Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  “Shave my head,” he instructed the barber.

  “Beg pardon?” The barber was a slender man, with a sparse moustache. Watson intuited that if he snapped at the man the guy would break out into a stammer or something, rendering communication impossible. Plus, it was hard to have confidence in a stammering barber.

  “Shave my head,” he repeated, slowly and emphatically. “I want to be bald as a billiard ball.”

  “I’ve never shaved…”

  Watson sighed, started to open his case, and then stopped himself. You’ve got to stop giving out thousands, he thought. It’s too damn conspicuous. He pulled out his wallet, counted out three twenties, and handed them to the barber. When the other man still looked doubtful, Wendell peeled off two more.

  “Shave my head,” he repeated.

  Twenty-five minutes later he emerged from the barber shop as bald as a Chihuahua. It’s cold, he thought, and instinctively he brought his hand up to cover his head. It’s smooth. He walked into a clothing shop and stuck himself in front of a mirror. Some men were born for the smooth look and some men were not; Watson was definitely in the latter category. His head was irregular and elongated, like that creature in the movie with Sigourney Weaver. I look like shit, he thought, but that ain’t Wendell Watson. He walked over to the counter. “I need a hat,” he said.

  The clerk pointed wordlessly to an array of baseball caps stuck on the wall behind the counter. Shit, Watson muttered. He grabbed one that said “I ♥ New York.”

  “Twelve dollars” the clerk said tonelessly.

  As he walked back into the terminal he heard the announcement. “Attention all passengers. Attention all passengers. Flight 355 to Sao Paolo, Brazil, now boarding, gate fourteen. All first class passengers and passengers who need assistance please form a line at the gate and have your tickets and passports ready for inspection.”

  The passengers began to line up. Shit, Watson thought, looking at the huge crowd in the lobby outside gate fourteen. I’ll never get on that flight.

  He walked over to a Black man about his age and sat down next to him. “Hey, brother,” he said in a confidential voice. “I wonder if you could do a favor for a brother.”

  The man’s eyes widened and he craned his neck away from Watson. He said nothing.

  “I’m desperate to get to Rio—to Sao Paulo.” Watson would not allow himself to be deterred by the man’s fearful reaction. “If you could see clear to let me fly on your ticket I’d make it worth your while.” He reached for his wallet.

  “No—no comprende” the man said, throwing up his hands.

  “Hey, I know you,” said the woman sitting next to him. “Aren’t you Mayor Watson?”

  Watson stood up, snatched the cap from his head. “No,” he said. “Not him.” He strode away from the knot of people who had gathered around him.

  Damn, he thought, I’m gonna have to lose the hat.

  “Attention all passengers, flight 355 to Sao Paolo, Brazil, now boarding, rows one through fifteen. All passengers in rows one through fifteen, please form a line at the gate and have your tickets and passports ready for inspection.”

  Watson strode over to a man in his twenties standing by himself on the right side of the lounge.

  “Hi. How are you doin’?”

  “Okay.” The young man seemed wary.

  “Listen, I need to ask you something. I’m desperate to get on this flight. I have an urgent meeting in Brazil.”

  The man didn’t respond.

  “I’m really desperate. I have to get on that plane and I only have a standby ticket.”

  “I don’t think I can help you.”

  “Listen. Lemme show you something.”

  Watson took out two thousand-dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to him.

  “Attention all passengers. Flight 355 to Brazil, now boarding, rows fifteen through thirty. All passengers in rows fifteen through thirty, please line up at the gates and make your tickets and passports available for inspection.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you two thousand more. No. Make that three thousand. I’ll give you three thousand more.”

  Watson took out three thousand-dollar bills and handed them to the man.

  “That’s five thousand. Like I said, I’m really desperate. I need your plane ticket to Brazil.”

  “What? My airline ticket? You’re giving me five thousand dollars for my ticket?”

  “That’s what you’ve got there. Five thousand.”

  The man examined the five thousand-dollar bills that Watson had given him.

  “Attention all passengers. Attention all passengers. Flight 355 to Sao Paolo, Brazil, is now boarding, rows thirty through forty-five. All passengers in rows thirty through forty-five, please line up at gate fourteen.”

  “Five thousand dollars! I’d love to take it, but my parents are expecting me.”

  “Lemme have your ticket and you can get a flight tomorrow. Just call your parents and tell them that you’ll be delayed for about a day.”

  “Yeah, but where will I stay? I go to Georgetown and all the dorms are closed.”

  Watson dug down into his pants and pulled out a bunch of bills. “Here!” He counted them out. “Here’s twenty more! Twenty-five thousand dollars! You can buy a house!” He could, too, in Ethiopia.

  “Jesu Christu! Twenty-five thousand! Okay! Okay! Here’s my ticket! I mean, twenty-five thousand. That’s a lot of money!”

  Watson grabbed the ticket and headed to the gate. He stood in the short line. Watson handed the gate clerk the ticket. The clerk, not looking at him, tore it and handed him a stub.

  Watson proceeded onto the plane. He stuffed his coat into the overhead compartment and settled into his seat.

  As he sat and watched the rest of the passengers file in, Watson let his mind drift back to his days as a student organizer for civil rights. He remembered Harlem Congressman Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Back when a young Wendell Watson was fighting for civil rights, others in the movement warned him away from Powell. Powell was a bad Negro, had been stripped of his position as Chairman of the Education and Labor Committee basically because he pissed off white folks. Not like Martin or Roy Innis of the NAACP, who were good Negroes, ministers and such. Wendell remembered Powell holding press conferences on the Caribbean Island of Bimini, cigarette in one hand, glass of gin in the other, bikini-clad woman at his side. When a reporter asked him about Martin Luther King, Jr., Powell’s response was, “Martin Luther who? I don’t recognize the name.”

  Watson envisioned himself as a modern-day version of Adam Clayton Powell. Staying in Washington made no sense at all. His career as an elected official was over. His trial would be a circus. With nearly five million dollars, he could stay in Brazil as long as he wanted. He would relax in the sun and surf at Rio. Occasionally he might hold a press conference to sneer at the US Attorney. And if somehow Brazil didn’t work out, there was always Cuba. Castro would welcome him, he was sure.

  Watson sat back in his seat. When they were airborne, he would order himself a gin, he thought.

  For once in his life, Watson tried to be inconspicuous. As long as they were on the ground, he was vulnerable. But once they got into the air, his odds would improve considerably. Sure, they could call the plane back, but how likely was that? And once he landed in Sao Paulo, he knew he had it made.

  But wait a second. His chances were good now. According to American Airlines records, he wasn’t on this plane. He was using the ticket of some Brazilian kid, a college student. Watson breathed deeply, felt himself relax.

  Of course, suppose—suppose Kojak was tracking him down. Suppose Superman was after him. Maybe they could have found Fitzpatrick, found Miss Parsons, even found Carter. Well, Kojak would have found that Wendell Watson was trying to get to Brazil. Big surprise about that. But when they got to the passenger manifest—well, they’d have a big fat zero.

  Watson looked at his watch. Ten minutes to takeoff.

  “Will p
assenger Avery Shaw report to the front of the plane?”

  Shit, Watson thought, is that me? Quickly he looked down at his ticket. Jesus Solis, it said. At practically the same moment, a large man in the middle seat of the row in front of him got up and started to thread his way through the incoming traffic.

  That’s not me, Watson thought. I’m Jesus. He giggled a bit, and then sat back in his chair and willed himself not to think of anything. More people got on the plane.

  He looked at his watch. Three minutes. He was nearly home free.

  He looked up, and then his heart froze in his mouth. He didn’t know who this woman was—blonde, middle-aged, thin-lipped with a cupid smile—but she knew who he was. She locked eyes with him and advanced upon him, hungry.

  He was fucked.

  Desperately he unbuckled his belt, overwhelmed with a desire to bolt, to sprint, if necessary, back to the airport.

  Too late. The woman grabbed him.

  “Michael Jordan!” she exclaimed. “Oh my God. I love the Bulls!”

  Watson collapsed into his seat. “No, ma’am. Not Michael Jordan. My name is...” what was the name of the student whose ticket he bought? “My name is Aaron Moore.”

  Embarrassed, the woman quickly retreated. Watson couldn’t wait until that first taste of Beefeaters hit his lips.

  The last passenger made his way down the aisle and past him, the flight attendant following just behind, closing overhead bins. “Oh, Miss, as soon as we’re air—” His line of sight was suddenly blocked when the passenger in front of him stood up and turned to face him.

  “Happy New Year, Mr. Mayor, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the passenger said, reaching over to slap the handcuff around Watson’s wrist. “I’m Mitch Dennis. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you…”

  Epilogue

  The day dawned crisp and cold, but since the worst day on the outside is better than your best day in prison, Wendell Watson found it beautiful. Cold days had a smell all their own, he thought, sharp and clean, like...well, like himself, reborn through the rigors of his prison life.

  Or...not exactly rigors. He had gotten a very good lawyer, and upon his advice had told as much truth as was useful. Yes, Hightower had shot and killed Sharon Scott, in the presence of the Mayor; yes, he had suggested that Hightower capture Evelyn Scott and bring her back to Washington where, he thought, he could reason with her; yes, he paid Evelyn millions to buy her silence, since he wanted to protect Hightower who, he said, simply made a mistake. He said nothing about Vasquez or P. Traum, nor did he have to. Vasquez was dead and Traum had been returned to South Carolina, where he was now on death row. In return for what in Washington they call the Full Limited Hangout, Wendell Watson received eight years of the softest hard time imaginable, at the special Federal penitentiary for businessmen and politicians in Allenwood, Pennsylvania. He had served less than half of it before they released him for good behavior.

  And also because of a job: the new cable network, Amazing Television, had signed him on as a talk show host, and they told him they could book Phyllis Schafley and Dan Quayle. Plus, of course, he had found Jesus (He was under the bed) so now his history of adultery, drug abuse, and government corruption was just a prologue to a new and better story of his redemption. Oh, he had seen the light, all right, and the $400,000-a-year contract that Amazing had offered made the light almost blinding.

  It helped to have taken the plea deal, since having admitted his guilt his repentance seems sincere. In fact, everyone took a plea, except P. Traum and Stone, neither of whom were offered one. Hightower pled to manslaughter, which was twenty years, and kidnapping Evelyn, which was another fifteen, and participating in her blackmail scheme, which was another four. Hightower traded thirty-nine years in order to keep his one remaining secret: that he had killed Vasquez and two of his associates, by bathing them in gasoline and then setting them on fire. Vasquez had a lot of friends on the inside, and Hightower’s life wouldn’t have been worth shoe polish if that secret ever got out.

  Of course, it didn’t do him much good, poor bastard, because of his anger management problem. Hightower got into a fight with a shot caller, and two days later was found with his throat neatly slit.

  Evelyn took a plea, too, and got eight years. Watson never found out what they had over her, but he had heard rumors that it had something to do with her sister. Watson would have guessed that Evelyn would follow his path: lay low, act inconspicuous, get out early and get back to business, but she had surprised him by doing the opposite. She became a shot caller herself, running drugs and numbers out of her jail cell, manipulating and intimidating guards and prisoners alike. Watson, from his cozy Allenwood perch, became an admirer; had things gone a little differently, he might have ended up like Evelyn himself.

  Hawkins was to some extent the saddest case. Sentenced to four years as an accessory, he entered prison a despised snitch, and thereafter existed as some shot caller’s butt boy. Watson guessed that this kind of life must have been necessary for Hawkins, for whom the world was mostly a fog and who required a dominant figure to tell him what to do.

  And as for O’Brien, he had gotten nothing—nothing at all. Watson had heard that O’Brien eventually got a job in the Defense Department as a GS-12 procurement officer, and that may have been the case. Spagnola, and RDE, sued the City for a hundred million when the story got out, but unfortunately for them, the company didn’t have the resources to finance the lawsuit, and declared Chapter 7 in 1990.

  Of course, the City had mostly gone to shit. Styx was elected Mayor, and he appointed that FBI Uncle Tom, Dennis, Chief of Police. Keisha left the Council to become City Administrator. Altman had expectations of being named US Attorney in the new Administration, or, if not that, a high post in the Department of Justice.

  One good thing was that, contrary to Watson’s expectations, Styx did not turn his term of office into a four-year examination of the misdeeds of the Watson administration. Instead, he pursued his own agenda: modernizing the bureaucracy, restoring trust in the police, improving education. Disastrous, in Watson’s view, but not personally threatening.

  Well, fuck the City; he had broader horizons. We have a Democratic President for the first time in twelve years (twenty-four, if you count Carter as a hallucination), and Bill Clinton was a man after his own heart, by which he meant a man of appetite, and good cheer. As a political figure Watson knew he was still radioactive himself, but if he could find redemption through this gig as a talk show host, there was no limit to what he could do.

  He would have to establish himself in a state, since he needed to have the potential to go beyond Mayor. The problem with Maryland was that everyone was a Democrat, and he would have to jostle with politicians who had been in the system for a generation if he wanted to advance. The problem with Virginia was that everyone was a redneck Republican—although a brother, he knew, had managed to get himself elected Governor. But why confine himself to the Washington area? He could move to California after a couple of years (but running for office there cost money, big-time), or New York (but Cuomo and Moynihan looked like they would go on forever, and he didn’t like his chances against D’Amato) or well, why sweat it? He could just see where life took him, and play it as it lay. He was still a young man, just short of fifty,and the world of possibility awaited.

  The first step, he knew, was to rehabilitate himself. That was the opinion of Amazing Television as well, and for that reason they had hired not one but two people to ghostwrite his autobiography. Watson was on his way to meet them now.

  He ambled into the office which Amazing had secured for him, and proceeded to scramble the papers in front of him. It wouldn’t do for his biographers to see him as other than a busy man, intensely at work amidst a blizzard of information.

  “They’re here, Mr. Mayor.” When he became Mayor, Styx had consigned Loretta to the steno pool. Amazing had rescued her, and restored her to her rightful pl
ace, as Wendell Watson’s personal secretary.

  “Bring us some coffee, will you, Loretta? Then bring them in.”

  After the coffee, two of the least prepossessing white men Watson had ever seen walked into the office. Watson took a look at the larger man and said, “Wendell Watson. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hurlwitz.” He reached out his hand.

  The smaller man took it. “Hurwitz. Lee Hurwitz.”

  Watson vowed, to himself, not to call them Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. “Mr. Hurwitz. And Mr. Treanor.” He grasped the larger man’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, your Honor,” Treanor said. He had a nasally voice, not much different from Middleton. That had actually been Watson’s only triumph: once it came out that Middleton had been fooled, Brindle and the Times settled (Watson didn’t know for how much, but had heard it was for a relatively small amount, around two hundred large). Middleton had gone back to Chicago shortly after that.

  Watson poured coffee. “I understand that all of my contacts have cooperated with you,” he said. “Would you like some pastries?”

  “That would be excellent!” Treanor’s eyebrows arched in delight. Watson summoned Loretta; there was a Dunkin’ Donuts on the first floor.

  “Pretty much so,” Hurwitz said, about the contacts’ cooperation. Amazing told Watson that Hurwitz was a first-rate researcher; Treanor would do most, though not all, of the writing. “Chief Dennis was pretty closed-mouthed, but his wife had a lot of story to tell.”

  “Don’t try to make me a plaster saint,” Watson said. He meant it as a code phrase, so that they would include so much of his sinful past as he would permit, and no more. “I had a bad coke jones, and my weakness for other women cost me the support of my wife.” Indeed, Essie Mae, to his absolute astonishment, divorced him thirty days after his conviction, and never thereafter visited him in prison.

  “We got that, Mr. Mayor,” Treanor said. “No plaster saint.”