"Agnes. His wife. She's the one who shot you."
"Jackie-O," Demarco whispered, his eyes like child's at the mention of ghosts.
"What?" said Jack.
"All this time, I thought I was dreaming of Jackie Kennedy... it was her. She had Manolo Blahnik shoes."
"I don't understand, D."
Demarco looked at him. "I remember, Jack. I remember everything."
He caught Jack up, omitting most of their fight—which he remembered too—opting more for the visual... excited for the recall, clarity as fresh as air.
"She looked like an old, expensive drag queen. She had on a hounds-tooth blouse, a pencil skirt... and a hat. She was carrying one of those small Louis Vuitton bags with the long handles... and Hermes—those black Hermes gloves with little white bows on them."
"We have her in custody, D. There was a witness down the block."
"Oh," he said—a little disappointed. "I thought you might need a description."
"No," Jack said, smiling. "But it's good to see you excited."
Demarco continued. "When I was on the ground, I saw the red soles of her shoes as she walked away. Fucking bitch shot me!"
"Seems Roy was a little more than just hot for you. He was stalking you, D... he had your address and contact information on his computer. He used congressional ties to secret your private information from Chandelier's database. More than that though, he kneweverythingabout you... hometown... family. Creepy. Anyway, Agnes had already known he was cheating on her—"
"Yeah," Demarco interrupted. "Another hooker... black guy... Club Cruise."
"Exactly. So, suspecting him already, she went digging through his stuff and foundyourinformation."
"I was only with him twice, Jack... then I knew to stay clear. He's a Klingon. That's what we call them—the ones who can't let go. They're usually closeted, get some good nookie, and then fall head-over-heels. That's what abstinence will get you."
"And there were letters."
"Letters?"
"Yeah, at least a dozen love letters he had composed to you in MS Word. I guess he didn't have the guts to send them... or he was worried about political blackmail... or maybe he was waiting for theperfecttime. You know—copy, paste, send."
"Fuck me."
"Agnes had her own problems. She's an alcoholic... bi-polar... unhappily married to a gay man—"
Demarco continued, "—socialite... parties... the gossip... the shade."
"Leading to a mentally imbalanced senator's wife shooting her husband'sperceivedlover."
"I think I'm going to be sick."
"I was going to wait to tell you all this, but I was afraid you would find out from someone else." Jack walked over to his bag on the chair in the corner and removed a copy of theWashington Post. He handed it to him. On the cover was a picture of Demarco—smiling with a drink in hand—next to a less-than-flattering mug shot of Agnes Kicklighter. The headline read:
SOUTHERN SENATOR'S DEBAUCHERY LEADS TO ATTEMPTED MURDER
The date at the top was over a week old.
Demarco laid the paper on his nightstand. "I can't read this right now."
"I'm sorry," Jack said. "But I wanted you to hear it from me. The press has been outside this building the entire time you've been in here. I've personally removed two that made it as far as this floor."
"Butch," Demarco said.
