George Pelecanos (35 page)

Jimmy
got into his black Buick and returned to the place where he and Ricci were
keeping the colored gal. When he had first heard the assignment, he was
excited. Wow, he thought, the daughter of the owners of his favorite R&B
label. Jimmy loved R&B; his hero, from his own tribe, was Louis Prima, the
Italian-American who sounded colored because he had grown up in New Orleans. As
a street-corner boy, one of the last Italians who lived in East Harlem before
the spics took it over, Jimmy Falco had sung on stoops with his group, Spics
& Spades. Darker than most Italians, he passed for PR, and fucked as many
of them as he did Italian gals.
Colored women?
Shit,
he couldn't get enough: sweet, dark butter.

After
the two hoods grabbed the girl blocks away from Howard University earlier that
week, they had driven out to Maryland and put a lid on her. She was scared
crazy. She should be. Ricci was as big as the Hydrant was short, though the
latter was in charge. Five-foot-four, one hundred seventy pounds of muscle and
man, Jimmy was on the rise as a soldier and future crew leader; he followed
orders, but did so with style and stealth. Whenever he put some sucker to
sleep, he carried out his assignment as painlessly as possible.

But
whacking a dame? Orders were orders. The business transaction didn't go right,
and something new had come up.

When
he turned the bend onto the gravel road, he could see stars winking at him
through the trees above. The air was clean, unlike stinky New York. He parked,
then pulled his squat muscular body out of the car, lit a Camel, and trudged
toward the little bungalow. He would give Ricci the order to waste her. When he
reached the door, he knocked on it three times but heard nothing. He looked
around, placed his hand on his heater, and knocked again.
Still
no response.
He put his ear to the door and listened.

That motherfucker.

Jimmy
darted around to the side of the bungalow and peeked into the window of the
bedroom where the hostage was being kept. Ricci, a towering hulk, was having
his way with the girl, who was sitting on the bed with her arms and legs bound.

Jimmy
cursed himself for leaving Ricci with her. Ricci had talked about doing
something to her, but they both knew that anything untoward with a hostage was
strictly forbidden unless sanctioned by the don.

Now,
Jimmy had an extremely serious disciplinary problem on his hands; it was a good
thing that Ricci wasn't a "made" man. The Hydrant went to the back door and
quietly jimmied the lock. Crossing the room without a sound, he pulled out his
silencer and affixed it to his piece.

When
Ricci heard his name, he knew instantly he was dead. But reflex action made him
go for his holster. The Hydrant plugged him four times: one in the head, two to
his heart, and the fourth blew off his putz.

The
colored gal screamed her head off until Jimmy told her to shut up and pulled
her into the living room. She was in shock, having been struck a few times by
Ricci before he molested her.

Exhausted
and disoriented, Jimmy decided to report the sudden turn of events. Jimmy
untied her legs and told her to grab her shoes. They were heading out.

Back
at the rest stop, he parked the car and looked at her.

"I'm
sorry about what happened," he said. "That was very unprofessional. That's why
he was punished. I have to make a call. If you even try to get out of the car,
I'll have to take care of you the way I took care of him. Do you understand?"

The
girl was still in shock but had enough awareness to grasp what the short but
handsomely ugly man was saying. Jimmy left the car, made his calls, and was
back in. He looked at the colored gal again and thought about what he had to
do, something that sickened him.

As
they approached D.C., two other cars joined them and they drove together to
Union Station. Late at night, under the sleepy eyes of indifferent travelers,
an exchange was made: a life for a life.

Connie
D'Ambrosio, dressed in a chic Chanel suit, was escorted by Dr. Minister Mallory
Rex and his chief lieutenant; keeping security were several well-dressed black
men known as the Sword of Izlam. Sophia Devereaux, dressed in the dungaree
slacks and red cashmere sweater she had been wearing for days, was escorted by
Jimmy the Hydrant; they were backed up by several Gambino hoods.

The
two men in charge said nothing. They each nodded, prompting their hostages to
cross over to their respective.

Finally,
Jimmy spoke: "Mr. D'Ambrosio wishes for me to convey his apologies to the
Devereaux family about this misunderstanding, and assures you that it will
never happen again."

"It
better not," came the curt reply from the minister. He turned around, taking
Sophia with him, his security team covering their backs.

Both
parties vanished as the early morning sun seeped through the large windows of
the train station.

Jimmy
and two other members of the Gambino family headed north with Connie, who held
the photos and negatives in her purse, greatly relieved that the whole
situation was over. She talked about the "spades" and how they had kept her locked
up. The boring food they served her...how stupid those moulianis were. She
carried on for a while in this manner.

The
car soon pulled back onto the gravel road and came to a stop at the bungalow.
Jimmy, sitting up front, told the driver and the other guy, Marcos, to go
inside and collect Ricci's body, which would be stuffed into the trunk.

The
Hydrant didn't understand what hit him: It was very unprofessional, but he
started to cry. He was spent.

"What's
the matter, Jimmy?" asked Connie, who treated the lug as one of many "uncles."

"Nothing,"
he choked. When Connie reached forward to console him, he grabbed her arm and
pulled her over the seat before she could feel his stiletto cutting her throat.

"Why?"
asked Rex.

The
Messenger had sent the photos of Connie D'Ambrosio cavorting with Douglas to
her father. The Messenger knew that her father would be compelled to murder her
to avenge his honor as a man of respect. The deal was that the young woman
would call her father and tell him she was being held in exchange for another
person--nothing more.

Rex
felt
that sending the photos was a betrayal, and that
the young woman, though a she-devil, had been needlessly sacrificed. "We gave
our word," he said. "That means something."

"My
son," reflected the Messenger, feeling triumphant, "you gave your word.
Besides, one's word only means something if the other person is worthy of
receiving it."

As
a gift, the Messenger handed Rex a copy of one of his favorite books:
Machiavelli's The Prince

Dr.
Minister Mallory Rex withdrew from his teacher's chamber. He had been firmly
reinstated, with good standing, into the O.K.A., and the Messenger's son,
Kwami, would become an executive at Groove Records. But as he walked through
the halls of the Temple of Ife No. 1, taking in the admiring gazes of those he
passed, the minister wondered what the cost was to his soul, and how long would
he keep it.

Time
would tell.

THE DUPE

BY JIM FUSILLI

K Street, N.W.

Though
it was not quite 1 o'clock, the Bombay Club was already filled to capacity for
Sunday brunch. Its decor reminiscent of a British officers' lounge in
occupied India, the restaurant's dining room shimmered with the buzz of
convivial conversation from the customary mix of Senators, Congressmen, White
House aides, K Street lobbyists, TV pundits, and print journalists. The
insiders acknowledged each other discretely.

Surrounded
by the whiff of coriander and piano jazz played with stately reserve, Jordan
Port sat at the bar, his back to the clipped cordiality. He hunched into his
camel's hair topcoat, its collar turned high, incredulous still that Mendes had
invited him to where he was no longer welcomed.

Port
had known Mendes for decades; he interned under her at the Des Moines Register,
and she edited his first book, Restoring the Soul of America, a surprising
bestseller that had made him all the more useful in the eyes of his handlers.
Though the two had lunch together earlier in the week, he accepted her email
invitation to the Bombay Club because he needed her. Taking a circuitous route
that revealed his desperation, he arrived at the restaurant two blocks from the
White House grounds well aware she was likely his last friend.

Sweating
under his violet shirt and black cashmere blazer, Port anxiously surveyed the
room through the veined mirror behind the bar. He saw a half dozen people with
whom he'd had dinner at their homes, and there were at least that many with
whom he had shared a dais at a conference or a podium at a rally.

They
are shunning me, he thought.
Every one of them.

And
all he had done was write a new book, one that could be summarized by what
Ronald Reagan said some thirty years ago

"When
we begin thinking of government as instead of they, we've been here too long."

"Mr.
Port?"

He
turned to find a young Indian man, a rail-thin bus-boy.

"Mr.
Port," he said compliantly, "a message, please, from Ms. Mendes. She prefers
for you to wait outside."

Port
looked into the man's dark eyes for a sign of sincerity. He wondered if the
restaurant's manager had been asked to send him elsewhere.

"Please,
sir," said the Indian man with a sweep of his arm. "The lady is waiting."

Port
nodded, left the bar stool, and headed out onto Connecticut Avenue.

He
was greeted there by pale sunlight and a sinewy black man who crossed the
avenue to approach him. The black man wore a vest with the yellow logo of a
company that owned a chain of parking garages. The winter wind rippled the
sleeves of his white shirt.

He
towered over Port, who was as lithe and delicate as a young teen.

"She's
in Room 523 at the St. Regis," he said, repeating the room number.

Port
shivered and dropped his hands into his coat pockets. "I don't understand. The
St. Regis--"

"Ana
Mendes," he said directly. "You'd better go now."

Port
nodded and began to walk briskly toward I Street.

When
Port turned the corner, the valet dashed back across Connecticut Avenue to the
garage where the Indian busboy was behind the wheel of a black Cadillac
Escalade. The valet removed the uniform top he'd been given and tossed it
behind the front seat.

The
busboy drove quickly toward I Street, but not so fast as to overtake Port.

The
St. Regis was one block away.

Five
days earlier, Port was summoned to Off the Record, a clubby bar in the basement
of the Hay Adams Hotel. Douglas Weil Jr. was waiting, and with a wave he called
him to a cherrywood table set deep in a dark corner. Framed political cartoons
and caricatures rested on the wall above Weil's neat salt-and-pepper hair.

Weil
had ordered a 2001 Viognier from a Virginia winery, and he poured Port a glass
as his guest crossed the crowded room and eased into the banquette.

"Thank
you for coming on such short notice, Jordie," he said.

"Always
a pleasure, Doug," he replied cheerfully, concealing his nervousness.

They
were both in their mid-forties, but Port's famed boyishness and Weil's grinding
sense of purpose made them seem years apart.

Before
Port could reply, Weil said, "My father is disappointed, Jordie."

Port
waited for Weil to fill his glass before he offered a silent toast.

Weil
returned the gesture, though his eyes were slits. "I read the manuscript," he
said, as the glasses met. "You are way, way out of line."

"What
did your father say?" He sipped the delightful wine, a favorite for its taste
rich in peaches and apricots, and heady floral bouquet. "He knows we have to
take back--"

The
thickset Weil leaned toward his guest. "Don't, Jordie," he said, through
gritted teeth. "I read it. I don't want to have to hear it."

Port
had known a warning was coming, and he surmised it might be Weil who delivered
it. Off the Record, a favorite of the city's political
insiders,
was a suitable venue: All of Washington would know he'd been chastised, and thus
responsibility for his actions couldn't be attributed to the American Center
for Culture in Communications, of which Doug was president and his father
founder and chairman emeritus.

But
Port believed Weil could be swayed. "The principles your father shared with
President Reagan mean nothing to these people, Doug. You know this."

Jutted
chin hovering above the table candle, Weil said, "Don't be a simpleton, Jordie.
We have what we've worked toward for more than thirty years. No one is walking
away from it because of you."

"When
Ronald Reagan said a balanced budget was essential to restoring America, Doug,
the deficit was $66 billion," Port continued. "Today, it's more than ten times
that--after Clinton brought it to zero."