“Dion,” one of them said.
“Thank you.” He burned his gaze through Dion’s skull. “Hi, Dion. My name’s Jonathan. My friends call me Digger. You can call me ‘sir.’” He squeezed harder with his left hand, and pain shot through Dion like a seizure.
Jonathan let go with both hands and let the banger drop. He didn’t look tough anymore. Then again, it’s hard to look tough when you’re on the floor cradling your junk with both hands, gasping for air. That little whimpering sound didn’t help. Nor the piss stain.
Crap. Jonathan looked at his soiled hand as if it might be covered with cockroaches. As he moved to the sink to wash his hands, the banger buddies remained riveted to their spots.
“Here’s the thing, guys,” Jonathan explained, his tone the very essence of reason. “I tried to be friendly, but you didn’t want it that way.” He glanced over his shoulder just to make sure they weren’t moving on him.
“You never even introduced yourselves,” he went on. “Talk about rude.” When he finished rinsing, he stepped toward the buddies. As he approached, they stepped back in unison. They jumped in unison, too, when he extended his hand. “Jonathan,” he said to the one on the left.
The guy shot a look to his cohort, clearly unsure of what he should do.
“Tell the man your name,” the friend said. He rolled his eyes, then reached past him to offer his hand. “I’m Luke,” he said.
Jonathan shook his hand.
“This is Jermaine. You already met Dion.”
As Jonathan shook Jermaine’s hand, he noted that Dion’s breathing was returning to normal.
“So, dude, are you like some martial-arts god or something?” Luke asked. His tone dripped admiration.
“I’m just a guy,” Jonathan said. “Who happens to be really, really tired, and pretty much up to here with bullshit.” He pointed to a spot above his eyebrow.
“But what did you do to him? I never seen Dion drop like that.”
Jonathan shrugged. “Just got his attention is all. He’ll be fine.”
“Man, that was like Spock shit, man. Could you have killed him like that if you’d wanted?”
Jonathan winked. “He’ll be fine.”
A heavy door opened down the hall and a voice boomed, “Graves! Wake up, you lucky sonofabitch. You’re getting sprung.” It was Engelhardt, and when he arrived at the cell door, his face turned into a question mark. “What’s his problem?” He pointed with his chin to Dion.
Luke gave Jonathan’s shoulder a playful slap. “Asshole done got his attention.”
Engelhardt didn’t care. “Stand back, guys. Your bunky gets to sleep in his own bed tonight.”
“Ain’t that some shit,” Jermaine said, his first words.
Jonathan’s posse stepped aside to allow the door to open and Jonathan to pass.
“How’d you get sprung so fast?” Luke asked.
Engelhardt answered for him. “Helps to have friends in high places. That high-and-mighty Secret Service agent who brought you in is sitting in receiving lookin’ like he swallowed a bucket of worms.”
“This is bullshit,” Dion said. Now that a wall of bars separated them again, he seemed to have rediscovered his courage. He still stood funny, though. “You pull that cheap fightin’ stuff, and I’m supposed to believe you’re innocent?”
Engelhardt had already taken two steps toward leading Jonathan to freedom, and Jonathan nearly let Dion’s bravado go unchallenged.
Nearly. In the end, he couldn’t do it. He whirled on the bars, and Dion jumped back. “Look, you gangbanging moron, you need to decide if you want to sew your mouth shut or be fitted for a body bag.”
Jonathan understood better than most the lives of disaffected youth. At one level, all that differentiated him from these punks was the fact that his father’s criminal enterprises had been enormously successful. Money talked. Dion and his friends never had the benefit of Jonathan’s fifteen-thousand-dollar-a-year high school education.
These boys had been throwaway strays since the day they were born. Jonathan pitied them the way he pitied everyone who was born into crime. Years ago, he’d founded Resurrection House, a tuition-free residential school for children of incarcerated parents, specifically in hopes of breaking the cycle of misery that began for children when their parents were arrested, and often followed them all the way to their graves in a potter’s field beyond their own prison walls.
Jonathan noted a smirk on Engelhardt’s face as he led the way back out through the maze of airlocks. “Something funny, Deputy?”
Englehardt bristled. “Keep your tough-guy rap for the inmates,” he said. Then he laughed. “But wait till you see the Secret Service dick. You seem to have an interesting way with people.”
Jonathan’s first impression of Agent Clark when he saw him waiting in the receiving area was that Engelhardt had gotten it wrong-the guy looked like he’d swallowed a bucket of spiders, not worms. Worms would have brought a look of disgust. This guy looked scared.
Jonathan knew exactly what had happened: Dom had placed a call from the Woodrow Wilson Bridge to the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Ninth Street, beginning a ripple of consequences that had led to Clark learning this vivid lesson in Washington politics.
“Good evening, Agent Clark,” Jonathan said through a broad smile. “Nice of you to come.”
Clark stood, but his face remained as hard as granite. “There are a lot of people dead out there tonight, Mr. Grave,” Clark said. “Forgive me if I don’t find that funny.”
Jonathan glared at the classic inside Washington bullshit. When rocked on your heels, take the offense by being offended. Warfare by sound bite. It was a game Jonathan chose never to play. He shook his head in the most patronizing way he knew how. “I’m going to go home now and read about the murderer who got away because you wouldn’t let me shoot her.”
That ought to do it.
As Jonathan pushed past, Clark grabbed his elbow. The fact that they were in a police station saved him from a nightmare of facial surgery and jaw wire. “Wait,” Clark said.
“If you’re not arresting me, you’d better holster that hand,” Jonathan growled.
Clark let go. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know who you are, or how you got the attention of the head of the FBI, but Director Rivers for sure has the attention of Director Miller, and he called me personally to tell me to come here and apologize.” He steeled himself with a deep breath. “I apologize.”
Most people’s features age when they’re under stress, but Clark was the exception. He somehow appeared younger. Maybe it was the kid-in-the-principal’s-office body language. Whatever it was, Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to hammer any more soul out of the man. “Apology accepted.”
He started to move past again, and Clark again grabbed his arm. At that moment, the jail’s front door opened, and a hot babe in a ski jacket hurried into the over-lit white-walled room. A dark ponytail flopped from under a wool stocking cap. Jonathan could think of no one he’d rather see.
“There’s more,” Clark said, hanging on to the arm. “I’m supposed to offer you a ride home.”
“He’s already got a ride,” the new arrival said. Then, in response to Clark’s confusion, “I’m Gail Bonneville, Mr. Grave’s business partner.”
Clark looked unsure whether to believe her. Jonathan couldn’t have cared less.
“This is the quick-witted Agent Clark of the United States Secret Service,” Jonathan explained. “He’s the one who put me up in this fine bed-and-breakfast.”
Clark reddened.
“Just doing his job, I’m sure,” Gail said. “From what I’ve heard, you showed a lot of courage out there on the bridge, Agent Clark.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Let’s go home,” he said.
Clark cleared his throat and shifted his feet. Clearly, there was more. “The director was very specific,” he said. “I am to shake your hand and offer you any other assistance that I can.” He offered his hand.
Now Jonathan felt bad for the guy. How much humiliation had Irene Rivers demanded? He accepted the man’s hand. “Consider it done. In fact, consider anything else that the director insisted that you do to be done. There really are no hard feelings.”