| |
DUPONT CIRCLE, WASHINGTON D.C.—Busboys and Poets
This particular Friday after two of D.C.’s most influential political mavericks were killed was one of those rare gloom-ridden summer days—the kind where one could guess something was going to happen. In Washington something always happened. Hell, days earlier Senator Elberg was killed in his DuPont Circle home in Washington.
Naim Butler buttoned his blazer as he ambled—family in tow—from the security-driven armored SUV into the book cafe in the DuPont Circle neighborhood.
It was the kind of area to spend a lovely late morning with family, more mainstream on this side of the millennium—a trendy locale with coffee houses, restaurants, bars and upscale retail stores. The kind of area that kept the democratic liberal platform alive and kicking in America, just what conservatives needed to keep searching for their place in a country that legalized gay marriage, encouraged federally funded abortions and punished its citizens for not buying healthcare insurance.
Father and son, their girlfriends, and legal secretary were seated on the cafe’s sidewalk patio. They ordered breakfast and drinks, before settling into small talk.
Although Naim and Marco father and son bond had only been brewing for eight months, their bromance was steaming. Naim reveled in the constant demonstration of Marco’s reflection of him. Despite pushing through life just shy of eighteen-years not knowing the other existed, it was impossible to prove they hadn’t been building together since Marco’s birth. From their matching bushy eyebrows to their perfect SAT scores, to their musical talents, they were kin indeed.
Naim sipped his signature breakfast drink, a mimosa: his version 99% champagne and 1% orange juice. “How was the campus vigil?” he asked Marco and Amber.
She replied, “Sad. Very sad. I’m still lost for words that this man killed all of those students. And for no reason.”
“And nearly me,” Marco said, frowning. “But I am going to survive. Too bad the others didn’t. Dad, you haven’t missed anything being here in D.C. Not a dry eye on the campus all week.”
“I can imagine and thankful that I’m not planning a funeral,” Naim said, tossing a slice of bacon into his mouth. After swallowing and sipping his drink, he said, “I have a staff e-mail indicating classes will resume and/or begin Monday.”
“As did I,” Marco replied.
“Don’t you have something else to tell your father?” Ginger asked, stuffing a slice of pineapple from her fruit salad into her mouth.
“I do,” Marco said. “BMG called and informed me that they plan to have a certain artist record two of the sixteen songs from the compilation that I sold them.”
“Who?” Brandy asked. “Should I be bragging about this to a lifestyle editor at the Times? Get you some coverage.”
“You could,” Marco replied nonchalantly. “I’m not ready for all this at but Winthrope personally called to tell me that Adele will do the songs.”
“Wow,” was all Naim could tell the music genius. “Congrats, son.” Speechless.
“Thanks,” he said, over the ringing of Naim’s cell phone.
Naim said, “I have to take this,” looking at the stern eye of Brandy. He was violating the No Cell Phones During Meals Act, but the unavailable caller could be his client calling from jail.
__________
The call wiped the smile off Naim’s face. Everyone else’s, too. The truth was hard to hide. His fingers trembled putting the phone back into his pocket. The phone dropped. It bounced off of the pavement and caromed between the curb and a car tire.
“Something terrible has happened at the jail. Thurman’s been attacked by guards and shot up with something,” Naim said, standing “I have to go.” He picked up his phone, brushed it off, and waved at their driver. Pointing at his family, he demanded that he, “take them back to the hotel, and then meet me at the D.C. Jail.”
Action and adventure spread across Ginger’s face. “What do you want me to do, boss?”
“You my friend are coming with me. I can’t trust anyone with a D.C. drivers license.”
“Or Maryland, or Virginia,” Brandy added.
“You three go back to the hotel, and stay there,” Naim said. Raising an eyebrow, he looked sternly at Marco the one most likely to innocently defy him, “I mean it, Marco.”
“OK, dad,” Marco replied, “I got it.”
Naim and Ginger jogged down the paved walkway, his long legs stretching like a greyhound. Vague sensations rushed through his body as if it didn’t belong to him.
Hopping into a taxi on Connecticut Avenue, Naim gave instructions to the driver. He turned to Ginger, and said, “I’m not going to let these SOBs run me out of town.”
“I didn’t think so for a moment, sir,” Ginger said, whipping around the DuPont Circle. “Glad to be here.”