The Gauntlet June 28
Stares. Lancette felt covered with them as she moved through the packed bar. She pushed at bodies to clear a path. Her hand slid across sweaty flesh. She was jostled. Her head ached; her body was sore. She avoided meeting the eyes trained on her. As she headed toward the office, she went over her list of suspects. One was Lopez—or a friend of his. But then it might be someone in the Agency. Walters had been scared. Perhaps she should have been. Grayton maybe? How melodramatic: a romantic dinner, then an assault on the highway. She certainly couldn’t tell Wenner that someone from within—a member of the community—may have chased her off the road, without telling him why. Best to start with Lopez. She didn’t have to answer his questions.
Without knocking, she opened the door to his office. He was in his chair, on the phone, his back to the door.
“Now try again,” he said, without bothering to turn. “And this time make believe you have god-damn manners and knock.”
Lancette walked up to the desk.
“Who did you tell about me?” she asked.
Big Daddy Lopez wheeled his chair around.
“I’m on a personal call at the moment, missy. You wait outside and I’ll be right with you.”
“No. Hang up the god-damn phone.”
A bemused smile formed on Lopez’s face.
“A nice tough-guy act. I ain’t going anywhere. You give me a minute, then I’ll give you yours.”
He turned his back to her and resumed the phone conversation. He waved a hand at her. She stepped out of the office and leaned against the wall. A shirtless waiter came over and asked if she wanted a drink. She stopped him with a sharp “no.”
“Be nice,” he replied. “Us girls have to stick together.”
Lopez opened the door and offered her a chair.
“Still looking for a monkey with a glass eye?”
“Did you tell anyone I was looking for them?” she said.
“Fuck you. You come into my place of business, ask me for a favor, to help you find someone. But you won’t give me his precious name. I say I’ll see what I can do but ask you to stay out of here. And then two days later, you barge in here … . Tell me, what sort of relationship do we have, Miss”—he picked up the business card she had left—“Lang?”
“Somebody ran me off the road last night. Nearly …”
Lopez looked at the bandage on her forehead. A moment passed before he responded.
“So what? A drunk on the road. A bad driver. An old boyfriend. Ain’t got nothing to do with me.”
Lancette placed her hands on the desk. She took a breath and it hurt. She wanted to wince. Instead, she smiled at him.
“I am sorry to be so rude. It’s irritating to be chased off the road and nearly killed. I was just wondering if you had told anyone I had come in here looking for that former employee.”
“You wanted me to find the guy, didn’t you? Yeah, I mentioned it … . But I think you should leave now.”
“I will, if you tell me who you told.”
“Sorry. That don’t fly—especially when you won’t tell me what you’re really doing here.”
“Okay, Mr. Lopez, enough bullshit,” she said. “I work for a government agency. And I was informed that this fellow might possess information related to a serious federal crime—”
“The details of which, of course, you are not at liberty to discuss.”
God damnit, she thought to herself, why am I doing this? Should I tell him it’s about the assassination of President Hanover?
“Got a badge?” he asked.
“Are you harboring a person possessing information pertaining to a federal crime?”
She was trying to sound as official as she could.
“Not that I am aware of. And that’s all that counts. You can’t obstruct what you are not aware of.”
“And you don’t want to assist?”
“And you don’t want to flash a badge?”
“I don’t work for law enforcement.”
“No shit,” he said. “But it don’t make no difference. I don’t care what initials come after your name. I don’t cooperate with anyone I don’t know and trust. If I ever come across any serious shit that I think my friendly federal government needs to know about, I have people to call. And
believe-the-fuck-me I know plenty of well-wired honchos. See some in here … . Now, I’m giving you a good piece of advice: Leave now.”
He knew something, she could tell. But he wasn’t going to say. She stood up.
“I don’t appreciate being fucked with,” she said. “So if you know anyone who cares, please pass that along.”
“You, go, girl,” he said with a snort.
Lancette left the door open on her way out.
Outside the bar, she took a deep breath. She ran her fingers through her hair, wishing she could wipe off the smoke. She walked toward Massachusetts Avenue, where she could find a cab.
A man grabbed her arm from behind. She felt a sharp point dig into her side.
“A knife,” the man said. “A real sharp knife. And you better be quiet.”
He steered her into an alley that led to the back of the bar. They stepped among shards of broken glass.
“There’s about fifty dollars in my handbag,” she said. “It’s—”
“Shut up,” he said and pushed the point into her side. The metal tip slipped through the fabric of her blouse and was against her skin. Halfway down the alley, beyond the reach of the nearest streetlamp, he threw her against a wall. She could hear music from the bar and people’s voices from the rooftop. She wondered if she should scream.
“Why you looking for me?” he asked.
She squinted and tried to discern the face in the darkness. His hair was scraggly and shoulder-length, receding. His face was gaunt. It was hard to tell but maybe there was something wrong with one eye. He stepped toward her, placed a hand around the base of the neck, pinned her to the wall, and positioned the tip of a Bowie knife beneath her chin. He smelled sweaty; his breath was boozy.
“Why are you looking for me?” he repeated.
The odd eye shined differently.
“Someone who met you a long time ago was trying to find you,” she said.
“Who’s that?”
He tightened his hold on her throat. She considered kneeing him in the groin. But if his hand jerked upward, she would be cut.
“A doctor. Dr. Charlie Walters. But you may not remember his name. He saw you in a hotel a few years ago. Gave you some pills to help you.”
“Help me with what?”
“Help you with … the drinking.”
The tattoo. On the chest. Her assailant was wearing a beat-up leather vest over a T-shirt.
“Fuck them all,” he said right into her face. “They fucked us.”
“Who?” she asked.
“All of them.”
He shoved her against the wall. Her foot kicked to the side and knocked over a carton of discarded electrical cords.
“Who do you work for?” he asked.
“Walters is a friend. He asked me to look for you. Wondered how you were. Said he couldn’t do it himself because of some bureaucratic bullshit.”
“You fucking bastards want to kill me. So I don’t say anything.”
He lifted the handle of the knife so that the blade pressed harder against the skin beneath her chin.
“No, I don’t. I just wanted to talk.”
“This ain’t how I’m going down in fucking history. No fucking way.”
He wasn’t listening to her. He was becoming more agitated. He’s going to do it, she thought. He’s—
“Drop the knife, motherfucker.”
Twayne Starrell stood ten yards behind the man with the knife. He was pointing a .9 mm pistol at him.
The man with the knife turned his head slightly to see Starrell.
“Step the fuck back!” Starrell shouted. “Now, motherfucker!”
The man lowered the knife and backed away from Lancette.
“Drop the god-damn knife!” Starrell yelled.
The man let it fall and slowly turned to face Starrell.
“You!” Starrell shouted, jerking his head toward Lancette. “You stand over here.”
He pointed to a spot next to him. Lancette walked to his side. Starrell tried to keep both the man and the woman in his view. He ordered the man to kick the knife toward him. The man followed Starrell’s instruction without saying a word. Starrell carefully bent his knees, kept his eyes on both of them, and picked up the knife. He threw it over a fence and into a vacant lot.
“Make him take off his vest and shirt,” Lancette said.
“What are you talking about?” Starrell snapped.
“Make him take them off,” she repeated.
“I ain’t playing no games here!” he yelled at her. “Shut up, bitch!”
“Tell him to pull up his shirt!” she shouted.
She realized she was shaking.
“Shut the fuck up!”
Starrell waved the gun at her then brought it back to the man. He noticed that the man’s hands were slightly curled, as if he were ready to spring.
“Okay, fucker, we’re all going to trip out real smooth,” he said to the man. “You’ll be right in front of me and my friend here”—he shook the gun—“and the lady will be right at my side.”
He grabbed Lancette by the arm and yanked her close to him. Shit, he thought, what the fuck to do? Homeboy with a gun leading a white man out of an alley and holding on to a white woman. That’s hard shit to pull off.
“Okay, knife-man, you walk slow. Or picture this: Mr. Niner saying hello and good-bye to your pumpkin head.”
The man took a step toward the street, and Starrell positioned himself and Lancette a few feet behind him.
A bottle thrown off the rooftop landed in the alley and exploded. All three were startled. One piece struck Starrell in the side of the face. On reflex, he brought his free hand toward the wound.
The man in front of him dropped to the ground and grabbed a screwdriver that was lying among the electrical cords. He threw it at Starrell. The handle hit Starrell in the neck. He staggered forward and dropped to his knees. A glass shard sliced his knee. He looked around. The man was running down the alleyway.
Starrell jumped up and started to chase. The gun was still in his hand. He rushed past Lancette and then realized he had a choice: her or him.
“Fucker!” he yelled.
He grabbed her.
“C’mon, let’s go,” he said. “Got somebody for you to talk to.”
He put the gun in his pocket and pulled her out of the alley.
“You Janet Lang?” he asked.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You want me to talk to a Mr. Dunne?”
Starrell stopped walking.
“What’s the fuckin’ game here?”
“He and I have already met,” she said. “Were you watching for me?”
“Nope, I was scoping for this squirrelly dude. But I saw you come out, and thought maybe you was the girl here before looking for someone. That freakin’ red-head monster said something about you. Then that asshole snatches you. Is he the fucker you was looking for?”
“It would be an odd coincidence if he wasn’t.”
She glanced at the bloodstain on his pants leg.
“Fuckin’ new jeans,” he said. “Man, what was all that shit about his shirt?”
“Thought he might have a gun under it … . I hope Mr. Dunne is going to pay for a new pair of pants.”
“He better be.”
“Mind if I ask your name?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said.
Starrell’s uncle was working late in his office. His eyes widened when Starrell and Lancette entered.
“What do you have there?” the uncle asked, looking at the bulge in Starrell’s pocket.
Starrell took out the gun.
“God-damnit, boy,” the uncle sputtered. “I told you not to bring any street stuff into my building. I told you—”
Starrell held the butt of the gun toward him.
“It’s empty,” he said.
Lancette looked at him.
“Had to scare some motherfucker. Got it from Willie. Thing don’t even work. Jammed up or something. He found it wrapped up in newspaper in the bathroom at church.” He turned to Lancette: “No shit.”
“You watch your mouth,” the uncle said.
“Now I got to use the phone.”
“And I have something to show you.”
The uncle handed Starrell a page from the day’s newspaper and pointed to a photograph of a man and a news story.
“Guess we’re not getting any back rent,” the uncle said.
Lancette read the story over Starrell’s shoulder. A Raymond DeNoefri had been found dead in his apartment in Foggy Bottom. He had been garroted. The police had no suspects yet. DeNoefri, the article reported, once had been arrested for writing bad checks. The photograph showed him standing on an apartment balcony next to a barbecue grill.
“So have you found who we were looking for?” she asked.
Starrell found the piece of paper on which Dunne earlier in the day had written his cellular phone number. That was when Dunne had hired Starrell to stake out the bar and watch for Raymond. Don’t say your name or mine or anything specific when you call this number, Dunne had instructed. Starrell told Dunne that anybody who spent time with the brothers in Bennington Gardens knew the badges could cop cell-phone conversations.
Starrell dialed the number.
“Got some four-one-one for you,” he said.