Mistress

Chapter 82

I walk down Half Street and check my watch. It’s 6:45 on the nose. When I reach the intersection with N Street, I look over to the red awning just east of the center field gate at Nationals Park. Over the will call window, an electronic billboard advertises GRAND SLAM PLAN-BUY 4 GAMES, GET 1 FREE! Okay, guys, sure, now that you’ve finally put together a decent squad. Hell, it only took you eight seasons after bringing the franchise here from Montreal.

I kid because I care. I like the Nats, and I like the development of the Capitol Riverfront district by the Navy Yard since they arrived. Hell, I love having a hometown team to root for. I’m just saying, let’s get more consistency from that starting rotation and some left-handed hitting coming off the bench.

And now we join, already in progress, the reason I came here.

There he is, below the electronic sign, standing next to the will call window, dressed as I requested-in an orange Windbreaker. Maybe a little over the top, but I’ve never seen Alexander Kutuzov in person, and I wanted him to stand out from all the other fans heading into the Nationals’ 7:05 start against the Braves.

He’s a tall man, athletic, and very well manicured. He seems perfectly at ease this evening, probably because he’s a man of such mind-boggling wealth, or possibly because of his various hoodlums positioned-let’s see…two of them by the team store, two of them looking down on their boss from the second story of the parking garage, and others, presumably, who have done a better job of blending into the crowd. He’s probably got a whole army here. If they all bought tickets, the Nats could double their attendance tonight.

Me? I’m in disguise. I’m wearing a red Nationals T-shirt, under which I’ve added a fat belt that I picked up from a costume shop and that adds about thirty pounds to my frame. Oh, and they also sold me a wig that makes me bald on top and gives me bushy hair on the sides. Plus fake eyeglasses.

Maybe not the most convincing disguise under close scrutiny, but I’m not expecting any close scrutiny. In fact, my work here is done. I jump in a cab outside the stadium that has just been vacated by a pack of drunken college kids. The smell of stale beer lingers in the cab, but I don’t care. I put my head against the back headrest and listen to the cabdriver talk on his cell phone in some language I don’t understand.

Amazing how such a simple task has left me sweating through this T-shirt. But so far, so good. Alex Kutuzov dropped everything and flew out here, on six hours’ notice, to meet me. So I must be doing something right.

I pull out my prepaid cell phone and dial the number that Edgar Griffin gave me for Alex Kutuzov. I called Alex an hour ago. That was a short call. This one might be longer.

Let’s see if I can avoid screwing it up.