Under Siege

CHAPTER SEVEN

When the attorney general walked into William C. Dorfman’s White House office, the morning paper was on the desk, open and folded, displaying Mergenthaler’s column. Gideon Cohen sighed and sat while he waited for the chief of staff to finish a telephone call.

“No, we are not going to release a text of the indictment. It’s sealed. And no, we are not going to ask Mexico to hand over any of its citizens. We have no extradition treaty with Mexico.”

He listened for several seconds, then spat into the phone, “Fuck no!” and slammed it down.

“That bubble-brain wants to know if we are really offering rewards for these guys”—Dorfman stabbed the newspaper with a rigid finger—“and paying bounty hunters to bring them to the U.S. for trial.”

Cohen pursed his lips and crossed his legs. Ottmar Mergenthaler’s column in the Post this morning had revealed, for the first time, that a federal grand jury in Los Angeles had handed down a secret indictment several weeks ago bringing charges against nineteen former and present members of the Mexican government for drug smuggling and complicity in the kidnapping and murder of U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration undercover agent Enrique Camarena, whose body had been discovered near Guadalajara in March 1985, over five years ago. One of those indicted was the former director of the Mexican Federal Judicial Police — the Mexican equivalent of the FBI — and another was his brother, the former head of the Mexican government’s antidrug unit. And one of those indicted was a medical doctor who had been arrested just yesterday in El Paso. It seemed that several unknown men had accompanied the good doctor on a plane trip from Mexico, turned him over to waiting federal agents, then immediately reboarded the plane for the flight back to Mexico.

“Are you going to pay bounties?”

“Why not? It’s perfectly legal to pay rewards to people who deliver fugitives to lawful authority. That principle has been firmly embedded in the common law for hundreds of years.”

“Oh, spare me the lecture. What in hell are you trying to do, anyway?”

Two years ago Cohen would have bristled. Not anymore. “Enforce the law,” he said mildly. “That’s still one of the goals of this administration, isn’t it?”

Dorfman sat back in his chair and stared at Gideon Cohen. Dorfman’s eyes looked owlish when magnified by his hornrim glasses. “It won’t be news to you that I don’t like you.”

“Do you mean that personally or professionally?” Cohen asked, and tried to look interested.

Dorfman continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ve suggested to the President that he ask for your resignation. In my opinion you are not loyal to this administration. You don’t seem to appreciate the political realities that the President has to face every day, for every decision. With you every decision is black or white.”

“Frankly, Dorfman, I really don’t give a damn about your opinion. Are you informing me officially that the President wants my resignation?”

The chief of staff took his time answering. He played with a pen on the table, scrutinized a coffee cup, examined the framed photograph of his family that sat on his desk. “No,” he said when he had squeezed all the juice from the moment that it could conceivably yield, “I’m not. I’m just letting you know where you stand.”

“Thanks.” The disgust Cohen felt showed on his face. Dorfman’s petty grandstanding was so typical of the man.

Dorfman and Cohen went into the Oval Office as a Boy Scout troop came out. The official photographer was still there, snapping pictures of the President behind his desk. This morning, Cohen thought, George Bush looked more harried than usual. He obviously was not paying much attention to the photographer’s directions.

“Come on over here, Gid. Let’s get some of the two of us.”

When the photo session was over, the photographer closed the door behind him on the way out. Dorfman flopped the morning paper on Bush’s desk.

“Where did Mergenthaler get this information?” the President asked curtly.

“I don’t know.”

“This administration has more leaks than an antique rowboat. Anybody who’s caught chopping any more holes in the bottom without the permission of a cabinet officer is to be fired on the spot.”

“If we catch anyone.”

Bush nodded, his mind already on something else. In the age of telephones leaks were an inevitable fact of government life, although that didn’t make them any easier to swallow. Still, the Bush White House had been remarkably tight under Dorfman’s iron hand.

“When’s the Mexican ambassador coming over?” the President asked his chief of staff.

“Two-thirty.”

“What should I tell him about this indictment?” he asked Cohen. “And this bounty business?”

“That we have good solid evidence against these nineteen individuals. Tell him we want Mexico to sign an extradition treaty.”

Dorfman exploded. “They will never—”

Bush chopped him off. “Mergenthaler says the DEA wants to kidnap a couple of these men and bring them here for trial.”

“That’s accurate. The whole column is accurate. The way the DEA presented it to me, they want to escort one or two of these men into United States territory and arrest them here.”

President Bush picked up the paper and let it fall to the desk. He pushed his chair back and sat staring at Gideon Cohen. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, and that’s final. The Mexicans owe us 50 billion dollars.” He repeated the figure sourly. “Nine years into the longest economic expansion in American history and we’re in debt to our eyes. Trillions of dollars in federal debt, savings-and-loan fraud, farm credit disasters, credit card debt at an all-time high, the junk bond market ready to implode, and the Third World tottering on the brink of bankruptcy — no, no, they’re beyond that — they went beyond the brink years ago and are dancing as fast as they can on thin air. They’re paying the interest on old loans with the proceeds from new loans, in exactly the same way that the federal government finances the federal deficit. The same kind of funny-money shenanigans that sank the American S-and-L industry. It’s fraud. Outright, government-approved fraud. And now, on top of everything, the Soviet Union wants foreign aid. I feel like a poor man with twelve sick kids and one aspirin.”

“How do we know Mexico would default?”

“That is precisely what they would do. Try to imagine the howl that would go up if agents for the Mexican government kidnapped a few prominent citizens here in the United States and dragged them off to Mexico City for trial. Half of Texas would grab the ol’ thirty-thirties and head for Nuevo Laredo to teach the chili peppers some manners.”

Dorfman added, “I can name a dozen senators who would demand a declaration of war.”

“We’ll never get the money back regardless,” the attorney general pointed out with impeccable logic.

“I’m not going to argue, Gid.” This said, the President continued anyway: “Right now foreign investors are financing about thirty percent of the federal deficit by buying Treasury bonds. If Mexico defaults on its foreign debt, the rest of Latin America probably will too. The American banking system will then collapse unless the federal government bails it out, which it will be forced to do since all deposits are insured by the government up to a hundred thousand dollars. The only way to bail out the banks will be with more bonds, and to sell more bonds interest rates must rise. This will only work for a short period, then the government must raise taxes, which will suck even more money from consumers’ pockets. The net effect of all this will be to send the economy of the United States — and the rest of the world — into a deep recession, further decreasing the nation’s ability to service existing debt. Get the picture?”

“And if the Fed lowers interest rates drastically to save the economy, the Japanese and Europeans will stop buying bonds.”

“You got it.”

Cohen ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. He was reminded of a remark by a Soviet politician: “The Soviet Union is on the edge of the abyss.” Here in the Oval Office he was hearing a different version of the same thing. Only this time it was the United States. Gideon Cohen shivered involuntarily.

“We’d have to devalue the dollar,” Cohen said slowly.

George Bush flipped his hand in acknowledgment.

“So why not devalue right now and go after these dope smugglers who are murdering us with slow poison?”

A sneer crossed Dorfman’s face as the President rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Get serious,” Dorfman muttered.

The President said, “Congress would never approve it. If I even publicly suggested devaluing the currency, you wouldn’t see another Republican in this office in your lifetime. For God’s sake, Gid, I didn’t run for this job just so I could become the most hated man in America. I’m supposed to be doing what the people want. That’s what I’m trying to do. Surely you see that?”

“Mr. President, your good faith has never been in question. Not with me, at least. My point is that the American people want an effective solution to this dope business. A lot of past and present Mexican government officials — including cops, especially cops — are in it up to their eyes. We’re not talking about just looking the other way while a load of marijuana goes by — we’re talking about the torture and murder of U.S. law-enforcement officers by Mexican police officials. The voters in this country want it stopped!”

“The voters have got long shopping lists, and they elect congressmen to get the goods for them. They elected me to mind the store. The American people aren’t stupid: they know that government can’t be all things to all people. I’m supposed to do what’s in the best interests of the United States as a nation, as an ongoing concern. And I will!”

“Mr. President, I’m saying that drugs are our number-one domestic problem. Mexico is a large part of that problem. We can’t ignore that simple, fundamental fact.”

“Mexico, land of la mordida, the bite,” Bush said, the fatigue evident in his voice. “Everybody who’s ever been there has had to bribe some petty functionary or other. Five bucks here, a ten-spot there. And no doubt big bribes are taken for big favors. I recall one time when Barbara and I—”

“Are you implying that there’s no drug corruption here?” Cohen asked ingenuously. “In America?”

The President and the chief of staff looked at each other.

“What are you saying?” Dorfman asked.

“Mexicans are no different from anybody else. The amounts of money that are right there for the taking — it’s a rare man who can say no. The DEA has been swarming over Mexico for years, so we have a pretty good feel for who, when, and how much. We’re years behind here.”

“The FBI is working on cases against highly placed American officials? Not just county sheriffs and border patrolmen?”

Cohen nodded.

Dorfman sighed. “That really wouldn’t be so bad,” he told the President. “Exposing bad apples is good politics.”

“There are exceptions to that rule. This will probably be one of them.” Cohen leaned forward in his seat and spoke to the President. “A fistful of indictments against some highly placed officials, very high. Think about it. Dorfman can manage the PR impact until hell won’t have it, but the ‘war on drugs’ is going to look like those little red, white, and blue WIN buttons — all show and no attempt to tackle the underlying problems, the real problems. We’re going to get it all thrown back in our faces unless we take effective steps to meet the drug problem head-on.”

The President got out of his chair and stepped to the window behind him. He stood looking out into the Rose Garden. “We aren’t just sitting on our thumbs. I approved the bounty on that Mexican doctor. I approved the use of U.S. soldiers to arrest Aldana. That hasn’t come out yet but it will. When it does the hue and cry will be something to hear. I don’t give a damn what anybody says, we’re doing a lot, all we can, and the voters will see that.”

Cohen spoke. “Mr. President, I’m not questioning your commitment. But the public doesn’t see enough of it. What the public sees is slogans and presentations to sixth-graders. ‘Just say no’ is an obscene joke. Hell, the mayor of Washington couldn’t say no. The chief of the Mexican federal police couldn’t say no. The president of Panama couldn’t say no. Professional athletes and movie stars can’t say no. Cops can’t say no. Congressmen can’t say no. That list is going to grow like a hothouse tomato in radioactive soil irrigated with steroids.”

“Who?” George Bush asked.

“I haven’t asked,” Cohen replied. “I don’t want to know.”

“You don’t?” The President turned slightly and looked at Cohen with raised eyebrows.

“It’s come to that,” the attorney general said woodenly. “If I don’t know I can’t be accused of tipping anyone off, of inadvertently or intentionally warning a suspect under investigation. You don’t want to know either. Believe me, some of them will find out one way or another that they are under suspicion and try to throw their weight around. It’s human nature.”

With the possible exception of journalism students in a university somewhere, no one reads every single word in any edition of The Washington Post. Even if the classified ads were ignored and one were a fast reader, reading all the stories would take hours. Your twenty-five cents usually buys you two and a quarter pounds of paper, ten or more sections full of news, features, articles, and ads aimed at different tastes and interests. Statecraft, politics, murders, rapes, disasters, business, sports, science, gardening, celebrity gossip and gushings, book reviews, movie hype, music tripe, opinions from every hue of the political spectrum, television listings — the entire world was captured every day on thirty-six ounces of newsprint. Or as much of the world as any civilized being at the very center of the universe — Washington — could possibly care to learn about.

Jack Yocke had a secret ambition to be the first human to read the whole thing. He had it on his list for some morning when he was in bed with the flu. But not today. Sitting at his desk he flipped through the paper scanning the headlines and speed reading the stories that looked interesting.

The Soviets’ formal request for foreign aid from the United States was the hottest topic of the day. Senators and representatives were having a field day, as were most of the political columnists. No one denied that the Soviets needed real money — all they could get — but the hard fact mentioned only by the hopelessly practical was that the United States government had no money to give. The cookie jar was empty. There weren’t even any crumbs.

Most pundits and politicians were making lists of things the Soviets would have to do to qualify for American largess, confidently assuming that if America wanted to badly enough, some largess could be found somewhere. After all, do we really need a military in this brave new world? Surely the nations now receiving foreign aid, together with welfare recipients and Social Security retirees, would be willing to share their mite with the Russians, for the greater good.

In any event, to qualify for the American dole the Soviets would need to free the Baltic states, release all their remaining political prisoners, and open borders for U.S. trade and investment. Of course the Russians would also have to permanently cease all financial and military aid to Cuba and Libya and Vietnam and Afghanistan and Angola and every other Third World manure pile where the godless commies had opposed the holy forces of capitalism and democracy. They would also have to disband the KGB and the GRU, quit spying on the U.S. and everybody else. And — this almost didn’t need to be mentioned — while they were at it the Russians would have to disband the entire Soviet military and sell their ships, tanks, and artillery for scrap. If they did all this, well, they would certainly be entitled to some bucks if and when we found some.

Today Jack Yocke scanned the wish lists and moved on. He found a couple of interesting columns by two pundits who had solved the foreign aid issue yesterday. The price of coca leaves in Bolivia and Peru was down from one hundred U.S. dollars to just ten dollars per hundredweight. One columnist opined that this fact meant that George Bush was winning the war on drugs. Another, who had probably stayed awake during his freshman economics class, thought the price drop meant that Bolivian and Peruvian farmers had a bumper crop this year and all the millions spent on eradication efforts had been wasted.

Jack Yocke checked his Rolodex. He found the number he wanted under a code he had made up himself. He called it.

“Yeah, man.”

“Hey, this is Jack Yocke. How’s it going?”

“Too smooth, dude. What’s on your mind?”

“You seen this morning’s paper?”

“I never read that honkey shit. You know that.”

“Question. What’s the street price doing right now?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Is it going up or down?”

“Steady, man. Five bucks a pop. Some talk about dropping it to four, but nobody wants to do that. Not as much juice for everybody, you know?”

“Any supply problems?”

“Not that I heard.”

“Thanks.”

“Be cool, dude.”

The man that Yocke had been talking to, Harrison Ronald Ford — he had taken to using his full name since that actor became popular — cradled the telephone and went back to his coffee.

The newspaper that he had just told Yocke he never read was spread on the kitchen table in front of him. The story he had been reading when the phone rang had Yocke’s byline. Second Potomac Savings and Loan taken over by the feds, the headline shouted. Recently murdered cashier Walter P. Harrington apparently involved in money laundering, according to an unnamed source. Second Potomac officials aghast. Massive violations of record-keeping requirements. The rank-and-file staff knew something fishy was going on, but no one wanted to speak out and risk his job and pension rights. So now they had neither.

Harrison Ronald poured himself another cup of coffee and lit another cigarette. He glanced out the dirty window at the building across the alley, then resumed his seat at the kitchen table and flipped to the comics. After he scanned them and grinned at “Cathy,” he picked up a pencil and began the crossword puzzle.

Harrison Ronald liked crossword puzzles. He had discovered long ago that he could think about other things while he filled in the little squares. Today he had much to think about.

At the head of his list was Freeman McNally. He knew that McNally had been laundering money through Harrington’s S-and-L. What would McNally do now? McNally’s operation was taking in almost three million cash a week. About a fourth of that amount went to the West Coast to pay for new raw product, and a big chunk went to salaries and payoffs and other expenses. Still the operation produced a million a week pure profit — a little over four million a month — cash that Freeman McNally had to somehow turn into legitimate funds that he and his immediate cronies could spend and squirrel away.

It was certainly a pleasant problem, but a problem nonetheless. It would be interesting to hear Freeman’s solution.

In the year that Harrison Ronald had spent working for the organization he had acquired a tremendous respect for Freeman McNally. A sixth-grade dropout, McNally had common sense, superior intelligence, and a cat’s ability to land on his feet when the unexpected occurred, as it did with a frequency that would have appalled any legitimate businessman.

Many of McNally’s troubles were caused by the people who worked for him: they got greedy, they became addicted, they liked to strut their stuff in front of the wrong people, they became convinced of their own personal invulnerability. McNally was a natural leader. His judgments were hard to fault. Those people that he concluded were a danger disappeared, quickly and forever. Those errant souls whom he believed trainable he corrected and trusted.

Like every crack dealer, McNally was in a never-ending battle to protect his turf, the street corners and houses where his street dealers sold his product. This was combat and McNally had a natural aptitude for it. He was ruthless efficiency incarnate.

And like every crack dealer, McNally was in a cash-and-carry business that demanded constant vigilance against cheaters and thieves. Here too McNally excelled, but he had been blessed with a generous dollop of paranoia and a natural talent for larceny. To Harrison Ronald’s personal knowledge, poorly advised optimists had attempted to swindle Freeman McNally on two occasions. Several of these foolish individuals had received bullets in the brain as souvenirs of their adventure and one had been dismembered with a chain saw while still alive.

But although Freeman McNally had many attributes in common with other successful crack-ring leaders, he was also unique. McNally intuitively understood that the most serious threat to the health of his enterprise was the authorities — the police, the DEA, the FBI. So he had systematically set about reducing that threat to an acceptable level. He found politicians, cops and drug enforcement agents who could be bought and he bought them.

Consequently Harrison Ronald Ford was in Washington undercover instead of riding around Evansville, Indiana, in a patrol car. He wasn’t known as Harrison Ronald Ford here though, but as Sammy Z.

Mother of Galahad, 23 Across. Six letters, the last of which is an E.

Ford had arrived in Washington a year ago and rented this shithole to live in. After two weeks of hanging around bars, he got a job as a lookout for one of McNally’s distributors. He had been doing that for about a month when who should come strolling down the street one rainy Thursday night but his high school baseball buddy from Evansville, Jack Yocke.

He had leveled with Yocke — he had no choice: Yocke knew he was a cop — and the reporter apparently had kept the secret. Ten months had passed, Harrison Ronald was still alive, with all his arms and legs firmly attached, and he was now personally running errands and delivering product for Freeman.

He was close. Very close. He knew the names of two of the local cops on Freeman’s list and one of the politicians, but he had no evidence that would stand up in court.

It would come. Sooner or later he would get the evidence. If he lived long enough.

Elaine. Elaine was the mother of Galahad.

If that fox Freeman McNally didn’t catch on.

Damn that Yocke anyway. Why did that white boy have to pick today to call? Oh well, if worse came to worst, Jack Yocke would write him one hell of an obituary.

The late Judson Lincoln had lived in a modest three-story town house in a fashionably chic neighborhood a mile or so northeast of the White House. T. Jefferson Brody wheeled his Mercedes into a vacant parking place a block past the Lincoln residence and walked back.

He was expected. He had telephoned the widow this morning and informed her of his interest in discussing the purchase of the business that had belonged to her deceased husband. She had apparently called her attorney, then called him back and proposed this meeting at two p.m.

Mrs. Lincoln had sounded calm enough on the phone this morning, but that was certainly nothing to bank upon. This would in all likelihood be a tense afternoon with the sniveling widow, probably some brainless, ill-mannered brats, and for sure, one overpaid fat lawyer anxious to split hairs and niggle ad nauseam over contractual phrasing. Looming like a thunderstorm on the horizon would be the question of who had killed Judson Lincoln, prominent black businessman and civic pillar to whom we point with pride. And police. They would be in constant contact with the widow, asking every question they thought they could get away with.

Oh well, T. Jefferson could handle it.

After pushing the doorbell, Brody adjusted the twenty-dollar royal-blue silk hanky in his breast pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t need to offer it as a repository for the contents of the widow’s nose, but.… He straightened his tie and made sure his suit jacket was properly buttoned and hanging correctly under his knee-length mohair topcoat.

The door was opened by a black woman in a maid outfit that was complete right down to the little white apron. He handed her his card and said, “To see Mrs. Lincoln, please.”

“I’ll take your coat, sir.” When Brody had shed the garment, the maid said, “This way, sir.”

She led Brody fifteen feet down the hallway to the study.

Mrs. Lincoln was a tall woman with chiseled features and a magnificent figure. Her waist, Brody noted appreciatively, wouldn’t go over twenty-two inches. Her bust, he estimated, would tape almost twice that. Judson Lincoln must have been out of his mind to go chasing floozies with this magnificent piece waiting for him at home!

Then she smiled.

T. Jefferson Brody felt his knees get watery.

“I’m Deborah Lincoln, Mr. Brody. This is my attorney, Jeremiah Jones.”

For the first time Brody glanced at the attorney. He was about twenty-five with slicked-back hair, miserable teeth, and a weasel smile. “Yes, yes, Mr. Brody. Deborah has told me of your client’s interest in her husband’s business. Such a tragedy that took him from her so early in life.”

As Brody feasted his eyes upon the widow, it occurred to him that she seemed to be weathering her husband’s unfortunate demise very well. Just now she made eye contact with Jones and they both smiled slightly. She turned back to Brody and, it seemed to him, made a real effort to arrange her face.

“A tragedy,” Brody agreed after another look at gigolo Jones. “Ahem, well, life must go on. Sorry to disturb you so soon after … ah, but my clients are anxious that I speak to you about their interest in your husband’s business before you … ah, before you …”

The beautiful Deborah Lincoln took her attorney’s hand and squeezed it as she gazed raptly at Brody.

“… They want to buy the business,” Brody finished lamely, his thoughts galloping.

Yes, indeed, Deborah Lincoln. Yes, indeed, you need a man to comfort you in your hour of need. But why this pimp in mufti? Why not T. Jefferson Brody?

“I have an excellent offer to lay before you.” Brody gave the widow Lincoln his most honest, sincere smile.

Negotiations with Deborah Lincoln and attorney Jones took all of an hour. Brody offered $350,000, the attorney demanded $450,000. After some genteel give-and-take, Mrs. Lincoln graciously agreed to compromise at $400,000. Her attorney held her hand and looked into her eyes and tried to persuade her to demand more, but her mind was made up.

“Four hundred thousand is fair,” she said. “That’s about what Judson thought the business was worth.”

She gave Jones a gentle grin and squeezed his hand. When they weren’t looking his way, T. Jefferson Brody rolled his eyes heavenward.

It was agreed that tomorrow afternoon Mrs. Lincoln and Mr. Jones would come to Brody’s office to look over the lease assignments, bill of sale, and other documents. Brody would have the check ready.

After shaking hands all around, Brody was escorted from the room by the maid, who helped him with his coat and held the door for him.

Down on the sidewalk, with the door firmly closed behind him, Jefferson Brody permitted himself a big smile as he walked toward his car.

The door was opened by a young woman with a scarf around her head. “Yes.”

“I understand you have an apartment for rent?” Henry Charon raised his eyebrows hopefully.

“Yes. Come in, come in. It’s too cold out there. What is it, forty-five degrees?”

“Nearer fifty, I think.”

“It’s upstairs. A bedroom, bath, living room, and kitchenette. Fairly nice.”

They were standing in the hallway now. The New Hampshire Avenue building was old but fairly clean. The woman wore huge glasses in brown, hornrim frames, but the optical correction in the glass was so large that her eyes were comically enlarged. Charon found himself staring at those brown eyes, fascinated. She focused on one thing, then another, and he could plainly see every twitch of the muscles around her eyes.

“I’d like to see the apartment, please.”

“The rent’s nine hundred a month,” she apologized. She had a pleasant voice and spoke clearly, articulating every word precisely. “Really obscene, I know, but what can we do?”

Charon grimaced for her benefit, then said, “I’d like to see it.”

Her eyes reflected her empathy, then she turned and made for the stairs. “Just moving to town?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, you’ll like Washington. It’s so vibrant, so exciting! All the great ideas are here. This is such an intellectually stimulating city!”

The apartment was on the third floor. The living room faced the street, but the bedroom looked down on an alley that ran alongside the building. The grillwork of a fire escape was visible out the bedroom window, and he unlocked the sash, raised it, and stuck his head out. The fire escape went all the way to the roof.

He closed the window as his guide explained about the heat. Forced-air gas, no individual thermostats, temperature kept at sixty-five all winter.

“You must come look at the kitchen.” She led him on. “It’s small but intimate and reasonably equipped. Perfect for meals for two, but you could do food for four quite easily, six or eight in a pinch.”

“Very nice,” Henry Charon said, and opened the refrigerator and looked inside to humor her. “Very nice.”

She showed him the bathroom. Adequate hot water, he was assured.

“The neighbors?” he asked when they were standing in the living room.

“Well,” she said, lowering her voice as if to tell a secret. “Everyone who lives here is so very nice. Two doctoral students — I’m one of those — a Library of Congress researcher, a paralegal, a free-lance writer, and a public-interest attorney. Oh, and one librarian.”

“Ummm.”

“This is the only vacancy we’ve had in over a year. We’ve had five inquiries, but the landlord insisted on a hundred and fifty a month rent increase, which just puts it out of so many persons’ reach.”

“I can believe it.”

“The previous tenant died of AIDS.” She looked wistfully around the room, then turned those huge eyes on Charon. He stared into them. “It was so tragic. He suffered so. His friend just couldn’t afford to keep the apartment after he passed away.”

“I see.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Consulting, mostly. Government stuff.”

He began asking questions just to hear her voice and watch the expressions in her eyes. She was studying political science, hoped to teach in a private university, got a break on her rent to manage the building, the neighborhood was quiet with only reasonable traffic, she had lived here for two years and grown up in Newton, Massachusetts, the corner grocery on the next street over was excellent. Her name was Grisella Clifton.

“Well,” Henry Charon sighed at last, reluctant to end the conversation. “You’ve sold me. I’ll take it.”

A half hour later she walked out the door with him. She paused by her car, a weathered VW bug. “I’m delighted you’ll be living here with us, Mr. Tackett.”

Henry Charon nodded and watched her maneuver the Volkswagen from its parking place. She kept both hands firmly on the wheel and leaned toward it until the moving plastic threatened to graze her nose. On the back of the car were a variety of bumper stickers: ONE WOMAN FOR PEACE, CHILDCARE BEFORE WARFARE, THIS CAR IS A NUCLEAR FREE ZONE.

On Wednesday afternoon Jefferson Brody concluded that Jeremiah Jones wasn’t much of a lawyer. While Mrs. Lincoln examined the original oil paintings on the paneled mahogany and the bronze nude that Brody had paid eleven thousand dollars for, Jones looked over the legal documents, asked two stupid questions, and flipped through the two full pages of representations and warranties that Mrs. Lincoln was asked to make as seller of the business without taking the time to read them carefully. Jones was a sheep, Brody decided. A black sheep, he chuckled to himself, pleased at his own wit.

Mrs. Lincoln signed the documents while Brody’s secretary watched. Then the secretary notarized the documents, carefully sealed them, and separated them into piles, one pile for Mrs. Lincoln and one for Brody’s clients, whose identities were, of course, still undisclosed. The documents merely transferred the business to the ABC Corporation, which was precisely one day old.

“You understand, I’m sure,” Brody commented to Jones, “why my clients have not given me the authority to reveal their identities.”

“Perfectly,” Jones said with a wave of his hand. “Happens all the time.”

Brody produced the cashier’s check of a New York bank in the amount of four hundred thousand dollars. After Jones had examined it, it went to Mrs. Lincoln, who merely glanced at it and folded it for her purse.

Jones glanced at his watch and stood. “I’d better run. I have an appointment at my office and I think I’m going to be late. Deborah, can you get home in a taxi?”

“Of course, Jeremiah. Oh, why don’t you take this check and have your secretary deposit it for me? Could you do that?”

“If you’ll make out a deposit slip.”

“Won’t take a minute.” Mrs. Lincoln got out her checkbook, carefully tore a deposit slip from the back, and noted the check number on it. Then she turned the check over and endorsed it. This didn’t take thirty seconds. She handed both pieces of paper to Jones. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course. I’ll call you.”

Jones shook hands with Brody and left.

“Well, Mr. Brody, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Deborah Lincoln said. “I’ll ask your secretary to call me a taxi.”

T. Jefferson stood. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mrs. Lincoln.”

“Please call me Deborah.”

“Deborah. It’s such a shame that the tragedy to your husband … I hope the police weren’t too rough.”

“Oh,” she said with a slight grimace, “they certainly weren’t pleasant. Almost suggested I’d hired it done. They said it was a professional killing.” She tried to grin. “It certainly didn’t help that Judson was killed on the stoop of his bimbo’s house, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand,” Brody said gravely and reached for her hand. She let him take it.

“You know, I’m not sure how to say this, but I have the feeling that things will go well for you from now on.”

“Well, I hope so. With the business sold and all. That certainly is a load off my mind. I know nothing at all of Judson’s business, Mr.—”

“Jefferson, please.”

“Jefferson, and your people paid what the business was worth, I believe.” She took her hand back and looked again at the paintings and the sculpture. “Such a nice office.”

“What say — how about I buy you dinner? Could I do that for you?”

She looked at him with surprise. “Why, Mr. — Jefferson. So nice of you to ask. Why, yes, I’d like that.”

Brody looked at his watch, a Rolex. “Almost four o’clock. I think we’ve done enough business for today. Perhaps we might go to a little place I know for drinks, then dinner afterward, when we’re hungry?”

“You’re very thoughtful.”

The evening turned out to be one of the most pleasant that T. Jefferson Brody could remember. The beautiful black woman with the striking figure was a gifted conversationalist, Brody concluded, a woman who knew how to put a man at ease. She kept him talking about his favorite subject — T. Jefferson Brody — and drew from him a highly modified version of his life story. Professional triumphs, wealthy clients, vacations in Europe and the Caribbean — with a few drinks in him Brody waxed expansive. As he told it his life was a triumphant march ever deeper into the palace of wealth and privilege. He savored every step because he had earned it.

After dinner — Chateaubriand for two of course — and a $250 bottle of twelve-year-old French wine, Jefferson Brody seated the widow Lincoln and her magnificent rack of tits in his Mercedes and drove her to his humble $1.6 million abode in Kenwood.

He led her through the house pronouncing the brand names of his possessions as if they were the names of wild and dangerous game he had stalked and vanquished in darkest Africa while armed only with a spear. Majolica plates from Rosselli, trompe-l’oeil paneling, Italian leather sofas and chairs, Jesurum lace tablecloth and bed linen, two original Chippendale chairs, Fabergé eggs — they were trophies, in a way, and it would not be overstatement to say that he loved them.

After the tour, he led her back to the den where he fixed drinks. She had a vodka tonic and he made himself a scotch and soda. With the lights dimmed and the strains of a Dvorak CD floating from the Klipsch speakers, T. Jefferson Brody ran his fingertips along the widow’s thigh and kissed her willing lips.

Three sips of scotch and three minutes later he went quietly to sleep. The remains of his drink spilled down his trouser leg and onto the Kashan carpet.

Mrs. Lincoln managed to lever herself out from under Brady’s bulk and find a light switch. She refastened her brassiere and straightened her clothes, then made a telephone call.

When Jefferson Brody awoke sunlight was streaming through the window. He squinted mightily against the light and rashly tried to move, which almost tore his head in half. His head was pounding like a bass drum, the worst hangover of his life.

“My God …”

His memory was a jumble. Deborah Lincoln, with the sublime tits … she was in — no, she was here. Here! In his house. They were kissing and he had his hand … and nothing! There was nothing else. His mind was empty. That was all he could remember.

What time is it?

He felt for his watch. Not on his wrist.

The Rolex! Not on his wrist!

T. Jefferson Brody pried his eyes open, gritting his teeth against the pain in his head. His watch was missing. He looked around. The TV and VCR were gone. Where the Klipsch speakers had stood only bare wires remained. His wallet lay in the middle of the carpet, empty. Oh God …

He staggered into the dining room. The doors to the china cabinet were ajar, and the cabinet was bare! The Spode china, the silver and crystal—gone!

“I’ve been robbed!” he croaked. “God fucking damn, I’ve been robbed!”

He lurched into the living room. The Fabergé eggs, the engravings, everything small enough to carry, all gone!

The police! He would call the police. He made for the kitchen and the phone on the counter.

A newspaper was arranged over the phone. He tossed it aside and picked up the receiver while he tried to focus on the buttons.

Something red on the newspaper caught his eye. A big red circle around a photo, a photo of a fat, frumpy black woman. The circle — it was lipstick! He bent to stare at the paper. Yesterday’s Post. The picture caption: “Mrs. Judson Lincoln, at National Airport after her husband’s funeral, reflected on the many civic contributions to the citizens of Washington made by the late Mr. Lincoln, a District native.”

“Lemme get this straight, Tee. You paid this woman you thought was Mrs. Lincoln four hundred grand. You took her to dinner. She slipped you a Mickey last night and cleaned out your house?”

“Yeah, Bernie. The papers she signed are worthless. Forgeries. I don’t know who the hell she is, but I’m sitting here looking at a photo of Mrs. Judson Lincoln in yesterday’s paper, and the broad who signed the papers and took the money ain’t her.”

“Did she have nice tits, Tee?”

“Yeah, but—”

Bernie Shapiro had a high-pitched, nasal he-he-he laugh that was truly nauseating if you were suffering from the aftereffects of a Mickey Finn. Brody held the telephone well away from his ear. Shapiro giggled and snorted until he choked.

“Listen, Bernie,” Brody protested when Shapiro stopped coughing, “this isn’t so damned funny. She’s got your money!”

“Oh, no, Tee. She’s got four hundred grand of your money! We gave you our four hundred Gs to buy that goddamn check cashing company, and you had better do just precisely that with it. You got forty-eight hours, Tee. I expect to see documents transferring title to that business on my desk within forty-eight hours, and they goddamn well better be signed by the real, bona fide, genuine Mrs. Judson widow Lincoln. Are you on my wavelength?”

“Yeah, Bernie. But it would sure be nice if you helped me catch up with this black bitch and get the money back.”

“You haven’t called the cops, have you?”

“No. Thought I oughta talk to you first.”

“Well, you finally did something right. I’ll think about helping you catch up with the broad, Tee, but in the meantime you had better get cracking on the Lincoln deal. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Sure. Sure, Bernie.”

“Tell me what this woman looked like.”

Brody did so.

“This lawyer with her, what’d he look like?”

Brody described Jeremiah Jones right down to his shoelaces and bad teeth.

“I’ll think about it, Tee, maybe ask around. But you got forty-eight hours.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t do nothing stupid.” The connection broke.

Jefferson Brody cradled the receiver and picked up the ice bag, which he held carefully against his forehead. It helped a little. Maybe he should take three more aspirins.

He needed to lie down for a few hours. That was it. Get his feet up.

But first he wandered through the house, cataloguing yet again all the things that were missing. If he ever caught up with that cunt, he’d kill her. Maybe after he’d closed the Lincoln deal he could talk Bernie into putting a contract on her black ass.

In the hallway, as he passed the door to the garage, a sense of foreboding came over T. Jefferson Brody. He opened the door and peered into the garage. Empty. Hadn’t he parked the Mercedes in here last night? Or had he left it in the driveway?

He hit the button to open the garage door. The door rose slowly, majestically, revealing an empty driveway.

Oh no! She’d stolen the damned car too!