CHAPTER
TWENTY
Saturday morning.
Lucas caught Bob and Rae coming back from their morning workout, told them to go look at the Washington Monument. “I already saw it. It’s that big white pointy thing, like a monument to a famous Anglo’s sexual fantasies,” Rae said. “If you don’t need us, I’m going to the National Gallery. Call when you need me.”
Bob had an old friend with the Marshals Service, stationed in Arlington. He said he’d call the guy, set up a lunch. “You won’t need us before lunch?”
“I don’t see anything coming,” Lucas said. “I think you’re safe for now. Take the Caddy if you want.”
“Nah, I’m gonna try to figure out the Metro...”
—
LUCAS WENT BACK TO HIS ROOM, called Weather, talked for half an hour, then watched a couple of TV broadcasts, went online and tried to figure out the relative importance of the various DCnews outlets, and finally sat and thought though a variety of possible moves.
At eleven, he left the hotel and walked north on a narrow leafy residential street to Pennsylvania Avenue, then left until Pennsylvania intersected with M Street, and west on M to a nearly unmarked red-brick building with a brass plate next to the door. The plate read, “Steaks and Spirits, LLC,” as though it might be a law firm.
Lucas looked at his watch: 11:35, five minutes late. He’d be amazed if he wasn’t the first to arrive.
Inside the door, a tall man in a nubby sport coat, worn with a black T-shirt and jeans, asked, “Do we have a reservation?”
“We do,” Lucas said. “Smith and Jones.”
“Um, which Smith and Jones?”
“Tall blond guy, short white-haired guy.”
“Of course. They arrived a few minutes ago. This way.”
So Lucas was amazed: he wasn’t the first to arrive, but the last. He followed the maître d’ through a maze of high-backed leather booths filled with serious-looking men and women in expensive clothes, speaking in hushed voices, and finally through a polished mahogany door into a tiny private room just large enough to seat six people.
Senators Henderson and Smalls were looking over menu folders when he came in, and Smalls said, “Ah, the late Lucas Davenport.”
“Sorry. It’s an interesting walk. I stopped to look into a bookstore window.”
“Got to have your priorities,” Henderson said. “My priority is not to walk in Washington, DC.”
“That’s why you’re such a weak sister,” Smalls said. “I run three miles every morning after my yoga.”
“While you’re out running, I’m working for the American people,” Henderson said, as he reached for the bread basket. “I’m thinking the oysters.”
“Oysters respect no political party,” Smalls agreed. “I’m thinking a dozen, or maybe a dozen and a half. The caloric content is negligible.”
“The mignonette is terrific here, though it has a tendency to make me fart,” Henderson said. “Fortunately, I’m only dealing with underlings this afternoon.”
“Then fart away,” Smalls said. “Lucas?”
“I’m going for the buffalo burger with red onions and deli mustard,” Lucas said.
Smalls: “Prole.”
—
THE WAITER CAME AND WENT, wine for the senators, a Diet Coke for Lucas, though the Coke raised an eyebrow. “They have any wine you want, but he’ll probably have to send out for the Diet Coke,” Henderson said. “Now. Where are we? Are we done with the shooting?”
“Maybe,” Lucas said. “Not only will I not promise that we are, I’m thinking it’s about fifty-fifty.”
