I wondered if Helper had found out about me answering his private line. “Did he like it?” I asked.

  “Helper wasn’t even there. But I talked to the Chairman. They’re canning it,” he said bitterly.

  “That’s okay. I’ll just start over.” I tried to sound as pleasant as I could be after losing another day’s work.

  “No. They’re canning Regionarts. As of the next fiscal year.”

  I blinked. A lot. I started to say something and stopped. Even though I half-expected it, I still didn’t know what to say now that it was officially dead. “I thought …”

  “Everybody thought.”

  I didn’t say anything more. Joe slumped in his chair. “Now I’ve gotta tell all those people that we’ve been lying to them for the past six months.”

  Joe looked slowly around his office space, as if anything there could somehow give him some help. “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry for all the work you’ve done for nothing. Can you set up a conference call for the Regionarts board, so I can tell them myself?”

  “Did they give any reason?” I asked.

  “She said something about some kind of mismanagement, but I know she just wants to pass the buck.”

  “Who decided this?”

  “The Chairman did it on her own. She didn’t ask anyone.”

  No peppy musical numbers, I thought.

  And I thought about that morning’s phone call in Mark Helper’s office. Was he involved in canning Regionarts after all? Was the “friend” the caller had spoken of the NEA’s own Chairman? It didn’t make any sense. But it did make me mad.

  I asked Joe some quick questions about the whens and whos of the conference call, and then I left him alone. I was sick about the work I had done, but Damon and some of the others must’ve been absolutely nauseous. They had been running interference for months, only to find they were doling out lies. I wondered if they knew yet but realized they were in the panel and probably had no idea.

  It took about half an hour to call everyone and set up a conference call. All of the important people were nervous when I told them what the topic was, and they probably knew their fight was over. But I tried not to give anything away and got everyone on board for Thursday afternoon. It was almost four by then, and I had four more items on my agenda.

  First, I called home, hoping Angie was still there. She was going back home to Iowa for a short vacation, and I had thought about calling her earlier but got busy. This was my first experience having a female roommate, and it had taken months to begin to learn that it really helped if you asked, “How was your day?” and said, “Have fun on your trip,” things which were utterly unnecessary when dealing with other guys, but headed off enormous trouble when dealing with women. But she wasn’t there and was probably already headed toward the airport.

  Secondly, I needed to go to the NEA library. It was situated on the second floor, and I took the stairs down just to be different. It was small and filled with a smattering of books on any topic, a broad but utterly random selection. I found two books on Delta blues and a couple of magazines with job listings and went to check them out. I received a stern lecture from the librarian because my last books had been late, late, late, but was eventually allowed to admit my guilt and shame, make an attempt at an apology, and take my books. I went back up to the office and put the books on my desk next to the Regionarts stuff. I thought again about Helper, our office’s own Judas.

  But now, there were only two things left to do before I could go home and forget all this crap.

  Kurt had in his desk two blue caps with “Fire Inspector” on them, for use during the semi-annual fire drills around the place. At least one person in every department had one, and they were in charge of counting the employees and reporting to the fire marshals if a fire were to ever occur. For whatever reason, Kurt had ended up with two, and I knew darn well he only needed one. I had already tried it on; it was way too small for me, but I wanted it anyway, though I wasn’t sure why. I had always collected strange items. From high school, I had volleyball trophies from the early seventies, math plaques, and seat cushions. From college, I had a phone and a potted plant. Kurt had told me he couldn’t give the hat to me, although he had hinted that I could “take” it if I really wanted it.

  I really wanted it. I figured that most everyone was at the panel, but I checked to make sure no one was looking, bent over in his desk and found it, third drawer down. I pulled it out and considered what would be the most nonchalant way to carry it, but I still couldn’t see anyone around, so I just rushed back over to my space, picked up the whole pile where the books were, and put everything in a big plastic bag I had brought the day before just for this hat-stealing occasion.

  I took the bag out to the front
desk of our office, sat down, and grabbed a blank piece of paper. I wrote, I’M ON TO YOU in big block letters. I looked at it and wondered if “on to” should be one word or two. I didn’t want to take a nasty message to Mark Helper and misspell something. I wadded that sheet up and tried again. This time, I wrote, I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING in big block letters. That was better. Then I called Helper’s office. The same pretty secretary answered.

  I used my uptight easterner voice. “We’ve got some paperwork up here you need to see. Is there anyone else in Mark’s office to cover you?”

  “No,” she said; she was all alone. I told her it was close to the end of the day and begged her until she agreed to come examine the papers. I instructed her to go to the Visual Arts room on the eighth floor. Then I grabbed my stuff and rushed out of the office, down the stairs, and waited on the opposite side of the fifth floor until I saw the secretary come out of her door and wait for one of the elevators. When she made it inside, I hustled across and slid the paper under the door to Helper’s private office. I ran down the stairs and tore out of the building. It was four o’clock.

  The subway ride was about the same as usual but not quite as crowded, since I was getting a little bit of a head start on the evening rush hour. I found a seat, put my bag next to me, and watched the grayness of the subway’s innards fly by outside the car. An almost-mechanical voice called off the stops, and I barely listened, tired from doing nothing, lulled by the movement of the subway. I heard Eastern Market, though, and got off when the doors finally opened.

  As I emerged from the tunnel darkness, I noticed how short the days were becoming; the sun was lower in the sky than it had been a week or two before. I clutched my bag, took off for home, and looked inside only to realize all of the Regionarts paperwork had gotten thrown in with the rest of the stuff. I groaned as I realized I’d have to remember to take it back in the morning, even though it really didn’t matter anyway.