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  “I’m gonna take a walk, clear my head a little. You stay here in case the boss calls.”

  He lied about Watkins’ call. The boss had already told them. Told him. Told Aaron the Moore.

  A half hour before his press conference, Wendell Watson found himself reading the Metro section of the Post.

  “The body of a woman was found in the woods near Indian Head Highway in the Oxon Hill area of Prince George’s County.”

  Nice work, Vasquez. He gritted his teeth. At least they hadn’t left the rug, which would have been fatal for him.

  “The woman, who has not been identified by police, was found about 10:00 a.m. by Rocco DeSalvo, who was walking his dog. Prince George’s Police Spokesman Sgt. Harry Clark said that the woman, who was Black and appeared to be in her early thirties, died of a gunshot wound to the head.

  “Further details will be available after an autopsy, Clark said.”

  Well, he knew the woman’s identity, and all those further details as well. Why did that dago have to walk his dog through the woods? he wondered, and then, why do people have dogs at all? What are they good for? and he knew he was being irrational.

  He turned to the Style section, to cool off. “Jimmy Ray Mallory, Ambrosia, Have Words on the Set.” That skank, Watson muttered to himself. Although he had to admit that Mallory, an actor of middling talent, was nobody before he married Ambrosia, a singer of no talent at all. Now they were both A-list celebrities, whose “words” somehow merited an article in the Washington Post.

  Then he saw an article which made his blood pressure go up.

  “MAYOR’S SECURITY DETAIL OFFICER ARRESTED AT THE MARRIOT HOTEL,” was the headline

  “On Friday night, hotel security staff at the J.W. Marriott hotel, 14th Street and Pennsylvania Ave. NW, detained Metropolitan Police Department officer Ronald Hawkins for allegedly harassing a hotel visitor. Hawkins, a member of Mayor Wendell Watson’s security detail, was turned over to officers of the third police district and released. No charges have been filed against Hawkins.

  “The woman, who was not identified, was at a National Association of Realtors reception when Hawkins allegedly harassed her. Hawkins, thirty, is a six-year-veteran of the police department. He has been assigned to the Mayor’s security detail for two years.

  “Pedestrians on Pennsylvania Avenue reported hearing gun shots from the east entrance of the District Building. Pedestrians reported seeing Hawkins chase the woman across Pennsylvania Avenue into the hotel after the gunshots.

  “A police spokesman said that Hawkins and the woman had been involved in a domestic dispute and that it would not comment further on Hawkins’ detention and subsequent release. The reported gunfire is under investigation but the spokesman said that it had ‘no relationship whatsoever’ to the Hawkins matter.”

  If it’s still under investigation, how do you know it has no relationship to Hawkins, you fucking moron? Where did they get this chump? Watson wondered, noting that the story didn’t give his name. What’s the point of being a spokesman if you can’t lie competently?

  His head throbbed underneath his bandage. His press conference would start in twenty minutes—thirty minutes; he’d make ‘em wait—and he would rather be doing anything else, even work. But he had not had a press conference in four months, and had cancelled the last two. So once more, dear friends, into the breach.

  The funny thing is that once upon a time, the media were his friends. The Post had endorsed him against the bumbling incumbent in his first race, and over the years they had cut him some slack about his night life. Besides, they had much more interesting scandals, Wilbur Mills and the Argentine Firecracker, Wayne Hayes and the secretary who couldn’t type, Gary Hart and that cute girl on the boat. But everybody now coming out of journalism school is a junior Woodward and Bernstein, apparently.

  He straightened up and strode into the press room. There was the customary explosion of flashbulbs, the usual buzz. He mounted the podium in two steps.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Wendell spread his hands as though he was about to give a speech, or deliver a sermon to his congregants. “To those of you who have noticed this bandage on my forehead, I want to assure you that all is well between Mrs. Watson and myself.” He waited for a laugh that didn’t come. “The truth is that while I was shoveling snow this weekend, I slipped and hit my head on the pavement. The doctor didn’t want me to come to work today, but I knew I couldn’t disappoint you folks. So fire away. George.”

  “Mr. Mayor.” George Gilson, who Watson remembered worked the crime beat for the Post, stood up. “Officer Ronald Hawkins, a member of your security detail, was arrested on Friday night for harassing a woman at the Marriot. What was Officer Hawkins doing there and why were no charges brought against him?”

  Wendell managed to look thoughtful. In fact, he was trying to conceal his anger. “Well, George, the police seem to have determined that it was a domestic matter. A lover’s spat, if you will. I certainly don’t have any more information on it than that. As for charges, that’s not my department. You’ll have to ask the US Attorney.”

  “Will you ask Officer Hawkins to take a leave of absence while this matter is being investigated?”

  Wendell shot Gilson a sharp look. “There’s no investigation, sir. The police have determined that it was a domestic dispute and that no criminal activity was involved. Sadie!”

  Sadie Malidio worked for City Paper, the town’s free newspaper and was, in fact, their “Loose Lips,” whose cynical, and detailed, coverage of the City Council would occasionally make him laugh. The City Paper had always been a reliable supporter.

  “Mr. Mayor, pedestrians report hearing gunshots from the east side of the District Building on Friday night and seeing Officer Hawkins chase the woman across Pennsylvania Avenue into the Marriott Hotel. What do you know about this?”

  “Nothing,” Watson said, and immediately wished he could take it back. The Mayor of Washington should never say that he knows nothing about any subject. “I will say this. Because of poverty, a lack of gun control, a lack of jobs—all things we desperately need Congress to address—there is crime in Washington. There is gunfire in Washington. Even in the sacred precincts of the District Building.” The official story, that Officer Copland fired the gun, would not come out until tomorrow, so Watson would have to wing it.

  “But Officer Hawkins!” somebody screamed.

  “Officer Hawkins had nothing to do with any gunfire, according to the police. I will stand by their investigation.” He gripped the podium hard. “Sadie, do you have a follow-up question?” His head was throbbing again.

  Malidio swallowed hard, and then said, “Mayor Watson, there are some holes that seem to have been filled and painted over on the door on the east side of the District Building. Do you know if these holes are from any gun shots that occurred on Friday night?”

  Watson gaped at her. She was bluffing! There was only one bullet, and it was safely lodged in Sharon Scott’s brainpan until Vasquez removed...pray to God Vasquez removed it. But he would be careful how he answered her. Oh, yes, he would be careful.

  “As far as I know,” he said slowly, “no bullets have ever been fired in the District Building. I would assume that the holes were made by woodpeckers, or some other destructive cause.”

  A surprised bark of laughter passed through the room, and Watson suddenly realized he had just written his own headline: “Those weren’t bullets! Those were woodpeckers!” He began to feel nauseous again...in fact, he wanted to vomit right then and there, maybe on the first row of reporters. “Mr. Middleton,” he croaked.

  Harvey Middleton was new with the Moonie paper, the Washington Times, but it was customary to give the print media first crack, since they had earlier deadlines. “Mayor Watson?” He had a nasally voice, not unpleasant but a little comic in a hot-shot reporter. “Police have identified a dead body they discovered in Oxon Hill, Maryland as Sharon Scott, who is in charge of vocational testing at the Office of
Human Services.”

  “Oh!” Watson looked up, pole-axed. To anyone in the room, it would have seemed as though this information had come as a shock to Watson, and in a way it had. Up until this point, Sharon Scott had been a problem to solve; the bitch who tried to record him and then had the temerity to hit him with an ash tray, and then put her head in the way of a bullet. But now he was remembering all the easy laughter, the sweetness of her smile and the smooth consistency of her face; the uninhibited delight she took in new clothes and the other gifts he gave her; the way she would dissolve into tears while watching a sentimental movie. All that was gone for him, and for everyone, forever. She was now just meat. “You have a question, sir?”

  “Did you know her, Mr. Mayor?”

  “I may have spoken to her once or twice.” A cloak of sadness surrounded Watson now, and he had the sense to ride with it. Everyone in the room, even Middleton, probably knew that he was having sex with Sharon. Of course he would have to deny it; denial was pro forma; to not deny would be to show no respect for his constituents. What was infinitely more important was that he show that the news was a surprise, that it took him off-stride. Which it did, it most definitely did.

  “Mr. Mayor, employees report seeing Ms. Scott in your office on multiple occasions.”

  Wendell made a gesture as though he were swatting a fly. “She was a division head. Division heads meet with the Mayor. What’s your point, Middleton?”

  “Mr. Mayor, patrons of Chatters Nightclub on Georgia Avenue reportedly observed you at their establishment with a woman they believed to be Sharon Scott on several occasions in November and October. Did you go to this nightclub with Ms. Scott?”

  This was beyond the pale. “WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?” Watson bellowed. “I don’t have to answer questions like that.” He banged his hand against the podium, scattering papers. “It’s a tragedy that this young lady was killed. She was a hard-working, lovely person, and you don’t even have the decency to wait for her funeral before you ask these degrading questions. Look here: I am the Mayor of the nation’s Capital. We have a five-billion-dollar budget and forty thousand employees. Do you ask me about my initiative to reduce teenage pregnancy? No, you do not. Do you ask me about the new AIDS director I just appointed? No, you do not. Do you ask me about my new plan to hire more police officers and reduce crime? No, you do not. You ask me ‘Who was at that nightclub with you, Mr. Mayor? And why is she dead?’” He mimicked Middleton’s nasally voice when he said the last two sentences, and he was satisfied to hear the sharp intake of breath. “This press conference is over.”

  He stormed out, sweating. Well, that tore it, he thought, as flashbulbs went off behind him. He had just created a brand new headline, to replace the one about the woodpeckers. To make matters worse, his head was throbbing again. He really should go home.

  Instead, he headed back to his office. “Councilwoman Lee is waiting for you,” his secretary—apologetic, almost—said.

  In all of Washington, no one could sit in Wendell Watson’s office without Watson being there: not the President of the City Council, not John Stone, not the President of the United States. There was one exception: Councilwoman Keisha Lee, D-At Large. Keisha was a loyalist, but at the same time shrewd and knowing, and immensely popular throughout the District. Wendell was grateful she never primaried him; if she had, he wasn’t certain that he would win.

  She was also his first wife.

  He had married her twenty-three years ago, when they had both been twenty-two, and college seniors. She was a bombshell—till was, he realized, at forty-five—but she was also a wonderful resource, inventive and wise beyond her years. When they married, they were going to change the world. She was just a shade, a soupcon, more idealistic than he was. At the outset, it didn’t matter, but as he approached the prize, the Mayor’s office, her radicalism was, increasingly, an embarrassment. And then Rachel came along, with her wealth and her discretion, and...well, that wasn’t important now.

  He kissed her cheek and she smiled. “That was the worst press conference in human history, Wendy,” she said.

  “What? You were there?”

  “WPHD carried it live,” she explained. “I knew you were in trouble from that first lame joke.”

  “I thought it was funny,” Watson said. She reached over and touched the bandage, and Watson winced.

  “You were shoveling your driveway?” Keisha asked. “Was Essie Mae under the weather?”

  Wendell shook his head. Essie Mae was enormously agreeable; a woman who thought her place was to serve her man. Such service could include shoveling the driveway, if necessary. At this stage of his life, Watson realized, this was exactly what he needed.

  “I am a man of the people,” he said, a nonsensical phrase which indicated at once that he conceded her point and that this part of the conversation was over.

  Keisha seemed thoughtful. “I know that braining you isn’t Essie Mae’s style,” she said. “So who could it have been? Don’t tell me. It’s Karma. Or that slut Brenda. Oh! Oh! It was Karma’s boyfriend. Wasn’t it!” Watson shook his head, and then looked away, “Please don’t tell me it was Sharon Scott.”

  “It was not Sharon Scott,” Wendell said instantly.

  “Sorry. Bad joke.” She touched his wrist and smiled. “Look, Wendy, I know who you are, and I’m okay with it.” He knew that the first part was true. Keisha had dealt with the cocaine, with the other women, with it all, but he wasn’t clear on the second part. Keisha was a feminist—which is to say, someone who told the women Wendell liked to sleep with that they should step up in class.

  “I’m even okay with the Young Prince.” Wendell, who was desperate to land a position in the private sector after the conclusion of his third term, was even more desperate to name his own successor, for two reasons: he did not want the new Mayor investigating the sins of his administration (or, less importantly, blaming his own failures on Wendell), and, secondly, he wanted someone malleable enough to contract with his future clients.

  It was less difficult than he imagined it would be to find such a person. Chauncey Corbin III, the son of a Cabinet Secretary in the benighted Carter Administration, panted after advancement, and Wendell was inclined to give it. Chauncey, or “C.C.,” as he called himself, was young, good-looking, and an excellent dresser. He had a line of patter and a certain charm, and that had gotten him elected to the Council from Ward 4. His only problem was that he was as dumb as a toaster. No, scratch that, since a toaster still had some functionality. He was as dumb as a box of rocks. Wendell—and Keisha was a lot of help with this—had secured important committee assignments for him, and put him in charge of important projects...in education, in the fight against AIDS, in economic development. Disaster ensued each time.

  Still, C.C. was his man, his Young Prince, since his loyalty was of the unquestioning kind, and would be forever, as the Young Prince did not have a questioning mind. But Wendell’s old guard —which was, he had to admit, a little shaky now, would have to stay with him to make sure he did not try to outfit the police with leftover arms from the Contras as a cost-saving device, say, or turn the educational system over to the Hare Krishnas.

  “Wendell? Honey?” Keisha gave him a concerned look, and Wendell realized that he hadn’t changed his facial expression in two or three minutes.

  So he smiled. “No, I hear you, Keisha. You like the Young Prince.”

  “I didn’t say I liked him. I said I was okay with him. But you’re the one who’s gonna have to sell him. And if you’re pulling stunts like this, baby, it’s not happening.”

  “It wasn’t a stunt, Keisha, I...”

  “If you haven’t noticed, Wendell, women today are not putting up with the bullshit they used to. If you want to fuck around on Essie Mae that’s your business, but be careful. Whoever that bitch was who knocked you upside the head, I know you gave her cause. And I know the press has turned a blind eye in the past but that’s changing too.”

  A
ll of a sudden the nausea returned, full force, and Watson had an irresistible urge to vomit. “Excuse me,” he whispered, and dashed to his private bathroom. He had just enough time to get on his knees in front of the toilet and empty the contents of his stomach in it. And as he rested his head on the porcelain rim, breathing, wheezing heavily, he was suddenly back to Friday night, with Sharon Scott’s body lying on the floor in the next room.

  “Wendell,” Keisha said. She was standing next to him, and she reached down to flush the toilet. “Go home.”

  And he did.

  Waving off his new assistant, Sean O’Brien made his way out of the office. He knew it was time to tell him and there was part of him that looked forward to it. Stoney wasn’t a bad guy, but he was kind of an old woman. And also, he was nuts.

  I don’t belong here, he thought as he began his trek down the stairs. It was simpler than trying to find an elevator that worked. He spotted mouse droppings or something worse, and was suddenly hit by a smell—a dankness, as though he were in a 14th-century castle instead of the home of the municipal government of the capitol of the free world.

  My father worked two jobs so that I could go to the University of Maryland, he thought with some satisfaction, and now I’ll quit my job so that my son can go to Harvard. No, I don’t belong here at all, he thought, looking at the time-server climbing the stairs in the opposite direction, agonizingly slowly, his eyes watching each step. Every second he wastes brings him another second closer to retirement, O’Brien thought, and realized that if he stayed any longer, he’d go insane.

  Well, and there was the matter of tripling his salary to $150,000, as senior Vice-President of RDE. His new job would require him to wine and dine municipal officials all over America, many of whom were personal friends of one Wendell Watson. So it behooved O’Brien to take his leave of John Stone gently, and keep the bonds with City Government strong.

  “Hi, Sheila, he in?” O’Brien said as he breezed into Stone’s outer office. Sheila Streab, like all of John Stone’s secretaries past and present, was enormously endowed, posing, he imagined, a challenge at the filing cabinet.