Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  “Please, Mister, she’s right,” the bartender said. In a softer voice, he added, “have mercy on her. Last month her husband got laid off, and…and he drove the car in the garage and closed the door.” The waitress burst out into fresh sobs. “She’s not herself. C’mon, tell you what—I’ll put on three sirloins, best cut, any way you like it—on the house. Plus all the whiskey the three of you can drink. On the house.”

  “Probably put rat poison in it,” Hawkins muttered. More loudly, he said, “I think I’ve lost my appetite, Hi.”

  Evelyn stepped over to Hightower and deftly put her mouth next to his ear. “All this excitement has got me pretty stimulated,” she whispered. “Could we just find a hotel somewhere?”

  Hightower was sure that something happened between the moment Evelyn whispered into his ear and the moment they pulled up to the gas station in Wilmington half an hour later, but he was damned if he could remember what it was.

  “Let’s take an early night,” Evelyn said, and Hightower was startled to realize that she was talking to Hawkins, and Hawkins said yes back, almost as though he wasn’t there. And somehow he was glad of all that, glad to let them decide, and glad to sleep.

  Enzo Collins looked at the form again, scratched his head, sipped his coffee, closed his eyes. He didn’t know what he owed. There was the 4-by-4 loan—how much did he owe on that? He had bought it for eight thousand, and was on his third year, so about $4,000? $5,000? And there was Carolyn’s car; and the second they had taken out when Bud started college; and wasn’t there a home improvement loan, about sixty-five hundred, that he’d had since ’84? It was still being taken out of his paycheck. How much did he owe on that? He pushed himself away from his desk. He was never going to be able to refinance his house. So instead he hollered to his deputy, Sam Gunn, to bring in the report about what happened at Red’s.

  “Interviewed four witnesses separately,” Gunn said, talking as he walked through the door. “Stories all the same. Saw two Black males, one five ten, about forty, maybe one sixty; the other a little taller, maybe one forty, maybe ten years younger. Saw one Black female, tall, well-built, maybe thirty.”

  The man had no pronouns, Enzo observed. You ought to have pronouns; it makes your life balanced. On the other hand, Sam sure did sound crisp and efficient. “Who were the witnesses, Sam?”

  “Betty Trabert, forty-five, 385 Bureau Street, Apartment 14; Ned Whipple, thirty-eight…”

  “I know both of them, Sam. As a matter of fact, I’ll bet I know everyone who was there. Just give me their names. I’ll let you know if I need anything more.”

  Enzo listened as Gunn rattled through the names. Unrepentant bigots, each one of them. He could just imagine what happened: these poor Black devils, having somehow wandered into the middle of this sorry excuse for an Aryan nation, were trying to get a sandwich or a coffee or a tank of gas. And, finally, one of them just lost it.

  Except…what was he doing with a Glock, a nice gun, police model? The only people he knew who carried Glocks, other than cops, were professional criminals. But what would a Black professional criminal be doing in Molasses? They didn’t even have a bank. Aside from there being nothing worth robbing he’d be about as conspicuous as Ronald Reagan in a tittie bar. So, no. He didn’t think that these guys were baddies.

  Cops? They weren’t here on official business. Enzo would have known about it. So they were here on their own time, maybe on vacation, or something. But what sort of cop would pull his service revolver and start pointing at people because he wasn’t being served quick enough?

  And then there was the matter of their configuration. Couples vacationed together; or sometimes two buddies might; or two women friends, maybe. Occasionally two couples, really good friends, traveled together. In Penthouse, at least, a guy might travel with two women. But one woman and two men? That was kind of unusual.

  Of course, they might be family. But it wasn’t a father out with his children. The older guy was only about ten years older than the others, the witnesses had said. They could be siblings, Enzo supposed.

  Enzo interrupted Gunn’s monologue. “Any names, Sam?”

  Gunn looked up, startled. “Betty Trabert, forty-five….”

  “The doers, Sam,” Enzo said gently. “Did they call each other by name?”

  Gunn thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “They called the older one ‘Hi.”

  “Hi.” Enzo thought for a moment. “Was there anything else unusual?”

  “The older one said ‘assume the position, m.’”

  So he was a policeman. Probably. Aloud, Enzo said, “Assume the position, m?”

  Gunn colored. “You know, Enzo. The m-word.”

  For a few seconds Enzo struggled with himself before his better angels lost. “The m word? What word is that?”

  Gunn was bright crimson now. “You know what I mean,” he choked.

  “I don’t know, Sam. Mystique? Marimba? Mormon?”

  “You know…the mother-word.” Gunn looked like he was going to have a stroke, and Enzo decided to let him off the hook.

  “I see.” Enzo looked away and gave his deputy a chance to regain his composure. “And then what happened?”

  “Well, here’s the weird part, Chief.” His little humiliation seemed to have loosened Gunn up a little. “It seems like the FBI’s involved.”

  “What?” Enzo sat upright. “Who said anything about the FBI?”

  “Whipple. Said that about an hour after he reported it some FBI guy shows up; flashes his ID, starts asking questions.”

  FBI. All of Enzo’s alarms were going off now. Black cops in the middle of redneck country; FBI; and that vague, uncomfortable ghost of a memory of something that read that single syllable, “Hi.”

  “Very strange character. Pasty skin; spoke in a whisper…”

  There was a guy in New Orleans Enzo knew. Real honest guy. They worked together when Enzo was with the Louisiana State Police. They went off in different directions; Nelson, big time and Federal; Enzo, small time and local. But they had kept in touch anyway.

  He picked up the phone.

  He had no idea where he was going, but Hightower was glad to be going there. At some point, he remembered, they had left North Carolina, and now were in Virginia. Hawkins drove, and Evelyn sat in the front seat with him. They both spoke in hushed tones, as though he was a sleeping child, or an insane person who might go off at whatever odd, silly thing they said. And perhaps he wasn’t quite right, Hightower thought. He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be Hightower or Aaron Moore now. And he wasn’t sure why he craved sleep like he did.

  What were they supposed to do, other than drive around, hoping to figure out what they were going to do? In truth, Hightower was beginning to settle on the outline of a plan—a plan which required him to recognize some simple home truths. Truth one: his career was over. There was no way he could rejoin the police force; no way he could ever show his face at headquarters. And that was truth two: his life, as he knew it, was over. Now, having recognized those truths, he could formulate a plan. And the plan was this: while Hawkins and Evelyn hid out somewhere in Washington, he would report to City Hall, report directly to Watson, and tell him, Mr. Mayor, we have Evelyn, she is not to be killed, but she will be silenced, completely silenced, and all it will take on your part, Mr. Mayor, is three hundred thousand dollars, one hundred for me, one hundred for Hawkins, and one hundred for Evelyn, and we’ll be gone; you’ll never see us again. And if not, Mr. Mayor, she will sing like a bird, and I know I’ll go down, but you’ll go down too; and I don’t care about me; my life is a shithole anyway; but you have a beautiful life, with fine single-malt scotches and lovely sweet pussy and money—my God! The money you’re going to make, three hundred thousand is tip money compared to the money you’ll make, and then the Mayor will give him three hundred thousand, in crisp hundreds; and the three of them will get away; and he and Evelyn will put their money in a bank account under an assumed name; draw f
ourteen, sixteen thousand dollars interest every year; live in some sweet suburb somewhere; him working as a tool-and-die man, or a security guard, her raising the kids, and so dreaming, and imagining, Hightower went to sleep once again.

  Hawkins didn’t see the red pick-up truck until after he turned right.

  Hawkins and Evelyn were jolted forward in their seat belts as the pick-up truck rammed hard into the left front fender of their car. Hightower, lying on the back seat, was thrown to the floor.

  Hightower thought he was dreaming. He was on the verge of figuring out what to do. This accident had to be a nightmare.

  Hawkins froze in the driver’s seat. Perhaps he was hallucinating or maybe he had messed up again.

  Evelyn froze in the passenger seat. She didn’t know what to expect.

  Finally, Hawkins took off his seat belt and got out of the car. There was a large gash in the left front fender. Hawkins cringed with fear as he approached the pick-up truck.

  Two fortyish white men dressed in blue jeans and denim jackets got out of the truck and walked over to Hawkins.

  “You pulled right out in front of me. I had the green light and suddenly I see your car comin right at me. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Look, I’m really sorry. I was just turning right on red. I guess I didn’t see you.”

  “Well, why don’t we call the police and have them write up an accident report?”

  “No. No. No. We don’t wanna call the police. Let’s not call the police.”

  Hightower picked himself from the floor of the back seat. He saw Hawkins talking to the two men. He saw the red pick-up truck resting against the car. He wasn’t dreaming. He had a big problem to deal with.

  Hightower got out of the car and walked slowly to the three of them. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He just stood there and wondered what else could possibly go wrong.

  “Gentlemen, we’re really sorry about this,” he heard himself say.

  “There’s no way in hell he should’ve made that turn. Just no way. This is one hundred percent your fault.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Hightower. “We’re really sorry about this.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to call the police. We have to get a police report for my insurance company.”

  Hightower felt a thousand alarms go up. “No, we can take care of it right here. We don’t have to call the police.”

  “Whaddya mean, take care of it right here?”

  “You see, sir,” Hightower said, improvising, “we’re with the Federal Government. We’re on an important investigation. Let me show you my ID”

  Hightower took out his badge and flashed it to one of the men.

  “We can pay you for the damage to your truck right now,” he said.

  “You want to pay us right now for the damage to my pick-up?”

  “That’s right. We’ll pay you right now.”

  The two men looked at Hightower like he was out of his mind.

  After a few minutes of silence, one of them said, “All right. How much did you have in mind?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “WHAT? TWO THOUSAND? That’s ridiculous. Two thousand is for a minor fender bender. This is major damage. I’d say somewhere in the neighborhood of five to ten thousand.”

  “Okay. Fine. Five thousand. We’ll give you five thousand. Look, we’re really sorry we caused this accident.”

  “But five thousand might not be enough. What if the repair shop wants ten thousand? Then I’m out a lot of money. I want ten grand.”

  “Ten grand is too much.”

  “If you don’t give me ten grand, I’m calling the police and reporting the accident.”

  “Okay. Fine. Ten.”

  Hightower went back to the car, opened a case, pulled out an envelope and motioned to the man to walk to the other side of the two vehicles.

  “Listen, I really think you’re taking us for a ride. I know that his damage isn’t that bad. But here’s ten grand. Count it.”

  The man counted out a hundred one-hundred-dollar bills.

  After the last hundred dollar bill was counted, Hightower said, “I’m serious about not wanting this reported to the police. My partner and I are on an important case and we don’t want a police report.”

  “No problem. No problem at all. No police report.”

  The man climbed into his pick-up truck. The other man got in the passenger seat. They drove off.

  When they were out of sight Hightower turned to Hawkins. “Well, you’ve done it again. We have no way of getting home. This car can’t even make it around the block, let alone all the way back to DC.”

  “I’m sorry, Hi. I didn’t see the truck. Why don‘t we just ditch this car and rent another one?

  “BECAUSE, HAWKINS, WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE THAT’S WHY. TAKE A LOOK AROUND. DO YOU SEE ANY CAR RENTAL AGENCIES? YOUR LEVEL OF STUPIDITY CONSTANTLY AMAZES ME.”

  Evelyn put the car window on the passenger side down a few inches to listen to Hightower’s rant.

  “You know, Hawk, we only have five thousand left. Watson gave me fifty thousand and we only have five grand left.”

  “What’s the big deal about money? The Mayor has a few hundred thousand, maybe even half a million stashed away for us to use.”

  “That’s not the point. We’ve wasted all this money for no reason.” Hightower looked around, and then put his head in his hands. “Listen to me. We’ve got two problems. One, we have to get rid of this car. We can’t just leave it here. We have to take it to a junk yard and get rid of the license plates and the vehicle ID strip. We’re not gonna leave any evidence of us being in southern Virginia. Then we have to find a car rental agency. Your asinine, careless fucking driving will end up costing us at least a day. Maybe two.”

  Hightower walked over to Evelyn, still sitting in the damaged car.

  “Evelyn, I’m very sorry about this. I know how much you want to get home. This will delay us a day, no longer.”

  Hightower started up the damaged car and attempted to drive it. The steering wouldn’t work. He was able to wobble it to the grassy area next to the shoulder.

  It started to snow.

  Vasquez was on the line.

  “I think I have them,” P. said, with a restrained, dignified voice. It would not do, P. thought, to let Vasquez know how proud he was of himself, how brilliant his machinations were, to have driven these security guards to this point, where they were immediately before him, on the edge of his fork, his utensils.

  “The client’s calling you in.”

  “In?”

  “To Washington.” P. held his breath. This was the first time Vasquez had admitted the client was in DC. It was the first time Vasquez had admitted that he was in DC.

  “To Washington,” P. said. “The client wants me to go to Washington.”

  “The client wants you to finish,” Vasquez explained. “The client wants you to complete the act. The client appreciates your efforts.”

  P. breathed deeply. He understood what this meant. He was going to meet the client. Nonetheless, he had some questions.

  “How can I finish the job in Washington when the assignment is here in Virginia?”

  “The assignment will be in Washington. Don’t ask me how. Just tell me where to send your plane tickets.”

  P. knew that Vasquez could be telling him the stone truth but he also knew that if he gave Vasquez his address, two hired murderers might show up at three in the morning outside his door and then P. would have to kill them, and Vasquez too and maybe the client, and that was more work than he was prepared to do. “I’ll get them myself. I’ll put it on your tab.”

  Hightower breathed, deeply and evenly and, oddly, felt at peace.

  “Hawk was right, Aloysius. It was the only thing we could have done.”

  Hawkins had called the Mayor, on his own, not consulting with Hightower, but full of virtue and self-righteousness. And while Hightower wanted to cry out in rage and fear,
he felt his energy gone. He mustered a feeble protest, which Evelyn smothered.

  “The car’s gone; the money’s gone; it’s time to call off the war.”

  And now, tickets in hand, he was ready to march to the plane, like a sinner, a sinner marching through grace to heaven.

  Chapter 10

  Trotter surprised Watson by agreeing to terms. “Absolutely nothing on Statehood,” the Senator warned him. “You’re on your own there. But when we get down to brass tacks, you’ll have Utah’s three representatives—” all Republicans “—and The Big Guy.” Trotter was referring to Utah’s Senior Senator, who was, in fact, a big guy, the ranking Minority Member of the Senate Judiciary Committee and also six foot ten. “Anybody else, I’ll have to go to Michel and Dole.” Bob Michel, the House Minority Leader, would probably let some of his people vote for the bill. Watson wasn’t as sure about Dole. “I won’t talk to them, though, until you absolutely clear it with Wright and Mitchell. Everything. Including the fourth Utah Congressman.”

  That would be doable, Watson thought. Senate Majority Leader George Mitchell would probably have Kennedy introduce the Statehood bill. There’d be no political fallout for him; Teddy’s constituents would continue to return him to the Senate even if he was caught having sexual congress with Satan. Watson had more important things on his mind.

  The morning’s Washington Post poll showed that with Watson out of the race next year, the candidate most likely to win the Mayoralty was Ward 6 Councilman Owen Styx. Watson hated Styx, an arrogant lawyer whose father was two years ahead of Watson at Howard and had gone on to be a successful attorney. Styx Senior was rich, and he had put his son through Yale. Styx Junior had done two years with the DC US Attorney’s office and gotten himself elected to Council.

  There he had been worse than useless, confining himself to high-minded pronouncements and criticism of “business as usual,” by which he meant Wendell Watson’s business. Watson smelled his contempt all the way from the Council chambers, the contempt of a rich young punk with no accomplishments for a man who had raised his community up in the face of white oppression.