Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  P. Traum caught himself whistling an old familiar tune, out of nowhere, out of a feeling so big and romantic that it was like an irresistible spring through the ground, straight to his soul. God, he loved his work! For a moment his mind upbraided him; this is unprofessional; and then the words came to mind and his lips. Without embarrassment or restraint, he raised his voice, slightly off-key, but a true tenor, and sang.

  No sugar tonight in my coffee…No sugar tonight in my tea…No sugar to stand beside me…No sugar to run with me…

  “Let me know if my singing bothers you, Greg,” he called out behind him, but of course he knew his singing didn’t bother Greg, that nothing bothered Greg now. Greg was in a better place. Specifically, Greg was in the trunk, knees to chin, with a hole the size of a silver dollar in the middle of his heart.

  Let’s see. That made it one hundred three, P. Traum thought, although only seventy-four were, strictly speaking, assignment killings. P. Traum thought of the rest of them, like the recently-fired reporter, as incidental killings—killings undertaken on his own, done in advancement of a job, but not as part of one. If P. Traum was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he had been doing more and more incidental killings. Why, his first fifty-one had all been assignment killings; here, on this assignment, he had had two incidentals without actually doing any of the people he had been assigned. Well, it was unavoidable. He had compromised himself with this ex-reporter; his questions were a little too avid, a little too aggressively phrased, perhaps, for the contact to fade into memory’s dark hole. And he could not afford to be remembered. The interrogation paid off, though. Hawkins had been moronic enough to give Stambler his phone number; P. traced it to the local Ramada. They were happy, there, to give him—after he produced an authentic-looking badge—the make and license plate number of the car. Information which was now, thanks to an anonymous tip, in the hands of the Georgia and South Carolina State Police Departments.

  The only immediate task before P. Traum was to dispose of Stambler’s remains. P. remembered a cavern in these swamps where he had once interred a small-time hood with a gambling jones and a memory problem. Stambler could join him there; it had plenty of room.

  “You’ll like your new home, Greg,” P. called out. “Cathedral ceilings, very quiet neighborhood, incredible views. Very private. Just one other tenant, and he’s no bother at all.”

  P. slowed down as he approached the cavern mouth. In part, it was out of respect for the dead. But he was also open to the possibility that someone may have discovered his work and might want to interview him.

  The place was deserted. “Harvey, I brought you some company,” he called slamming the car door. He opened the trunk and unloaded the body. Stambler was lighter coming out than P. remembered him being going in. Perhaps back then his soul had not finished exiting his body. P. was pleased to note that there was very little blood in the trunk; he could easily take care of the splatterings with some chlorine bleach.

  P. dragged Stambler to where he had left Harvey. “You’re looking pretty good, old man,” he said; and indeed Harvey did look good. The cool cave air had leathered up his features, and prevented much deterioration. “Harvey Benedetto, I’d like you to meet Greg Stambler.” For an instant P. had an impulse to lean Stambler’s head on Harvey’s chest, but that would be disrespectful, plus the weight of it might cave Harvey’s chest in, and then where would we be? He laid them side-by-side, head-to-head. “Greg’s come into some money recently,” P. explained. It was true; when they fired the reporter they inexplicably hadn’t taken the bribe money from him, and P., too, left it in his pocket. He was a murderer, not a thief. And then P. atoned for the only thing he had ever done in his life that he regretted.

  After he killed Harvey for failure to repay his gambling debts to P.’s client, and brought him to this place, P. had placed a deck of cards in the breast pocket of the gambler’s worsted sports jacket. But before he did, he removed the Ace of Spades, so that wherever Harvey played now—Valhalla, or Hell, or maybe even in this darkened cavern when the moon came up and spirits were about—he would never have a full deck.

  Well, P. was a much younger man then, and so full of himself that he had leavened his work with irony and moral judgment. Now he realized that it was a terrible thing to condemn a gambling man to a bad deck through all eternity. Poor Harvey! P. was glad he had this chance to make up for his mistake.

  “Thought you might want a new deck, Harvey,” he said as he deftly removed the old, deficient deck from Benedetto’s pocket, and then—but look, he thought, I’m crying! —slid the new deck in. Immediately P. felt a great weight lift from his chest. Perhaps he was imagining it, but did Harvey look grateful? It was hard to tell; Harvey no longer had any eyes.

  P. turned heel and, not looking back, strolled to the Escort. He would continue north on 17, into North Carolina, he knew…his targets had no place else to go. And he would keep his radio open to listen in on the discoveries of his new very best friends, the South Carolina State Police.

  “You called me an Apostle of Slime,” Watson pointed out.

  Senator Brad Trotter, Republican of Utah, considered this. He poured a finger of Maker’s Mark into Watson’s glass, and then topped off his own. He was not a Mormon, but three-quarters of the people who voted for him were, and so he preferred to do his drinking in private.

  “I did,” he allowed, finally. “I surely did. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  “You were great,” Watson said, smiling. He took a sip. “I thought they’d riot.”

  “I’m sure it was as useful for you as it was for me,” Trotter said. “How is the Ridley?” He was referring to the book he had recommended to Watson.

  “Those Tudors played rough,” Watson observed. “Boiling water.”

  Trotter steepled his fingers. “The thing about Henry is that he knew what was coming. The Catholic Church was a goner in England. In another generation it would have turned Protestant no matter what he did.” He shot a shrewd glance at Watson. “He institutionalized dissent. Just like you.”

  This was getting treacly, Watson thought. Time to turn to business. “I have a scheme,” he said, smiling.

  “Well, I thought there might be a reason for this visit, other than to drink my whiskey. What is it?”

  “A great and noble cause. Statehood for the District of Columbia.” Trotter snorted. “Don’t laugh. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  “Statehood will be proposed by the distinguished Councilman, Chauncey Corbin.”

  “George Corbin’s boy?” Trotter raised his eyebrows, and then remembered himself. “His son, I mean. Is that who you’re grooming to take over?”

  “He would make a superb Mayor.”

  “He’s a little...” Trotter tried to think of a diplomatic term, and then decided the hell with it. “...stupid, isn’t he? I’d thought maybe you’d want Keisha to take over the reins.”

  “She doesn’t want it,” by which Watson meant that she didn’t want to be Watson’s cabin girl after she was elected. “C.C. will do fine.”

  Trotter shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, young Corbin will propose statehood, and I suppose you need me to play the heavy.”

  “At first,” Watson said.

  Trotter stared at him for a long minute. “Wendell, there’s never going to be an ‘at second.’ Number one, it’ll take a constitutional amendment, and no state will vote to ratify. Number two, I would stand more of a chance of being reelected if I endorsed mandatory homosexual marriage with heroin-addicted communists than if I endorsed statehood for the District of Columbia.”

  Watson waved his hands. “I understand,” he said, “and I agree. But the essence of politics is....” Not compromise. He needed something grander. “Mutuality.” He handed Trotter a portfolio he had brought with him. “This is what our people say is going to happen. Your people are probably saying the same thing.”

  Trotter took the
folder and opened it. Watson allowed him to read for a few minutes. “Just short,” Watson prompted. “It’s really unfair for the people of Utah to have only three Representatives.”

  Trotter shook his head. “I can’t trade this for Statehood.”

  “You wouldn’t have to. All you’d have to do is give Walter the vote.” Walter Fauntroy was DC’s non-voting representative in Congress. “A real one, I mean.”

  “I see.” Trotter looked at the figures some more. “You know you’ll need twelve of us to overcome a veto. And then there’s the Constitutional question...”

  “I don’t need a win,” Watson said. “I just need it to look credible.”

  Trotter sighed. “Let me think about it.”

  Chapter 9

  Hightower continued to drive north on 17. Evelyn sat up front while Hawkins dozed in back.

  “I don’t get it, Aloysius,” Evelyn said. “Why don’t we just fly to DC and meet the Mayor?”

  Hightower took a breath. He couldn’t quite put his mouth around the words subtle enough to define his suspicions about the City’s Chief Executive. They were wispy, but revolved around this, Why did he send somebody for us? Perhaps there was a perfectly good reason. Perhaps the person Watson was sending was someone powerful enough to protect them from all inquiries, police or otherwise. A US Senator, maybe, or the head of a multinational corporation. The Mayor had a lot of friends.

  On the other hand, what if his suspicions were correct, and the Mayor’s man was up to no good? What was the plan then? He was ashamed to admit it, but he didn’t have one—not a good one, anyway. They couldn’t hide out in—where were they, North Carolina?—forever. And here was another thing, he was scared. And being scared made him angry. And being angry turned him into pure act, incapable of speech.

  So he told Evelyn something else. “Because we’re wanted,” he said. “Those cops didn’t pull into our parking lot because they had a sudden impulse to enjoy the amenities of Adelman Motor Inn.”

  “But they’re looking for you because they think you kidnapped me,” Evelyn protested. “I can set them straight. Just give me a chance to explain…”

  “Never explain, Evelyn,” Hightower said. “Never apologize, never explain.” He remembered the Mayor saying that more than once. It was a good philosophy.

  For the first time since they left Little River early that morning, Hightower took his eyes off the road long enough to check out the scenery. God, this was a desolate place! Though it was mid-morning, the woods were dark and gloomy. It would terrify a small child, who could see unspeakable creatures crawling in the depths, fangs dripping with blood. It terrified Hightower. His unspeakable creatures wore white hoods and carried ropes and shotguns.

  Hightower knew that North Carolina was not a romantic place. In fact, it was cracker-land, peopled by hillbillies and rednecks. And he might have to risk a conversation with a redneck, he realized, in order to get gas in the car or food in their bellies.

  They passed Shallotte, South Brunswick, and Winnabow—tiny, inhospitable-looking towns—when he saw the turnoff for Molasses. It didn’t seem any better than the others, but hearing a food name brought such a pang of hunger to his stomach that it induced him to believe, somehow, that they would be welcomed there. Besides, Hightower didn’t have much choice; the needle was next to E, and the sign said it was another thirty miles to Wilmington.

  “Gas and eat,” Hightower announced abruptly as he pulled off the highway and onto one of the town’s two streets.

  “Where are we?” Hawkins asked groggily.

  “En-ce”. Hightower pulled into an unbranded gas station. He normally liked to use gasoline he had heard of but there didn’t seem to be any in this town.

  Hightower got out of the car, walked over to the pump, opened the gas cap, stuck the nozzle in and squeezed the handle. Nothing happened. He looked at the pump; nothing said he had to pay in advance. Oh well, he thought, and walked into the station.

  An old woman, face sagging down both sides of her head, sat behind the counter. “Pumps don’t work,” she said before Hightower could say anything.

  “Yeah, that’s why I came to see you.” Hightower forced a smile. “Could you turn them on?”

  She frowned, temporarily pulling her face together a bit. “Pumps don’t work!” she repeated. “Now scat!”

  Hightower straightened up as if she had slapped him. They locked eyes; in an instant he saw every bigoted white woman he had ever met. He drew in a breath, and as politely as he could, he asked, “do you know of a gas station in town where the pumps might work?”

  She shrugged, causing her withered breasts to flap up and down. “Thank you for your help,” Hightower said, turning and walking back to the car in small precise steps.

  “So what’s the deal?” Hawkins asked when he got back into the car.

  “Pumps don’t work.”

  “Pumps don’t work! Why they open, then?”

  “We’re going to that station down the street,” Hightower said. He pulled away from the pumps abruptly, not trusting himself to say another word.

  At the second station Hightower saw the “Pay Before Pumping” sign so as soon as he pulled in next to the pump he jumped out. He had a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket before he was inside the building.

  A thin-lipped man smoking a cigarette stared at Hightower from behind the counter. “We’re closed,” he said.

  “Closed! You don’t look closed!”

  “Yeah we are,” the man said. A little smile twisted his mouth. “For the holiday.”

  “What holiday is that? I don’t remember December thirteenth being a holiday.”

  The man snickered. “Stokely Carmichael’s birthday,” he said. “The whole town has the day off.”

  “They’re closed,” Hightower muttered as he got back into the car.

  “You all right, Aloysius?” Evelyn interrupted, putting her hand on his shoulder, and then moving it up to caress his neck.

  “I’m fine,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. He pulled out into the street. “Look, let’s eat first, and gas up later.” He swung into the cross-street, which looked marginally more promising. “Let’s try there.”

  Red’s Bar and Grill was a sorry-looking place. Five men and two women were planted at the bar. No patrons at the two tables. Hightower, Hawkins and Evelyn stood for a moment, waiting for a waitress, and then decided to seat themselves.

  No one brought them a menu.The bartender ignored them. Finally Hawkins said, “I don’t like the looks of this place, Hi. There has to be someplace else to eat around here.”

  “It’s one-thirty in the afternoon, and I’m hungry.” Hightower felt the tension in his jaw. “We’re in the fucking middle of nowhere. Let’s just eat.”

  “I think we’re in for trouble,” Hawkins muttered, but he was quiet after that.

  Five more minutes passed. Hightower finally stood up and walked to the bar. “Excuse me,” he said, as politely as he could manage, “my friends and I would like to order some food.”

  “Waitress’ll be with you in a little while,” the bartender said, without intonation.

  Hightower walked, slowly and deliberately, back to the table. “Be here shortly,” he rasped.

  “Maybe we should go, Aloysius,” Evelyn said.

  “I gotta tell you, Hi, I got a bad feeling. Maybe we ought to—Hey!”

  “What’s up?” Hightower glanced over his shoulder to where his partner was looking. He saw a waitress bring one of the bar customers some food and then head back, empty-handed, into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Miss!” Hawkins called out, half-rising from his chair. “We’d like a menu,” but she was back in the kitchen before he finished the sentence.

  They waited another ten minutes. Every lick of sense Hightower had told him this would be fruitless; that this was nothing but trouble and danger, that it could only end badly, and very publicly, in a way which would jeopardize their safety, and their mission, or what was left
of it. But, dammit, he was angry.And tired. And stubborn. And hungry.

  The waitress came out of the kitchen, bold as brass, sauntered up next to one of the customers, and sat down. Hightower vaulted out of his chair.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said tightly. “My friends and I would really like to order some lunch.”

  She smiled sweetly at him. “I’m not sure we have any food you’d like,” she said slowly, licking her lips.

  Hightower forced a smile in return. “We’re not that particular, ma’am. I’m sure if you gave us a menu, we could find something.”

  “But you can see for yourself,” she said sweetly, eyes lightening, “We don’t have chitlins and watermelon on the menu.

  The Glock was in his hand before he knew it; in his hand and cocked. “I’m sure you could whip some up, though,” he said hoarsely. “We’d surely like some chitlins and…and hog jowls! How ‘bout you make them right now, sweetheart?”

  “Jesus Christ!” the waitress said. She wasn’t smiling now.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hightower could see the bartender reach for a telephone at the end of the bar. Hightower whirled and fired. The telephone disappeared.

  “Holy shit!” Hawkins shouted.

  “You weren’t going to order out, were you?” Hightower screamed. Some objective, rational part of him was impressed at this new high-pitched voice of his. He swiveled toward the bartender, training the gun on him, holding it with both hands. “Assume the position, motherfucker.”

  “I’m sorry, Mister,” the waitress said, lips trembling. “We really don’t have any of that stuff here! None of our customers like it!”

  “What do you mean, none of your customers like it?” He freed his left hand, took a step toward her, and faked an open-palmed swing. It felt good to see her flinch, then break into tears.