Mayflower Hotel July 1
It’s like I got a monster bag of radioactive kryptonite shit, Starrell thought to himself, as he sat in the lobby. All these people going by, all these SSers, they don’t know clue one.
He kept talking to himself: They ain’t the man. I got it. This stuff could blow some big-asses apart. The big bang.
He didn’t know how. But he figured it could. People were dead because of it. Clarence Dunne, too—almost. This White House guy was acting like a god-damn ghost because of it. All in this bag. On this couch. Next to Twayne Marcus Starrell. And Tamika knew he was doing something big.
Starrell watched everybody. The tourists with whiny kids. The hotel people trotting by without smiling at him. The Secret Service agents who checked him out. This white shirt of his—this funeral shirt—smelled, but he was getting his money out of it. Keep observing, he told himself. For what? Fuck if he knew. But there was nothing else to do. So just watch.
Two of the four Secret Service agents started to move. The others were cocking their heads, listening to the earpieces. Shit’s happening. Just keep on waiting, he said silently. The ghost-geek told him to wait thirty minutes.
A man came through the revolving doors. The first thing he looked at were the Secret Service men near the entrance. His eyes were slits, tightly focused. Like he’s zooming bitches, Starrell thought. The officers were talking to each other and did not immediately notice the man. He was wearing a long raincoat, black sneakers—like a basketball ref wears—and portable headphones. But when he stood still nothing moved. No fingertapping or body-swaying. He was like stone. What music was he listening to? The man scanned the room and then his eyes popped open. Like he’s changing his whole look, Starrell thought, and now he’s a gee-whiz gumby-head. The man headed toward the bar.
“If I worked for the suits, I’d follow a crazy-ass like that,” Starrell said to no one.
Anjean Jameson sat down on the couch. Starrell, occupied with the man in the raincoat, had not noticed him entering the hotel. The knapsack was between them.
“Hey, bro-man,” Jameson said, flashing a malicious smile.
Starrell saw the Secret Service men staring at them.
“Ain’t the time, Anjean.”
Starrell pulled the bag closer, and Jameson grasped one of the straps.
“I got nine reasons why its fuckin’ perfect Miller time—and each one is a millimeter.” He patted the lump in his nylon sweatpants.
“Anjean—”
“Don’t make me go crazy bad on you,” he said. “I tried to be a reasonable black man, but you—”
“Shit, we got fed-boys all over. This ain’t no place for you to make a dumb-ass move.”
Jameson gazed across the lobby. “They couldn’t catch me yesterday. They can’t today.”
“This ain’t yesterday.”
“Where’s your white-boy partner?”
“He’s coming.”
“And the deal?”
“Ain’t no deal, Anj.”
“Gotta be something for me, Twayne. And Willie. Our family keeps your ass safe, and we don’t get shit. Man’s gotta look out for family.”
“Anj, let me play it out, and when we got it all straight, we’ll figure something, okay?”
“Can’t feed no family on promises. How’bout this: I hold on to this for a while”—he pulled on the strap—“and you tell him to call me up?”
“Fuckit, Anjean, you’re a real—”
The two Secret Service officers were leaving their positions. Jameson pulled the gun out of his pocket and pushed the barrel into Starrell’s thigh.
“A real player,” he said. “And you know I’ll do it. Especially now that those faggots are gone.”
The man in the raincoat came out of the bar. He was following the Secret Service men, keeping his distance.
“Listen up, motherfucker,” Starrell said. “Shit’s happening right the fuck now. You listen to me and I’ll make sure you—”
Jameson pushed the gun harder against Starrell.
“No, lover-man, here’s the tune: I’m going to get up. You let go of the fuckin’ bag. Or else that’ll be fuckin’ it for Twayne. Got it? Here I go …”
As the elevator door closed, Margaret Hanover stepped in. The lift began descending, and Addis could hear the protests of the Secret Service officers trying to stop her from getting on the elevator without them. She had wanted to be alone with him.
Margaret stood in front of him, her back to the door.
“What do you know? Or think you know?” she asked.
“Probably less than there is to know.”
She said nothing and waited for another reply. He looked at the illuminated numbers above the door.
Six, five …
“Okay,” Addis said, “something like this: Blue Ridge was a setup, orchestrated by your father. The son of the couple who were fleeced was the one who killed your husband. This isn’t about white supremacists. This is more than a self-mutilating antigovernment nut with a gun. You created him—”
Margaret tried to interrupt, but Addis kept talking.
“Maybe not you directly. I can’t say. But all the bullshit wheeling-and-dealing down there and then all the bullshit wheeling-and-dealing up here. He was a monster of two worlds. And a shitload of people are dead because of … Of what?”
Margaret took a long breath.
Five, four … And what about Donny Lee Mondreau and the asshole who said he had committed that murder? And did you really connive to meet Bob when he was at Harvard? And Julia. What about Julia? Did you send me to New Orleans just to see what could be found out about the Blue Ridge deal? And then sent Lem to do the real work? Sorry, six floors is not enough to cover it all.
“Nick, you hold a tremendous amount of power. You’re dangerous. You are. You can decide … Despite what you think of … this, you have a responsibility. What you do will affect not just us, you and me, but millions, whose lives can be made easier or harder by the decisions we make here …”
Four, three … She’s not even asking about the assassination. She only cares about—
“You know what will happen if Mumfries wins? Who will gain and who will be fucked …”
He was startled by her use of the word.
“You want to put them in charge? You and I have worked too damn hard to … My father and others—perhaps Lem—made mistakes. I have. So did Bob, whom we both loved …”
Three, two …
“Don’t forget. We don’t always have the luxury of being self-righteous. Sometimes when we judge, others pay the costs …”
Two, one.
“Here we are.” The doors began to open. “Think,” she said to him, “about the others. This is not about me.”
“That’s for damn sure … . You know, I think it’s about me.”
She stepped out of the elevator. Four Secret Service officers quickly surrounded her. One began chastising her for not allowing the officers to descend with her. Behind them, Addis saw a man in a raincoat brandishing a gun, pointing it at him.
“Fuck, Anjean, that white guy’s about to drop someone. You got rocks, you come with me.”
Starrell yanked the bag from Jameson and headed after the man in the raincoat. Jameson jumped up and pointed the gun at Starrell. Someone screamed at its sight. Starrell ran a few steps. He spotted Margaret in front of the elevator. The Secret Service officers were focused on her. They had not yet seen the man in the raincoat—or the gun in his hand.
“Shoot his ass, Anj!” Starrell shouted and dropped to the floor.
As the man in the raincoat pulled the trigger, a bullet tore into the back of his head.
Addis heard something slam into the back of the elevator. Then he realized a rush of air had passed by his left ear. He watched the man in the raincoat fall.
The Secret Service officers pushed Margaret Hanover to the ground and drew their weapons.
Anjean Jameson stood in the lobby, his arm held high, his gun dangling on his finger. He saw the officers aiming their weapons at him. People were running. He heard shouts. He raised his other hand over his head.
Twayne Starrell, on his hands and knees, scurried over to Jameson. “You play it right,” Starrell said in a low voice. “Say you’re just here looking for a bud, and you get to be a god-damn hero.”
Starrell jumped to his feet and bolted toward the front door, the backpack slapping against him. Too many people were trying to move through the opening. He shoved aside two elderly women carrying large shopping bags. They fell to the ground. Others tripped over them. Someone was yelling at him from behind, ordering him to stop. He sprinted through the door and turned right on Connecticut Avenue.
Too much running, he told himself. Yesterday, today, too fuckin’ much. He cut right on M Street. He stretched each pace. Why was he running? He knew—just knew—that the White House geek didn’t want
to be explaining everything in the middle of a god-damn hotel lobby. And with all the shit pulled, he was not going to hand over the bag with this kryptonite—Dunne’s gold—to just any G-man. At the intersection of 17th Street, he ran straight into the road, dodged a delivery van, and kept going. Two blocks later he slowed and glanced behind. No one was there.
Addis stood over the man in the raincoat. The lower half of his face—his bony face—was gone. His eyes were open. A Secret Service agent had pulled back a flap of his coat. Addis could see that his headphones were attached to a radio receiver. He bent closer. Through the speakers of the headphones he could hear Secret Service communications.
Julia. Julia.
Her hair had looked alive. Dancing.
He thought about kicking the corpse. In the face—what remained of it—and sending pieces of gristle and blood flying through the lobby of the Mayflower.
One of the Secret Service detail asked Addis to step back. Other officers were standing tightly around Margaret. Another group had pulled a young black man to the side. He was handcuffed and they were questioning him. Police officers were filling up the lobby.
The Secret Service man asked if Addis needed any medical attention. Addis shook his head. The officer was young. The skin on his cheeks was red and irritated.
“First the President, then his wife,” the agent said. He looked at the corpse. “But not this time, dirtbag.” He turned to Addis. “Fifth week on the job.” He then shooed away several hotel guests who were trying to take photographs of the dead man.
A white-haired man in a turtleneck snapped a shot of Addis. He felt the flash against his face and shut his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the young Secret Service officer pushing the tourist back. The elderly man was wearing a large button on his shirt. It read: “Pratt’s for God. Pratt for President.”
“Bless you,” the tourist said to Addis, over the shoulder of the Secret Service man.
Addis looked toward Margaret. She was staring at him and tucking strands of hair into place. She mouthed one word at him: “See?” Did she think that the man in the raincoat had come for her? That her cause was so strong she was targeted for assassination? Addis decided not to ask.
The young Secret Service agent was demanding the tourist hand over the film. Addis stood by himself. No one had told Addis he could not leave, so he headed out the door.