Frankfurter and Gleason circled the apartment building in Bethesda slowly, passing along the front on Old Georgetown Road, down to the turn into an unmarked lane, behind the building (through the parking lot), around a second lane, back on Old Georgetown Road. It was their ninth pass in the last two hours. They parked on the unmarked lane. It was just after eight; the darkness in the semirural section was palpable. No wind, no night sounds.
“You wanna turn on the radio?”
Frankfurter belched an answer.
“Is that yes or no?”
“No, I don’t want the fucking radio on. Fucking radio drives me crazy. I hate shit like this, you know? I hate shit like this.”
Gleason knew.
“She’s been in there three hours. Don’t she go out?”
“She doesn’t get a phone call, she doesn’t go out. She doesn’t look that bad a broad. Maybe she’s a lesbian.”
“So? Lesbians go out, don’t they?”
“I don’t know. You can’t tell about lesbians. My daughter brought this girl home from Smith. Over last Christmas. Nice girl. Nice tush. You know.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey, I don’t mean that. You can’t help but noticing these things. Nice girl. Very polite. Please and thank you and mother, may I. You know. One day I’m driving down to the Seven-Eleven with Tammi—”
“Tammi your daughter?”
“Yeah. I thought you knew. I thought I mentioned it.”
“No. You never mentioned it.”
“Tammi and me, I don’t know, we’re getting some more stuffing or something. I think it was Christmas Day in fact. I think the Seven-Eleven was the only thing open, so we’re talking and out of a blue Tammi says, ‘You know, Beth is a lesbian.’ Just like that. I nearly went off the fucking road. I mean, why the hell would she tell me something like that?”
“Maybe she was trying to tell you something.”
Gleason turned to Frankfurter and rested his left arm on the steering wheel. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it says. Maybe she was trying to tell you something.”
“You mean Tammi is trying to tell me that she’s a fag, too? Is that what you’re saying?”
“It happens. Kids go through stages.”
“You’ve got your mind in the fucking gutter, you know that?”
“You asked me, I told you.”
“I didn’t ask you. I was telling you that you can’t tell about these things.”
“And I was agreeing with you.”
Silence.
Gleason turned on the radio.
“Aw, why’d you turn that fucking thing on?”
“Because I want it on. You mind?”
“I mind. I already told you I mind.”
“Too fucking bad.”
“This is a goofy idea, you know.”
“What?”
“Watching this broad. If our customer didn’t contact her all the months we had him stashed in that flat in New York, he isn’t going to contact her now. I think he just got stir-crazy, decided to take off for a few days.”
“Maybe he got lucky in that Irish bar on Eighth.”
“Jesus H. Christ. What a freak show, huh? I had two weeks’ duty up there, I was going out of my mind. There was this one bimbo goes in there every night for a J&B and Coke. You know, shine broad. But a blond wig. And she’s got the miniest miniskirt. I mean, you can see her snatch when she walks. Boots. They all got boots. You think fashions would change.”
“Whatever turns you on.”
“When I was with DEA, we’d do some shit on Broadway. This is ten years ago. Same fashions. Why the hell he’d go down there, to get looped?”
“Just sat in the bar, two, three nights a week, watching the freak show passing by. Couple of babes hit on him, he ignored them. And a guy hit on him. Same thing. This guy is not interested in sex.”
“That isn’t what got him into this wringer in the first place. He put it all on the line for this broad. I mean, she’s a good-looking broad but a broad is a broad; they all look the same upside down.”
“He’s lucky Uncle wanted to save his ass. She is, too.”
“Yeah.” Frankfurter turned the radio off. It was all right.
Gleason said, “I’m thinking about it. You figure the Red Machine is off his case?”
“Sure. We haven’t had a peep for months. Nothing in the spaghetti on the radio either. Nothing. They were watching her for a couple of months but now she’s clean. I figure they never were much interested in hitting this Macklin broad at all. I think they were just on our customer’s case. A case of a real hard-on for the guy. What’d he do? They lost two agents in three years because of him, not counting the hits that went down. And that business in Florida that blew up in their faces. And Helsinki last year. You can see from the Red Machine’s point of view, this guy is a problem. He doesn’t play the game.”
“He doesn’t follow the rules,” agreed Gleason.
“Right. He’s a fucking intelligence operative, not fucking James Bond. He keeps sticking his neck out, naturally they’re gonna chop it off. We’re supposed to gather intelligence, not knock off each other.”
“Uh-oh.”
Frankfurter reached for the “Record” button on the built-in tape. Over the radio speaker, they heard a telephone ringing. It was the line to Rita Macklin’s apartment. It rang five times.
RITA: Hello?
VOICE: Hello? Rita?
RITA: Yes. Is this Tom?
TOM: Yeah. Listen, I wanted to see if you wanted to go down to Sharko’s. I just found out Teddy Brown’s band is booked back there starting tonight.
RITA: You always call up at eight o’clock on Thursday night for a date?
TOM: Listen, I just found out. We go down tomorrow night, we won’t get in the place. You’re a big girl.
RITA: A big girl getting an early night in. I’m flying up to Boston on the shuttle tomorrow.
TOM: Shit. Too bad. ’Nother time?
RITA: Give me a day or two notice, okay?
TOM: Sure. I figured you’d rather I call you than not call you just because it was something that was happening now. I mean, this is the twentieth goddam century.
RITA: Are you mad at something?
TOM: Just you.
RITA: Good. I thought it might be something important.
(Click.)
Frankfurter switched off the tape. “Sassy bitch, huh?”
“Well, the guy’s an asshole, too, calling her up for a date the same night he wants to take her out.”
“Listen, she’s been around the track. We’re not talking about high school.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“You know, she’s making an early night of it. Soon as we see the lights go out, we can head over to Wisconsin, get a hamburger or something,” said Frankfurter.
“How about a beer?”
“A beer, okay. Let’s go off now. Nothing is happening tonight.”
“What if he comes?”
“He isn’t going to come. He comes, then we turn on the super set, pick up the bedroom bug, listen to our honey tussling with him.”
“Or snoring.”
“Or snoring.”
Malenkov turned off the tape when he heard her snores. He picked up the black phone, which was swept daily for taps and dialed a number in Arlington, Virginia. The phone rang three times. The conversation was in Russian, in the accent of Moscow.
“Yes.”
“Asleep. I shut down the recorder. I looked out the window a little while ago, and the two watchers from NSA have gone. I don’t know if they’ll be back tonight.”
“What else?”
“She’s going to Boston tomorrow. There was one conversation with a ‘Tom’ regarding a date at a place called Sharko’s. It is in Georgetown, on M Street.”
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“Yes. There was a conversation four weeks ago. He dated her. I looked up the relevant data. It was filed by Adamovich at three hundred eighty-seven.”
“What else?”
“Boston. Perhaps that is where he has been kept.”
“We have also received information about an apartment in New York City but it’s still very vague. They have begun construction of a new file for him but we have not penetrated. The woman seems the best chance. Adamovich will be at your post in the morning. Follow her to Boston. Report at 1830, use frequency 102.44.”
“At this number?”
“Yes.”
Malenkov replaced the receiver. He turned on the receiver but not the tape.
He listened for a moment to Rita Macklin snoring. It made him tired. He stretched, rose, and began to unbutton his shirt.