The First Counsel

* * *

Within forty-five minutes, I'm showered, shaved, and two newspapers into the day. But as I leave my apartment, I still can't stop thinking about the photo of Adenauer. There's not a single good reason for an FBI investigator to be that close to Hartson, and the stressing alone has made me a solid fifteen minutes late to work. I don't have time for this, I decide. No more distractions. Heading toward the Metro, I see a homeless man carrying a squeegee. The moment we make eye contact, I realize I'm about to take another kick in the wish list.

"Morning, morning, morning," he says as he holds up his squeegee. He's sporting army green camo pants and the rattiest black beard I've ever seen. Hanging from his pocket is an old Windex spray bottle filled with milky gray water. As he gets closer, I see he's also wearing a worn-out Harvard Law School sweatshirt. Only in D.C. "Where's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche?" he sings, falling in step next to me.

I've seen this guy before. I think it was in Dupont Circle. "Sorry, but I'm not driving," I tell him. "Just me and the Metro."

"No, no, no. Not you, not you. Fancy shoes always take the car."

"Not today. I'm really . . ."

"Where's your Porsche? Wh . . ."

"I told you . . ."

". . . ere's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche?"

Obviously, he's not listening. For more than a block and a half, he's at my side, running his squeegee back and forth along my imaginary windshield. To get him off my back, I reach into my pocket and pull out a dollar bill.

"Ahhh, there he is," Squeegee Man says. "Mr. Porsche."

I hand him the dollar and he finally lowers his squeegee.

"Your change, sir," he says pulling something from his pocket. "Vaughn says you have to talk," he whispers. "Let's try the Holocaust Museum. One o'clock on Monday. And don't bring the black guy from the pay phone."

"Excuse me?"

He smiles and stuffs something in my hand. A folded-up sheet of paper.

"What's this?"

I'm not getting an answer. He's already moved on. Behind me, I see him approach a balding man in a pin-striped suit. "Where's your Porsche?" he asks him, raising the squeegee.

I turn back to the paper and open it up. It's blank. Just a moment's distraction.

Over my shoulder, I look for the Squeegee Man. It's too late. He's gone.