The First Counsel

* * *

Sticking to the shady side of Connecticut Avenue, I try to keep my pace as quick as possible. At this speed, if someone's behind me, they should be easy to spot. Still, my eyes dart from every parked car, to every tree, to every storefront. It all looks suspicious. Coming toward me, I see a woman jogging with her black Labrador. As she's about to pass, I step into the street and look away. I'm not taking any chances--as long as I keep my head down, she can't make an ID. When she's gone, I get back on track.

In the distance, I can already see the red neon sign of the Uptown, the city's greatest old-fashioned movie house and the neighborhood's most popular monument. To its left, half a dozen restaurants and shops fight for attention. Dwarfed by the Uptown, they rarely get a second glance. Today, however, one jumps out: Ireland's Four Provinces Restaurant and Pub.

Under the run-down green and red sign, I take a quick look up the block. Everything checks out--no khakis or polos in sight; none of the nearby cars have government plates. I even brush my eyes past the roof of the Uptown. Far as I can tell, no one's taking photos. Heading for the entrance, I know this is it. Time to meet Vaughn.

As I pull open the door, I'm slapped in the face with bar whiff. It immediately reminds me of my first night with Nora. Inside, it's set up like a real Irish pub. Sixteen to twenty tables, some framed stained glass Irish crests, and an old oak bar along the back wall. To my surprise, the place is packed. One guy's wearing a mailman uniform. Another's dressed by FedEx. I like this place. No tourists. Local crowd.

"Take a seat at the bar," a waitress says as she blows by me. "I'll have a table in a second."

Following her instructions, I pull up a stool and scan the lunchtime group. Nothing too suspicious.

"How you doing?" the bartender asks as he pours a couple of sodas.

"Okay," I say. "And you?"

Before he can answer, I hear a door on my far right creak open. Following the sound, I see a muscular guy wearing a ratty black T-shirt step out of the men's room. He's got a great Neanderthal brow that puts Darwinism to the test. Focused on the box scores of his folded-up newspaper, the man seems startled when he looks up and notices me.

"Wat you looking at, putzhead?" he asks in a heavy Brooklyn accent.

"No, nothing," I reply. "Nothing."

Shrugging me off, he moves back to his table in the corner. "Where the hell's my san'wich?" he asks his waitress.

"Don't bitch at me," she warns. "They're backed up in there."

Convinced the waitress is going to spit in his food, I'm content to let him study his box scores. But just as I'm about to look away, I see him lay his folded-up newspaper back on the table. It hits with an unusual thud. That's when I see it. There's something hidden inside the paper. The tip of it peeks out toward the top. Like a thick black Magic Marker. Or the top of a walkie-talkie antenn--A cold chill runs down my back. Son of a bitch. That guy's FBI.

I look away as fast as I can, pretending I haven't seen anything. Just then, the front door swings open, shooting a flash of sunlight into the dark bar. When it closes, one person's standing there. The guy with the red shirt who bought the popcorn. The sunglasses give him away. More FBI. Any minute now, Vaughn's going to walk in that front door. And the moment he does, every agent in this room is going to be all over us.

My mind's racing. The guy in the red shirt is heading toward me. Like it or not, I've got to abort this meeting. As quick as I can, I hop off the stool and head for the door. The agent with the walkie-talkie stands up at the same time, his chair screeching against the beer-stained floor. One in front of me; one on my right. They're both moving, just in case I run. No matter how fast I am, I'm not going to lose them without a distraction. I point at the agent with the walkie-talkie. "FBI! He's FBI!" I shout at the top of my lungs, assuming Vaughn's listening.

Instinctively, the agent does exactly what I was hoping he'd do. He pulls his gun. That's all it takes. Instant chaos. Everyone's screaming. Both agents are mobbed by the crowd's mad rush for the door. I'm about to join in when I feel someone grab me by the back collar of my shirt. Before I realize what's happening, he throws me through the swinging doors of the kitchen. I crash to the ground in front of the industrial refrigerator. Stumbling to my feet, I get a quick look at my attacker. It's the bartender.

"What're you--"

He grabs me by the knot of my tie and drags me to the back of the kitchen. I'm trying to fight, but I can't get my balance. My flailing arms are pulling pots and pans from every counter. "Sorry, kid," he says. In one quick movement, he kicks open the back exit and shoves me out into the alley behind the restaurant.

Across the alley, the door to the building next door opens. "In here!" someone shouts in a Boston accent. I limp in, still struggling to catch my breath. Once inside I see that I'm in a dingy gray hallway that has all the charm of an unfinished basement. A single fluorescent light twitches from above. In the background, I hear the hum of two people talking. Like a movie. At the other end of the hallway is a metal door. Judging by the location, I'm in the emergency exitway for the Uptown.

Leaning back against the wall, I slowly sink to the floor.

"Having fun?" my host asks.

As soon as I look up, I recognize him from his mug shot. Finally. Vaughn.

He whips out a gun and presses the barrel against the center of my forehead. "You have exactly three seconds to tell me why you killed Caroline Penzler."

Chapter 25

What the hell's going on?" I ask.

"One . . . !"

"Are you nuts!?"

"Two . . . !"

"I didn't kill her!" I cry as he pulls back the hammer on the gun. "I swear, I didn't kill her! Why would you--"

"Three!" he shouts. "Sorry about this, Michael."

His finger tightens and I clench my eyes shut.

"Itwasn'tme! Itwasn'tme! Iswearitwasn'tme!" I shout.

He pulls the trigger, but there's no shot. Just a hollow click. I open my eyes. The gun's empty.

Vaughn stands over me, studying my reaction.

"Are you insane?" I shout. My chest's heaving and the sweat's pouring down my face.

"Had to see for myself," he says, stuffing his gun in the back of his pants.

"See what for yourself?"

He doesn't answer, but whatever the test was, I passed. I think.

Unlike his mug shot, Vaughn no longer has the tiny mustache and the slicked-back hair. Today, he's all style. Sharp haircut, Gucci loafers, and a slightly creased but otherwise beautiful silk shirt. His pants also look expensive but way too wrinkled. Like they've been worn too long. Or slept in.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," he says like nothing happened. He points to his clothes and flashes a toothy grin. "Things're a little tense since I'm . . . on the go."

"Don't you mean, on the run?" I ask.

"You got that right," he agrees. "Now what kept you so late?"

"Talk to your popcorn clients--those kids had me waiting for a half hour."

"No, no, no," he says in full Boston accent. "I don't sell to kids. Ever."

"Oh, so you're one of those dealers who cares?"

"Listen, shortie, if some rich little college girl wants to shove daddy's money up her nose, I don't sweat it for a second. After all their years of shoving the peace pipe into my neighborhood, I figure that makes us even."

"You're a real humanitarian."

"Shit, man, you work in the White House. Who you think's putting more poison out there, me or you?"

I refuse to answer.

"No fun bein' judged, now, is it?" Vaughn asks. "'Sides, if you're countin' brownie points, you're the one should be thankin' me."

"Thank you?" I ask. "Why should I thank you? For setting me up? For sneaking in under my name? For killing Caroline Penzler and acting like I'm the one who--"

"Stop where you are, pretty boy. Don't blame that shit on me."

"You telling me you weren't in the building?"

"No, I was there. I was walkin' halls for an hour. But I never put a finger near that woman."

"What're you talking about?"

"Now you deaf? Listen up, here: I don't know dick about that lady. Never met her in my life."

"What about Simon? You ever met him?"

"Simon who?"

"C'mon, Vaughn, you know who he is."

"You callin' me a liar?"

I pause a moment. "All I'm saying--"

"All you're sayin' is I'm bullshitting; I can hear it in the back of your throat. You better readjust your glasses, though, boy--I'm just tryin' to give you some conversation."

"Oh, so first you point a gun at my head, and now you're gonna sweep me up and play Oprah?"

"I don't like that tone."

"I don't have a tone. All I know is you've been running me around for the past two weeks. Holocaust Museum, paperboys, squeegee men--I'm sick of the Spy vs. Spy mind games. So drop the tough guy act and tell me what the hell is going on wi--"

He grabs me by the front of my shirt and slams me against the concrete wall. "What'd I tell you 'bout raising your voice? Huh, boy? What'd I tell you!?"

"You said you don't like it."

"Damn right I don't like it!" he screams in my face. "You think this is only 'bout you!? Shit, kid, at least you're still sleeping in your own apartment--I'm on the D.C. shelter tour."

"You make your bed; you lie in it."

"I didn't make the damn bed! They threw me in it!" He lets go of my shirt and takes a step back. "Just like they threw you."

I study his eyes, looking for a lie. He knows I don't see it. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Would I be sneaking 'round if I weren't? Son of a bitch FBI trashed my life, ruined my business . . . I never met this guy Simon in my life."

Unsure of how to respond, I look away.

"What?" he asks. "You think I'm bluffing 'bout that too?"

I can't help but hesitate. "To be honest, I don't know what to think."

"Well, Wonder Bread, that makes two of us."

I take another look at his creased shirt and wrinkled pants. There're some things you can't hide. "So you weren't trying to frame me?"

He shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. "I look like Jack Ruby to you? The only reason I came to that building was because my man Morty was busy. He had something cookin' in Southeast, so he asked me to do him a favor."

"And Morty works for you?"

"Nah, he's a--how can I say it?--a fellow independent contractor."

"He's a drug dealer."

"He's into pharmaceuticals. Anyway, he asked me to make a drop for him--I had nothing doing--so I told him I'm in. 'Course, when I found out where it was, I almost had myself an infarction, know what I'm saying? I mean, that's just plain stupid--next door to the White House?"

"But you still did it?"

"Morty put up three Bennys in cash. For that kind of money, I'll kick Hartson in his big white ass. Besides, Morty said you were one of his cash cows."

"I never met the guy in my--"

"I'm just telling you what he said. He told me you were some presidential whiz kid with a taste for the white stuff--and that you went DEFCON One if you didn't get your weekly visit. According to Morty, all I had to do was go to the front desk and give 'em your name. When you cleared me in, I was supposed to head up to the second floor and walk the halls till you found me--he said your schedule was so busy, you couldn't do exact times--presidential crap and all that. Soon as I heard it, I shoulda known that shit was trouble."

"What about the person who cleared you in? Who was that?"

"I thought it was you."

"It wasn't me!" I insist. "They just used my name on the ph--"

"Relax, little man--I'm just relaying how it happened. I told the guard we had a meeting; the guest pass was waitin' for me. Looking back, it obviously wasn't my finest hour."

I nod and suddenly think of my dad. "So all you did was spend an hour taking laps around the hallway?"

"That's what I got paid to do. When you didn't show, I left. Next thing I know, that woman Caroline's dead and the FBI's sniffing 'round my place and hasslin' my neighbors. My cousin across the hall says they mentioned two names to her--the woman who just died and some fool named Michael Garrick. Soon as I heard that, I was gone--smelled that setup a mile away."

Shading my eyes with my hand, I rub my temples and let it all sink in. If it wasn't Vaughn I saw in the bar with Simon, it must've been this guy Morty. That's who Simon was working with.

"You really thought I killed her, didn't ya?" Vaughn asks.

I keep quiet.

"It's okay," he says. "I don't take offense. I thought the same 'bout you."

"What?"

"You heard me. I figured you and Morty set it up. I walk in; you kill Caroline; I eat the blame."

I almost want to laugh. "I already told you, I didn't kill anyone. You've got it all mixed up."

"Then why don't you alphabetize it for me?"

I think about it for a sec, but decide not to answer.

"Oh, you best not be yankin' my rope," Vaughn says. "Is that how you play it? You can hear my side, but I can't hear yours?"

Again, I stay silent.

"Listen, Garrick, my boys took major risk to get to you--the least you can do is tell me how ya got sucked in."

"Why, so you can use it against me? No offense, but I've had enough stupidity for one week."

"You still caught up on that one? 'Cause if that's the case, your stupidity's just gettin' started."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You got the big brain--use it. If I were the rough-and-tough bad guy, why would I spend all this time tryin' to track you down?"

"Are you kidding? To set me up."

He looks around at the empty passageway we're standing in. "You see anyone settin' you up?"

"That doesn't prove anything."

"Okay, so you want proof? How 'bout this one--if I came in that building to kill someone, you really think I'm dumb enough to use my real name?"

"You used it for a drug deal, didn't you?"

He rolls his eyes. "That's different and you know it."

"Not to me it--"

"Don't give me the legal bullshit!" he shouts, annoyed by my challenge. "If I want to kill someone, I kill 'em! That goes with the job. But I'm tellin' ya right now, I didn't do this one!"

"And that's supposed to convince me?"

"What the hell else you want me to--" He cuts himself off and clenches his jaw. For at least a full minute, he stands there, stewing. Searching for a convincing explanation. Eventually, he looks up. "Answer me this, shortie. If I killed her and I'm tryin' ta blame it on you, why'd I attach my own name to the one guy I know is about to look like suspect number one?"

There's the question. The one that brought me right here.

"I'm waitin'--oh, yeah--just sitting here and waitin'."

The problem is, even with all this new information, I can't come up with a single good answer.

"You know I'm on target. You know it."

Again, I give him nothing but silence.

"Tell me what happened--I'll figure what's up," he offers, suddenly sweet. "Did it have somethin' to do with that Simon guy? 'Cause whoever it was, they knew their shit and they knew how to pin the blame. On both of us."

I take another look at Vaughn. The man's smart--and though I don't want to admit it--he may be right. "If I tell you this . . ."

"Who'm I gonna tell? The police? Don't flake--your secret's safe."

"Yeah . . . maybe." With everything to lose, I take the next ten minutes to explain what happened--from spotting Simon in the bar, to finding the money, to Adenauer's Friday deadline. I leave out the parts about Nora. When I'm done, Vaughn lets out a deep, thundering laugh.

"Damn, boy," he says, covering his bright white teeth. "And I thought I was screwed."

"It's not funny--this's my ass on the line."

"Mine too," he says. "Mine too."

He hits it on the head with that one. For the past week, I'd assumed that Vaughn was going to be the missing piece. That when we finally got together, it'd all make sense. But listening to his story . . . I can't help but feel like I'm back where I started.

"So whatta we do now?" he asks.

Realizing that I've got less than forty-eight hours until it goes public, I lean back against the wall and once again feel myself slipping to the floor. "I have no idea."

"Nuh-uh, no way," he says, reading my expression. "This ain't the time to crumble."

He's right. Get it together. Pushing away from the wall, I feel around for a toehold. It's got to be there somewhere. "What about your buddy Morty? He's the one who set us up."

"Morty hasn't been in much of a talkin' mood lately."

"What do you mean?"

"His neighbors sniffed the smell late last week. When the super kicked in the door, they found Morty facedown on his white shag carpet. Throat sliced with piano wire."

I look nervously at Vaughn. "You didn't . . ."

"I look like that much of a hump to you?"

"I didn't mean . . ."

"Sure you did--that thought hit your brain lickety-split. Sure, he's fool enough to use that piano wire trick twice. Like I'm some dumb-ass piece of street trash beneath your Ivy League loafers."

"I went to a state school."

"I don't care where you went," he shoots back. "Unlike you, it don't matter to me."

"What're you--"

"I looked you up, Michael. Don't forget where you're from."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I listened to ya from word one."

"You had a gun to my head!"

"Don't gimme that--I didn't press you 'bout Simon or quiz you 'bout Caroline. I took one look in your scaredy eyes and knew you were telling truth. Now I may not be one of your Brainiac buddies--but if I'm crazy enough to sniff the lines you're sellin' me, I expect you to return the favor and hand me the benefit of the damn doubt."

"I wasn't trying to judge you, Vaughn, it's just the way you . . ." I stop myself. One foot in my mouth is enough. "Why don't we just get back to figuring this out?"

"Yeah . . . right." Looking away, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. And in that moment, I finally realize what he's thinking. It's not in his eyes. It's in the slump of his stance and the clench of his jaw. He'd never say it--he's got a tough-guy act to think about. But lately, I've seen my share of fear. When they catch him, he knows they're going to stomp on him. No fancy lawyer to protect him. No resources but the creased shirt on his back.

"So where does that leave us?" I ask.

"With my sniff-pinkie shoved straight in the eye of whoever did this. Soon as we find that raunchbag, I'm giving 'em--"

"Guaranteed proof that you're the killer they say you are. No offense, but take a breather. We need better evidence than that."

"Howzabout where Simon was when Caroline got inanimate? Any holes there?"

The question catches me off guard. "His alibi? I-I don't know."

"Whatchu mean you don't know?"

"I never bothered to ask. Until now, I thought you were the killer. I figured Simon set it up and let you in to do the dirty work."

"But if it ain't me . . ."

"It's not a bad idea," I say excitedly as my voice picks up speed. "We should find out where he was."

"And who he's with."

"You think he had some help?" I ask.

"Don't know. But how else would Mr. Lawyer-to-the-President know his local dealers?"

There's an easy answer to that one, but I don't want to believe it. Still, I can't just pretend she doesn't exist. In the background, I hear music swelling. If the movie's about to end, I don't have much time. I turn to Vaughn before I can talk myself out of it. "Can I ask you a question about an unrelated subject?"

"Hit me."

"Have you ever sold drugs to anyone in the First Family?"

He raises an eyebrow just enough to make me worry. "Why?"

Already, I know I'm in trouble. "Just answer the question."

"Personally, I never met Nora, but I heard 'em whisper. Supposed to be a crazy little bitch."

Under the metal door, I see the house lights come up.

"That's our cue," Vaughn says. "Out with the crowd." As we head for the door, he adds, "You think she's playin' in all this?"

"No. Not at all."

He nods. For some reason, he's letting me get away with it. As he marches forward, I notice the cocky strut that haunts his walk.

"You really think we have a chance?" I ask.

"Trust me, the big boys don't like playing rock-'em-sock-'em. Too worried 'bout protectin' their face."

"And we're not?"

"Not anymore. They're the ones got something to lose." Picking up speed, he adds, "Same thing in a turf war--you wanna win, you gotta bring a little fight to them."

I raise my shoulders and stick my chest out. It's been too long since I shoved back.

"Ass-kissing bureaucrats think they can get away with tossin' me in the street," Vaughn adds as we head into the theater. "It's like my granddad used to say--you gonna take a shot at the king . . . you better kill 'im."