Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  “Well, I’d like to talk strategy, then,” Watson said.

  “I have a strategy!” For a moment Watson was afraid that Corbin was going to stand up and give a speech. “I have a strategy of truth!” His jowls shook, and his face took on a luminescence, as though his truth strategy was shining from within him. “I want to lay responsibility for our servile condition at the door of the person who is responsible for it.

  “That son-of-a-bitch Brad Trotter!”

  What was wrong with Evelyn, Yvonne wanted to know. The distracted, moody girl who slept till noon every day was so far from the dynamo Yvonne knew that she would ask Evelyn questions just to reassure herself that it was really her old roommate. But the Evelyn who answered Yvonne’s questions was somehow a different Evelyn, one who was evasive and, there was no other word for it, fearful. Late one afternoon Yvonne found Evelyn sitting in the kitchen, sobbing, a copy of the Post open in her lap.

  The article she was turned to was about them finding the body of a DC government worker in some field. In the picture, the mayor, a good-looking guy, powerful and distinguished, was saying a few words over the grave. “Know her?” Yvonne asked.

  Evelyn shook her head, no, and Yvonne took a closer look. There was a headshot of the dead woman inset into the bigger picture. High cheekbones, Yvonne noted, with processed hair too short and blunt for her face. From what she could see of the woman, Yvonne guessed she was thin. She had a zit or something at the end of her nose. It was like a government ID picture or something, she guessed. The girl had never bothered to have a nice photo taken of herself, and so they didn’t have anything nice to run in the paper when she got killed.

  “That stinking hypocrite,” Evelyn said suddenly. “That stinking, lying S.O.B.”

  Yvonne looked more closely at the picture. The only person she could make out clearly was the Mayor, and certainly Evelyn couldn’t be talking about him. Yvonne looked at her friend and made a decision.

  “Girlfriend, we are stepping out tonight.”

  “Honest, Yvonne, I’d love to but…”

  “Honey, there is no but about it. Now, you have been here three days and all you’ve done is mope around and read Washington newspapers in that cute gown of yours. I offered to take you to the set of Beat Cops so that you could meet Chad Todson, and to take you to Bal Harbour for a day of shopping, and I wanted to go to this extremely cool party with these extremely hot guys, and you said…well, you know what you said. So this is where I draw the line. On the one hand, sitting in my kitchen crying over a newspaper story about people you don’t know. And on the other, we could be eating incredible food with my friends at the fabulous The Fun Factory. This, girl, is not something you need to think about very long.”

  “The what factory?”

  “This is the hottest new place in town. The food is to die for. All the cool people go there. Do you know who was spotted there last week?”

  “Who was spotted...girl, until two minutes ago I didn’t know the place existed.”

  “Jimmy Ray Mallory.”

  “Jimmy Ray...what’s he doing in Miami?”

  “Honey, Miami is the new Hollywood. He’s here filming that movie with Ambrosia. The one about the witch.”

  “Ambrosia’s in Miami?”

  Yvonne lowered her voice. “They’re never seen together off the set,” she explained. “Everybody says they’re fighting.”

  “Jesus,” Evelyn said, and she smiled and shook her head. “Yvonne, what I really need is some rest…”

  “What you really need is my boot to your backside. Are you gonna get up and get dressed, or am I going to be forced to kick your ass?”

  Evelyn looked at Yvonne, who weighed all of one hundred five pounds, and suddenly found herself grinning for the first time in a week. “Don’t kick my ass,” she said softly. “I’ll get dressed.”

  In the moment that Aaron Moore would have fired the gun, Aloysius Hightower remembered who he was, he was Aloysius, and he would do something, anything, to solve his problem other than kill that woman. And in that minute the two girls stepped into a sporty-looking Corvette and pulled into the street gently, leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world. He sprinted back to his car, jammed into it, and sped after them.

  He followed them into downtown Miami. What am I going to do? He tried to improvise, like Charlie Parker, but his mind was spinning, as though it had stripped its gears. He concentrated on his driving.

  When they pulled up at The Fun Factory, the very beginning of an idea began to form in his mind. He ignored the valet parking and found a meter. He went in and made a phone call to Hawkins. Then he slipped the maitre’d a hundred-dollar bill and explained where he wanted to sit.

  On Monday after he resigned from the DC government, Sean O’Brien took a morning flight to Tampa, Florida. He would be in Florida all week. Relational Database Economies Inc. was paying him a six-figure salary to spend most of his time traveling around the country using his contacts to generate business. His first project was to go to the Tampa corporate headquarters of Cape Kennedy Associates, RDE’s latest acquisition. On Thursday he met with their executives and fired all but two of them. Then, after the weekend, he visited their customers in Orlando and Tallahassee.

  O’Brien was on an unlimited expense account. Government contractors traditionally took their customers out to lunch or dinner to discuss business. O’Brien would spare no expense to charm his municipal and county government clients.

  Cape Kennedy Associates was the largest data processing company in Florida. Its biggest contract was with the city of Miami, but it also had contracts with smaller cities throughout the State.

  O’Brien had been hearing about a hot new restaurant, The Fun Factory, and it sounded like a perfect place for him to do business. He asked his new South Florida clients to meet him there. He wanted to show them that with the takeover, things would be looking up for them.

  O’Brien pulled off Salzedo Street onto Aragon at six fifteen and wordlessly handed his keys to the valet. Seeing the place packed, the last thing that he wanted was for his clients to wait an hour for a table. He asked the woman who assigned tables to step out of earshot. O’Brien gave her a twenty-dollar bill and told her that he wanted a table for seven and he didn’t want to wait. She took the bill silently and disappeared into the restaurant. Five minutes later, a waitress returned and brought him to a large circular booth in the corner.

  O’Brien sipped a beer as his government clients from Miami and other cities arrived one by one. He greeted each of them warmly. O’Brien had been with these men, and men like them, many times at National League of Cities conventions, and he had played host to several of them when they visited DC. O’Brien had an excellent memory for names and faces. He not only knew the names of most of the hundreds of municipal government officials that he had met over the years, he knew the names of their spouses and even their drink preferences.

  O’Brien’s six clients were all assembled by six thirty. He was ready for a long dinner with many courses and a lot of talk about how RDE would help deliver efficient services for the city residents that they represented.

  O’Brien and his guests, all men in their forties and fifties, repeatedly gazed at the large number of attractive young women in the restaurant. Women sure carry themselves differently in Miami than they do in DC, O’Brien thought. They seemed so much more secure, more self-possessed, here. O’Brien thought it was because women outnumbered men by such a margin in DC. They competed with each other for attention. Here, it seemed like they knew they were hot. They dressed like it and flirted like it. He liked it here.

  Then his excellent memory got a jolt.

  She was perhaps thirty feet away from him. O’Brien recognized her as someone who looked almost identical to the woman that he met at the RDE lunch in Washington two weeks ago, the woman Stone so drooled over. God, how bizarre! And how typical of DC government. O’Brien was ecstatic that he was fifteen hundred miles away and he knew—
he had to believe—that any resemblance between this woman and the one he had known in his other life must be sheerest coincidence. Besides, he had more important business to deal with.

  “You know her, Murph?”

  It was the Coral Springs IT Director, a burly guy who chain-smoked. He’ll be dead before he’s fifty, O’Brien speculated.

  “Nah. I was just thinking how much fun it would be to be her kid.”

  “To be her wha—oh, I get it.”

  O’Brien reluctantly took his eyes away from the buxom woman and turned back to his dinner companions. As he did so, his eyes passed over the entrance.

  It couldn’t be.

  Walking through the door was a dead ringer for one of Mayor Watson’s security guards, the nervous one, what was his name, Hightower. Hightower slipped a bill to the maitre d’, who promptly led him personally to a table in direct line of sight with the one at which the Evelyn Boone look-alike sat.

  Oh no, O’Brien thought. This was no coincidence. He had quit his job and flown fifteen hundred miles to get away from this shit.

  This was the last thing that O’Brien wanted. He wanted to have a long, expensive dinner with seven municipal government officials, and use his smarts and charms to line RDE’s coffers. But when the next guest entered the room, O’Brien realized there were no lookalikes. A second DC cop—O’Brien didn’t remember his name—took a seat beside his fellow officer, his jacket opening slightly to reveal a shoulder holster.

  Evelyn was beginning to relax for the first time since she came to Miami. Yvonne definitely knew some cool people. Her friend Theresa had shot a love scene with Harrison Ford. In the very next scene they filmed, she got killed! And Mariah seemed to know outrageous things about every star Evelyn had ever heard of. But Yvonne was definitely the coolest of the cool. She was so witty, so self-confident, so in the know. Her little friend has certainly grown up, Evelyn thought.

  And look at herself! Holed up in that apartment, pouring over the Post every morning. No wonder she was getting paranoid. She even thought she saw Sean O’Brien, sitting in this restaurant! Is that a hallucination, or what! Imagine travelling fifteen hundred miles to the coolest city in the world, and who’s the first person you “recognize?” A middle-aged bureaucrat from Washington, DC!

  Evelyn took a deep swallow of her Rusty Nail and casually returned the stare of two good-looking, well-dressed men at the table across from hers. They look a little familiar, she said to herself, and then she felt the sick, metallic taste of fear rise in her throat. The younger one…he was the one who…she clutched Yvonne’s arm. And the other one?

  He shot Sharon Scott in the brains!

  Evelyn remembered everything about the moment: the too-loud report of the gun, the poor woman splayed out on the floor, the terrible look on her face, Hightower standing over her, his gun still smoking in his hand.

  “We have to get out of here,” she whispered.

  Yvonne turned slowly toward her, eyes wide, half-smiling. “Why?” she asked, calmly.

  “I know these men.” Evelyn gestured vaguely in the direction of Hightower and Hawkins.

  “Well, then, let’s bring them over. They are some fine-looking gentlemen.” With gathering horror, Evelyn realized that Yvonne was blitzed. “Yoo-hoo, young gentlemen!” Yvonne hollered, waving. “Care to join us?” Instantly Hawkins and Hightower looked away from the table. Hawkins almost upset his drink.

  “Are you coming with us?” Theresa asked Yvonne. Mariah was already standing.

  “Where are you going?” Evelyn cried.

  “To the ladies’ room,” Yvonne replied. “Would you please let go of my upper arm? You’re beginning to cut off the circulation.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “I…” Yvonne looked slyly at Theresa, who began to giggle. “I don’t think you want to go with us.”

  Evelyn thought of Hawkins, of his rough hands on her at the Marriott. “Let’s go,” she said, flouncing up and bounding in what she hoped was the direction of the ladies’ room.

  Hightower was improvising as he watched them pass his table. “I think they’re going to the john,” he said, not looking at Hawkins. “Do you think you can follow them, and when they come out, cull the other three?”

  “Kill the other three?” Hawkins asked, alarmed.

  “No. Shee-it, you moron.” Not for the first time, Hightower wished he still smoked. “Cull them. You know, distract them. Separate them from the target.”

  Hawkins brightened. “Oh, no problem,” he said, and got up. Then he grew puzzled. “What are you going to do?”

  Hightower didn’t know. “I’m going to see if I can talk with the young lady, reason with her.” As he said the words they seemed as good a plan as any. “When I give the signal, prepare to leave with me and the target.”

  Inside the bathroom Mariah posted lookout while Theresa got out the cocaine. “I don’t think you should be doing this,” Yvonne said, looking at Evelyn. “You look like you’re wired enough.”

  What the hell, Evelyn thought. She had never done drugs—was too worried about what they might do to her—but at this point her life was so incredibly fucked up that it didn’t seem to make any difference. They used money to snort this stuff up, didn’t they? She fished through her purse and pulled out a filthy, worn dollar bill. She rolled it up the way she had seen it done many times.

  “Hey, what—”

  Evelyn was so much bigger and stronger than those other girls. She stepped up, stuck her face into the mound of coke, and snorted as hard as she could.

  Wham! Her entire face went numb. For a second she thought somebody had punched her in the face. Then a sort of icy bliss floated through her.

  “That’s—that’s very good,” she managed.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Theresa howled.

  “Get rid of it. Somebody’s coming,” Mariah announced. The women scrambled to get rid of the drug.

  “You didn’t tell me your friend was a coke slut,” Theresa said to Yvonne.

  Evelyn staggered out of the ladies’ room with the rest of them. Hawkins was waiting for them.

  “Good evening.” Hawkins straightened up until he looked like a giant cramp with legs. The women looked at him.

  “Um—my friend and I are international businessmen who are desirous of some suave foxes such as yourselves.” Hawk looked over his shoulder for Hightower, who seemed to have disappeared. Had he pronounced “suave” correctly? He thought it might have been two syllables, but perhaps it was three. “We’ve just closed a million dollar deal.” The women looked bored. “I mean, a five million dollar deal.”

  The bathroom Romeo. Evelyn giggled to herself, and then she grasped the gravity of the situation. Watson had sent this thug to kill her, and he was apparently prepared to kill all of them if he had to. Evelyn saw Yvonne flirting with him and decided that she had to save herself.

  As quietly and inconspicuously as she could, she began to back away from Hawkins. She felt weightless. No, more, she felt bodiless, as though she was some spirit, who could simply float out of The Fun Factory, perhaps through the roof.

  She bumped into a table.

  She turned around too suddenly, her momentum carrying her another ninety degrees until she righted herself and stared at the table’s occupants.

  One of them was Sean O’Brien. She stared at him. “Mr. O’Brien,” she said at last. “What are you doing here?”

  O’Brien looked sick. “I’m having dinner with my friends,” he said.

  “Well, hell, Murph,” a portly, middle-aged man who reeked of cigarette smoke said. “Why don’t you introduce us?” He stood up. “My name’s Tom Dollinger. I’m the king of information technology for all of Coral Gables, Florida.” He stuck out his hand. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the Queen of Sheba,” Evelyn said, backing away.

  Hightower stepped up and gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Ms. Boone,” he said, “How ya doin?”

  “Eve
lyn who?” she asked. “My name isn’t Evelyn Boone.”

  “Listen, Ms. Boone, my name is Aaron Moore.” Hightower hesitated for a moment and then plunged in. “I’m a sergeant with the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington, DC. I’d just like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “Listen Sergeant, I don’t know anything about Evelyn Boone or Washington, DC. My name is Paula Kelly and I live in South Beach. I’m having dinner with some of my friends and you’re bothering me. I’d appreciate it if you would leave me alone. If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to call for help.”

  “Ms. Boone, I’ll be very honest with you. Some people in Washington are looking for you and they know you’re in Miami. I think that you’re in some danger and I wanna help you.”

  “Sergeant, if you don’t leave, I’m going to call the restaurant management.”

  “Ms. Boone, all I need is to talk to you for a few minutes.” Hightower was beginning to regret that he had said he was with the DC Police.

  “WAITER, WAITER, COME OVER HERE RIGHT NOW.” She frantically waved for a waiter at the next table.

  “Ms. Boone, I’m trying to help you.”

  The waiter was here. “This man is bothering me and I don’t care to talk to him,” Evelyn said.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Hightower gave the waiter a hard look. “This is a personal matter,” he said. “It’s none of your concern.”

  “Do you have some identification?”

  “Identification? Why the fuck would I need—”

  “HE HAS NO RIGHT TO BOTHER ME.”

  “Sir. Identification, please?”

  “This is a personal matter! This woman is in danger and I need to—” The waiter stepped back. Hightower noted his confusion and decided to shut up.

  “I’ll get the manager,” the waiter said, and turned away.

  Now Evelyn and Hightower were by themselves,

  “Miss Boone, you don’t understand,” said Hightower as he grabbed her arm.

  “YES I DO UNDERSTAND. GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!”