“It’s interesting,” he told her. Actually he loved the city. His usual explanation, which he didn’t want to get into just now, was that the city resembles a research hospital containing one or more — usually a lot more — specimens of every disease that affects the body politic: avarice, ambition, selfishness and self-interest, incompetence, stupidity, duplicity, mendacity, lust, poverty, wealth — you name it, Washington has it, and has it in spades. It’s all here in its purest form, on public display for anyone with the slightest spark of interest in the human condition to muse upon or study. Washington is El Dorado for the sly and the bold, for every identifiable species of pencil thief and con artist, some in office, some out, all preying on their fellow man.
“Say, Tish,” Jack Yocke said, “I’ve got a party invitation for tomorrow night. How about going with me? I could pick you up after work, or …”
She walked back behind the register and gave him an amused half smile. “Thanks anyway, Mr. Yocke. I think not.”
Jack lounged against a display case and looked straight into her eyes. “I’ve been taking a class at Georgetown University and the instructor is throwing an end-of-semester class party. The people in the class hardly know each other, so it’s sort of a get-acquainted thing for everyone. Low key. I really would enjoy the pleasure of your company. Please.”
“What’s the class?”
“Spanish.”
Tish Samuels’ grin widened. “I close the store at five on Saturday.”
“See you then. We’ll get a bite somewhere and go party.”
Yocke actually was taking Spanish. He had hopes of breaking out of the cop beat and getting sent to Latin America by the foreign desk. This, he hoped, would be a way to leapfrog over endless, boring years on the metro staff where there were too many reporters covering too few stories — few of them worth the front page.
Out in the car Dorgan asked him, “How many books did you sign, anyway? A couple dozen?”
“Naw. She only had two.”
“If it takes that long to sign just two, you better never write a best-seller.”
By eight p.m. Jack Yocke had learned several things. The Post had never before mentioned the late Walter P. Harrington in any of its articles, and the police had brought in the victim’s wife to make an identification. She had recognized his wallet and wedding ring, so the victim’s name and address were officially released to the press.
Ruing the impulse that had made him tap his Maryland DMV source and renew the man’s claim on a pair of Redskins’ tickets, Yocke wrote as much as he knew, which wasn’t much, and padded the story with all the color he could remember. After he had pushed the right keys to send it on its electronic way to the metro editor, he spent a moment calculating just how many ducats he was in debt. Two pairs for every home game should just about cover it, he concluded. He had a source for tickets, a widow whose husband had bought season tickets years ago when the Redskins weren’t so popular. She kept renewing them to maintain the connection with her husband but almost never went to the games herself.
He was getting his assignments at the metro editor’s desk when one of the national reporters rushed in with a printout of wire service copy he had read on his computer terminal. “Listen to this, you guys. The Colombians just captured Chano Aldana, the big banana of the Medellín cartel. They’re going to extradite him tonight.”
Yocke whistled softly.
“Where are they going to hold him?” the editor asked.
“An ‘undisclosed’ place. The Air Force has a plane on the way down to Bogotá now. Going to bring them back to Miami and turn them over to U.S. marshals. After that, they’re all mum.”
“I guess the lid’s off, now,” Yocke said to no one in particular as the national reporter hurried away. “It’ll blow off,” he added, scanning the big room for Ottmar Mergenthaler, the political columnist with whom he had been having a running argument about the drug issue. Mergenthaler was nowhere in sight.
Just as well, Yocke concluded. The columnist believed, and had written ad nauseam, that traditional law enforcement methods adequately funded and vigorously applied would be sufficient to handle the illegal drug epidemic. Yocke had argued that police and courts didn’t have even a sporting chance against the drug syndicates, which he compared to a bloated, gargantuan leech sucking the blood from a dying victim.
The verbal sparring between the talented newcomer, Yocke, and the pro with thirty years of journalism experience had not prevented a friendship. They genuinely liked each other.
As Yocke marshaled his arguments yet again to fire at the man who wasn’t there, he took stock of the Post newsroom. It was populated by literate, informed, opinionated people, every one of whom subconsciously assumed that Washington was the center of the universe and the Post was the axis on which it turned.
This newspaper and The New York Times were the career zeniths that every journalist aimed for, Yocke thought, at least those with any ambition. Yocke knew. He had ambition enough for twenty men.
Jack Yocke and the photographer were headed for Laurel to interview the Harringtons’ neighbors — and, if possible, the widow herself — when Vinnie Pioche and Tony Anselmo finished their meal and strode out into the gloom of the Washington evening.
They took their time walking toward the parking garage. A lady of the evening standing on the corner watched them come toward her, took a step their way, then abruptly changed her mind after a good look at Vinnie’s face. Tony knew Vinnie pretty well, and he knew that look. It would freeze water.
Once in the car they drove to a garage in Arlington and beeped the horn once in front of the door, which began to open within seconds.
The fat gent inside was smoking a foul cigar. He handed them a pair of keys to a ten-year-old Ford sedan. Tony used one of the keys to open the trunk. Inside was a sawed-off twelve-gauge pump shotgun, a box of twenty-five buckshot cartridges, latex surgical gloves, and two nine-millimeter pistols. They pulled on the gloves before they touched the weapons or the car.
Vinnie stared at the pistols, then ignored them. Tony helped himself to one and made sure the clip was full and there was a round in the chamber while his companion carefully loaded the shotgun, then placed five more cartridges in his right jacket pocket.
Tony slid behind the wheel and started the car. The engine started on the first crank and the gas gauge read full. He let it idle while Vinnie arranged himself in the passenger seat and laid the sawed-off on his lap, the barrel pointed toward the door.
Anselmo nodded at the cigar smoker, who pushed the button for the garage door opener.
“Nice car,” Tony said to Vinnie, who didn’t reply. He had used up most of his conversational repertoire at dinner, when he had grunted and nodded to acknowledge Tony’s occasional comments on the food or the weather.
Vinnie Pioche had the personality of a warthog, Tony reflected yet again as he piloted the car across the Francis Scott Key Bridge back into Washington. Still, a more workmanlike hitter would be hard to find. Through the years, when somebody had a contract and wanted it done just right, with no repercussions, they sent for Vinnie. He was reliable. Or he used to be. These days he was getting … not goofy … but a little out of control, out there on the edge of something that sane men rarely see. Which was precisely why Tony was here. “Make sure it goes okay, Tony.”
They found a parking place a hundred feet from the row house they wanted, just a block east of Vermont, a mile or so northeast of downtown. Tony killed the lights and the engine. The two men sat silently, watching the street and the occasional car that rattled over the potholes.