Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  “Great news. Great news. Excuse me, I have to tell Spagnola.”

  “There’s one more thing. The Mayor is absolutely adamant about this Evelyn Boone thing. Say one word and the whole deal goes away. Got it?”

  “Right. Right. Not a word.”

  Sean O’Brien was a happy man. RDE had just been handed a $36 million contract with prospects for hundreds of millions in additional contracts with Atlanta, L.A., and Chicago, meaning big bonuses for him in the next few years, even stock options.

  On the other hand, the Evelyn Boone problem wouldn’t go away. O’Brien had no idea where the woman was. He had no idea why two of the Mayor’s cops kidnapped her from a restaurant in Miami. He had no idea if she was even alive. But business was business, so if anyone asked him about Evelyn Boone, Sean O’Brien wouldn’t remember anything.

  O’Brien found Spagnola at one of the bars near the front of the ballroom.

  “Joe, come on over here. I want you to try the roast beef.”

  “I’ve already had two servings, Sean.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  O’Brien and Spagnola walked to the back of the ballroom where the crowd was a little sparser.

  “Keep your voice down. Watson signed the contract tonight.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. That’s great news. Next Wednesday, I want your ass in Chicago pitching our software. Call Marilyn Monday. She’ll set you up.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be out there.”

  “Hey, now that he’s signed the contract, we really have to show the Mayor a good time. We’ve got a few rooms rented on the sixth floor.”

  “Joe, listen. There’s apparently an FBI guy, or an ex-FBI guy, here at the party. We have to be very careful about the women you bring up there for the Mayor.”

  “What’s he here for? Not anything to do with us?”

  “Don’t know. I just know we need to play it cool.”

  “I’ll throw the guy the fuck out.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest that. If you say anything to him, it could blow our whole deal. We just have to be careful, that’s all.”

  “You could be right.” For the first time, O’Brien noticed his boss’ unfocused eyes. I wonder if he’s a drinker, O’Brien thought. “I’m glad I hired you. You’re one smart Irishman.”

  Spagnola had learned long ago that if he wanted to succeed in the contracting business, he needed not only to perform high quality data processing services but to take care of high-level elected officials and their top appointees. This meant paying them cash bribes or lining up reliable escort services, as necessary.

  The Watson administration was no different. District Government contractors like RDE had given Watson over half a million in appreciation money, which he kept stashed in a safe deposit box, Spagnola had heard. While the Mayor was always receptive to more money from time to time, his immediate needs had been satisfied. On the other hand, Watson was always on the prowl for young, attractive women and the RDE president was more than happy to comply.

  Spagnola surveyed the mountains of expensive food and gallons of top-shelf liquor being consumed by the three hundred guests. Christ, this was setting them back a fortune! Spagnola enjoyed a good drink and a good screw himself, but these people were animals! There was John Stone, drunkenly chatting up a woman with mammary glands so huge that it was a medical miracle she could stand up. Stone had corralled a bottle of gin and was knocking back shot after shot from a highball glass. Jesus, Stoney, why don’t you just drink it out of the bottle? He knew that the sooner he could get Watson out of the room and between the legs of one of his $1500-a-night courtesans, the sooner he could chase the rest of these mopes out of the place and stop the money hemorrhage. He pushed toward the Mayor. But wait! What are these people doing! The band was playing something vaguely familiar—oh no! God! The electric slide! At once, it seemed like half the guests grabbed on to each other and formed a slippery line, cutting off his approach to Watson.

  Resolutely, Spagnola plowed ahead, toward Watson. The line of dancers had doubled in on itself, and then doubled again, until it looked like human ribbon candy. Spagnola timed his steps precisely, and managed to duck through a break in the first part of the line. Now he was surrounded by two lines of drunken partygoers, each going in opposite directions.

  Spagnola waited for a break in the second line, and made a dash through it. Pow! Down he went on his sixty-year-old butt. Looking up, he saw that cop—what was his name? Pitts? He was bending over, trying to help Spagnola up.

  “Sorry,” he was saying. “I didn’t know you were gonna…” Spagnola grabbed his outstretched hand, hauled himself upright. “Sorry,” the cop repeated.

  “No problem,” Spagnola said. He looked up and to his horror found the drunken, 350-pound form of John Stone advancing on him.

  “No, Stoney! No!” But it was too late. Stone, attuned only to the imperatives of the electric slide, staggered into Spagnola, knocked him over, and fell on top of him.

  “Jesus! I’m paralyzed!” In truth, Spagnola, with the massive Stone on top of him, was in fear for his life. “Get him off me!” But who could lift Stone off Spagnola? Arnold was in Hollywood.

  Fortunately for Spagnola, Stone was not so drunk that he could not rise to his own feet. Rolling off Spagnola—a wholly separate section of hell for the older man—Stone assumed a crawling position, then crouching, then standing. “Sorry,” he said.

  “No problem,” Spagnola said. Gingerly, he tested his fingers, hands and arms, and then his legs and feet. Nothing seemed broken.

  “You lookin’ for the mayor?” Stone’s eyes were unfocused, but he still seemed capable of getting to the main point. “Lemme help you.” He draped a massive arm around Spagnola’s shoulder and steered him directly to the mayor, who was in the middle of the electric slide.

  “We have a few rooms on the sixth floor. Would you like to go up there now?”

  “What?” the mayor shouted. He was surprisingly agile.

  “Rooms!” Spagnola shouted. “Sixth floor!” Watson was generally moving forward but the dance was unpredictable to Spagnola, and he was having trouble keeping up.

  “What…about them?”

  “Wanna go?” Spagnola screamed desperately.

  “Right…after…we finish…this dance. Hooh!”

  “Certainly, Mr. Mayor. No problem.”

  Upstairs in room 610, three tall, attractive, buxom women waited to learn who the Mayor’s choice for the evening would be. In room 612, which was connected to it, four bottles of Beefeater’s gin awaited, along with a whole refrigerator of tonic, ice, and limes.

  “Christmas is always my favorite holiday,” the Mayor sighed, to no one in particular. Wendell Watson knew what was upstairs.The same set of gifts that contractors brought him this time every year. At times like this, he wondered why he ever wanted to retire. He could be Mayor for life. Why not? Then he felt a hand fall softly on his shoulder, and smelled the seductive whiff of perfume.

  “Remember me?” Evelyn Boone asked.

  Spagnola, alerted by a terrified aide, hotfooted it to the lobby.

  “I want a private room, no company, I am not to be disturbed.” Watson barked his orders to RDE’s founder as though he were a bellboy.

  “I think room 612 will be okay,” Spagnola said slowly. “We’ve stocked the bar…”

  “This is not a social call. This is business.” Spagnola looked at the woman and four men clustered behind the Mayor. He hoped it was business; these folks seemed too scary for a party. Especially the one with no eyebrows.

  Spagnola hustled them to room 612 and unlocked the door. The prostitutes, having heard the door unlock, were walking through the connecting door as they entered. Spagnola shooed them back. “Okay,” the Mayor barked to Spagnola. “Now get out.”

  When he was gone Evelyn said, “This is a private meeting just for us. These two guys—” she pointed to Watson’s bodyguards “—wait outside.”

  “I need them for protec
tion,” Watson snarled.

  “Why, Aloysius and Ronald can give you all the protection you need,” Evelyn said, gesturing to her two erstwhile kidnappers. “They’ve heard it all before.”

  Watson glanced at the two beefy cops he had brought with him, gestured toward the door with his head. “If I holler, bust the door down if you have to.”

  When they were gone Evelyn took out a little pocket camera and snapped a photo of Watson.

  “Give me that!” Watson bolted from his chair and snatched the camera out of her hands.

  “Sure,” Evelyn said. “Keep it. They’re disposable. Just like the one I used to snap the picture of Sharon Scott braining you with the ash tray.”

  Watson glowered. “It was a beautiful shot,” she said. “There you are, buck-naked, and her buck-naked too, and blood is pouring out of your head. On the floor near the sofa, we can see the bag of coke. Oh, and you know what’s absolutely hilarious? You still have a hard-on.”

  “You have a photo,” the Mayor said, his mouth dry.

  “Well, not on me,” she said. “In a safe place. With instructions to a friend to send copies to the United States Attorney, the Washington Post, and—I don’t know if this makes any difference to you or not—your wife if they don’t hear from me at least once every forty-eight hours.”

  “I didn’t do anything to that bitch,” Watson spat. “It was your boyfriend, Hightower, here who did it.”

  “Oh, I’m gonna let somebody else figure out who did what. What I have is a picture of some tart bashing your horny head in—and you know, the lovely thing about this camera is that it puts the date, December 2, 1988, right on the photo—and a few days later, said tart is found dead in a snowfield in PG County. People will draw their own conclusions.”

  “All right.” Watson had calmed down; his eyes had narrowed; he was ready to conduct business. “What do you want?”

  “Eight million,” she said, and the room exploded. “Evelyn!” Hightower blurted. “You never said…”

  Evelyn held up her hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” she told Watson, who was peering at her with almost cartoonish intensity. “It’s not like you’re gonna pay for it.”

  Watson’s eyes narrowed. “Talk, bitch,” he said.

  “That parking ticket contract. I know it was wired for RDE.” Watson said nothing. “Have you told them yet?”

  “We have not announced the contract award.”

  “C’mon, boys,” Evelyn said, standing up. “Let’s pick up the picture and head on over to the Post.” She turned her back on the Mayor.

  “Wait! What!” Watson half-rose from his chair

  “Don’t bullshit me, you asshole.” Evelyn whirled on him. “I asked you whether you told anybody at RDE that they got the contract. Spagnola or anybody. And if you lie to me or bullshit me again, that’s it. We’re walking. Game over.”

  “No!” Watson looked to his left, and to his right, and back to his left again. He was being flooded with unfamiliar feelings, and he didn’t like them.

  “Damn straight you didn’t. ‘Cause I just talked to Dworkin, and he didn’t know anything about it. All right. This is how it’s going to play out. You take that contract, and carve out eight million for me. One million in eighty-nine, one point two in ninety, and so on for the full five years.”

  “MBG’s got the software subcontract…”

  “I didn’t say MBG. I said me. Evelyn Boone. Do you know who I am? I know you remember my father,”

  “Your fath—what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Really. I’m hurt. My father knew your father. Hell, he even served time with that pimpin’ son of a bitch.”

  “Fuck me, motherfuck!” Watson sat down hard. “You’re Turk Boone’s little girl.” He smiled and shook his head. “What crazy-ass shit! I’m being held up by Turk Boone’s baby.”

  “So, really, Mr. Mayor,” Evelyn said gently. “You understand that I can take care of myself here.”

  Watson seemed in awe. “You know,” he said, smiling, “Turk had brass balls, but he never pulled something like this.” Suddenly his head snapped up and he stared at Evelyn. “I give you the contract, you give me the negatives, right?”

  “Fuck, no, your honor. You think I want to end up like that bitch you were doing the horizontal bop with? You give me the contract, I keep the pictures as a form of life insurance.”

  “What about my insurance?” Watson cried.

  “We are entering a relationship in which we have mutual assured destruction, Mr. Mayor.” Evelyn grinned. “You hurt me—the world sees the photo. I hurt you—why, I’m sure the world will learn of the blackmailing sistah and her phony eight million dollar contract. Now, granted, the hurt on you is bigger than the hurt on me. But do you think I want to turn in the fine Georgetown mansion my contract’s gonna buy me to share a dorm at Lorton with a ten-dollar ho? Heavens, no, Mr. Mayor.”

  Watson said nothing. He was looking at the end of his fingers, which were splayed out on his lap. “You don’t have to pay me a thing, Mr. Mayor. It’s come out of the hides of those honkie bastards at RDE. I know that they got enough grease in that bid to do my eight and a couple more for you, too, if you want it. Just tell them they got the contract, but they gotta do it for a little less money.” She bent down toward Watson. “It’s not the first time you’ve done it.”

  The noise level in the room was so high that Mitch and Yvonne had to shout to hear each other.

  “When did you see them last?”

  “About quarter after nine. Just before you got here.”

  “And they were over by the buffet tables in the back?”

  Yvonne nodded, but Mitch couldn’t be sure if she had heard him correctly. Just then there was a large crash. A huge bowl of shrimp and ice had fallen to the floor and shattered. First one, then a second, and then a third well-dressed official of City Government slipped on the little ice cubes and fell onto the parquet. The third one cut his head. He started to bleed, as waiters descended to mop up the ice chunks.

  Spagnola approached a table where Stone sat with Sean O’Brien and two other men.

  “Stoney, I want you to try some of the seafood.”

  Stone didn’t answer.

  O’Brien stood up and put his mouth to Spagnola’s ear. “He’s had too much to drink.”

  Spagnola considered. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give me a hand and we’ll both take him up to the sixth floor. The mayor didn’t touch his three women, and they’re paid for.”

  “Joe, the man is drunk. Are you sure you wanna do this?”

  “We’ve got the contract. First order of business, we take good care of these guys.”

  Getting Stone out of the ballroom and up to the sixth floor was not going to be an easy task. O’Brien grabbed one of his arms and Spagnola grabbed the other, and they walked Stone along the back wall, toward a side door.

  Mitch watched the scene around him with fascinated horror. It astonished him that liquor continued to flow despite the general state of high inebriation. When he saw O’Brien and Spagnola struggling with Stone he grabbed Yvonne’s arm. “There’s John Stone,” Mitch exclaimed.

  “Would you like a Jell-O shot?” A young woman had materialized next to him with a plateful of green gelatin cubes. She had two safety pins through one earlobe. Mitch waved her away.

  “Should we talk to him now?” Yvonne asked.

  “Looks like it wouldn’t do us much good,” replied Mitch.

  Just then a commotion arose to Mitch’s immediate left. He saw a small tornado buzz through the crowd and approach Stone’s heaving bulk. It was the Mayor! Mitch gaped as Watson tore Spagnola away from Stone. The hefty Director of Public Works slid from O’Brien’s grasp exactly like a Jell-O shot slides down the throat. As Stone hit the floor, Watson kicked him in the ribs.

  “You stupid dumb motherfucker fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” Watson kicked Stone in the ribs, over and over again. “Fucking stupid shit dumb motherfucker shit f
or brains fuck fuck.” Stone groaned. Watson was so furious that he missed a lot of his kicks, but he landed often enough to guarantee that the Public Works Director would have a most unhappy and immobile Christmas.

  “Oh, damn, you big puddle of motherfucking pig shit,” Watson said, kicking Stone harder. Stone had closed his eyes and gone to sleep, or died.

  “Mr. Mayor!” The voice was huge, coming from the middle of the crowd, and a tall, balding man burst forth. Mitch recognized him immediately. “That’s Lloyd Pike,” he told Yvonne. “The Chief of Police.”

  “Mr. Mayor.” Pike bear-hugged the Mayor and lifted him off the floor. “There’s press here.” From inside the folds of the Chief’s arms, Watson said, “I didn’t do nothing. Get me outta here.”

  “Parker. Mendenhell. Is this how you protect the Mayor?” Pike barked at the men detailed to Watson’s security, who had just managed to catch up with their charge. He pushed the Mayor into the arms of the larger of the two. “The Mayor wishes to leave,” Pike said.

  The Police Chief stepped back from the motionless Stone. “Clean him up. Get him a doctor.” It was not clear to whom Pike was speaking, but somebody immediately bent over Stone and began to loosen his collar. Pike whirled on O’Brien.

  “Well, Mr. O’Brien. Your guys really know how to throw a nice party.”

  O’Brien stared at Pike, looked to Spagnola, and then back at Pike. Finally, he blurted out:

  “Well, thanks for the compliment. Our company puts a lot of time and effort into our holiday parties.”

  Chapter 13

  “I don’t understand.”

  It was December 17. Watson’s eyes, still bloodshot, were full of purpose. He had made his lawyers work twelve-hour days on this. The Christmas season meant nothing to them anyway, bloodsucking Jew bastards.

  “What’s not to understand, Mr. Spagnola?” the Mayor asked with exaggerated politeness. “You’ve successfully bid on the parking ticket contract. And here it is.”