Jack slowed and turned. "Are you OK?"
"Yes. Just nerves."
"We can go, D. Right now."
Demarco shook his head. "No. I'm just a little dizzy. I'll be fine."
"Kip has men everywhere. On top of The Dupont, building 11 over there adjacent, and those two behind us," he said with a thumb over his shoulder.
"A square around the circle."
"Exactly."
Demarco let his hand slide down Jack's sleeve and Jack gave it a quick squeeze before letting it drop completely.
They made their way toward the same bench, Jack attempting to steer to another but Demarco was not having it. Once there, they saw the bullet hole through the top slat, still unrepaired and splintered. Jack said nothing, recognizing that this confrontation was necessary for Demarco. They sat down.
"Keep your eyes peeled," Jack said. "He probably won't show, but you never know."
Demarco looked across the section of the circle visible to them from where they sat. Faces everywhere... young, old, happy, sad, scruffy, smooth... ordinary. Nowhere did he see the bronze-skinned beauty of the prince of Qatar.
Since there had been no response to their proposed diplomatic sanctuary, Demarco had followed up the e-mail shortly before they left the hotel, reminding Abir that they would be at the circle for a half-an-hour should he decide to show.
And here they sat, amid the pre-lunch crowd at one of the more popular locations in Washington. Faces all around, but no sign of the boy.
This was a bust.
He looked at Jack who was also scanning the crowd through stylish Ray-Bans. Demarco studied the man's profile, tracing the distinct jawline, the cleft chin, the even shadow of stubble encircling a plump pink curve of lip.
OK... maybe it wasn't a total bust.
He turned back toward other areas, letting his eyes unfocus and adjust to the periphery. Movement far across the lanes of traffic caught his attention. He zeroed in on an older, suited gentleman speaking with a black teenager on the corner of Massachusetts and Connecticut. The boy was seated on the sidewalk, his back against the Suntrust building. The man was standing close to him... a little too close. As the man spoke—Demarco only able to see, not hear—he adjusted himself conspicuously in his expensive slacks. The skinny boy looked up with angry eyes, shaking his head. The man shrugged and turned away, heading up Connecticut briskly. The kid sat there for a moment, contemplating... and then stood, brushing off his backpack and quickly catching up with the man.
"Sad... isn't it?"
Demarco was unaware that Jack had been watching the same scenario play out. Demarco nodded slightly but did not answer. He thought about himself on these same streets, decades before.
The more things change... the more they stay the same, he thought.
And as his reverie sustained, he heard singing... almost operatic in tone. Approaching them from the west side was a handsome, husky man with brown, amiable eyes nestled in a round bearded face. Demarco watched as the man opened his mouth wide, and the song that bellowed out was deep, resonant, on-pitch, and familiar. It was the iconic lyrics ofMacArthur Park. Many surrounding him were surprised, some annoyed... but mostly smiles were abundant within the bustling crowd. When the man's eyes found Demarco's, an infectious grin spread across his face, bisecting the dark beard with pearly whites. He stopped singing mid-lyric and hurried over to them.
Jack stood. Demarco mirrored him, gently holding his hand up to keep his bodyguard at bay. "I know this guy, Jack. He's OK."
Jack whispered the worddisregardquietly into the tiny microphone at his wrist. He was amused to see that the face approaching, the man emerging from the crowd across the circle was wearing the uniform of a United States postal worker. His satchel bounced on his hip as his pace quickened. He was a good foot shorter than both of them and the first thought that came to Jack was that this man is a hobbit, misplaced from Tolkien, and dropped into our nation's capital disguised as a mailman. But upon closer inspection, he realized that the man was not misshaped at all, just a tad short and burley. He was quite handsome, carrying his extra fifteen or twenty pounds confidently in his snug blue uniform, short sleeves tight at the biceps and short cuffs, and that—even in the cooler weather—was sporting quite the enviable crotch-bulge.
"I know you," he shouted at Demarco. "B.J's. Tuesday Tunes."
His approach was magnanimous, virtually no negative energy whatsoever. He extended his hand, and Demarco shook it with both of his own. "I'm Michaelangelo," the grinning man said. "But folks call me Mike... or Mikey, if you like."
"I'm Demarco, Mikey. This is my... friend, Jack."
Jack's eyes lifted, but not before Mikey caught where they had been lingering. His eyes glinted devilishly for a brief moment as he took Jack's hand. "Hi there, Jack. You are one tall... handsome... motherfucker. Pardon my French."
Jack blushed, clearly taken aback. Demarco burst out laughing. "Oh, Lord. Listen to that accent. You are pure Baltimore."
"Little Italy... born and raised," Mikey said. "Not many of us left."
"That's what keep I hearing," Demarco said. "All transplants, like us... here in DC."
