handkerchief. He clutched his chest and hacked, careful not to stain the floor. A rancid odor filled the air. His chest rattled, his eyes watered. He leaned on one of the tombs for balance. It took a few moments for him to regain his strength. Death whispered. Come. “Not today,” Charlie answered, and quickly went back to work.
Charlie opened the casket, put the duffle bag and rifle inside, locked it, then quickly slid it back into place. The last bolt fastened the slab tight. The door cracked open. Tim.
A thousand needles pierced Charlie’s lungs and he struggled to suppress the bloody burst. Tim turned down his row, Charlie dipped down the next, and headed for the back door.
“Hey you! Stop!”
Charlie hit the door holding his chest, blood running from his nose.
He disappeared into the brush on the south side of the cemetery, just behind the mausoleum.
He struggled over a short metal fence and vanished down a path he’d traveled for four decades. Charlie looked back. Nothing. He fell to his knees and coughed so hard he almost passed out in the grass. Tears filled his eyes. He shut them tight, and saw President Kennedy’s head explode, over and over.
The attack passed. He went on his way. The evidence safe once again.
6
Robert and Thorne searched their building and the immediate area around it. Nothing. They fanned out separately covering a half-mile radius, but Charlie was a ghost. Robert grabbed a couple of winks on the couch in his office then headed for Skid Row and the homeless area across town. Thorne opted to look for the Bear.
By noon, most of Washington shook off the Monday morning blues and charged full steam into another week of the important and unimportant. Only a trace of the previous night’s cold remained, and a clear cloudless sky teased the first hint of spring.
Robert’s shark gray Mustang muscled in and out of the traffic. At Constitution Avenue he waited for ten minutes as two busloads of British children crossed the street to the Capitol Building, cameras flashing, fingers pointing. Ten minutes later, the pristine buildings, Hugo Boss suits, leather briefcases, and Rolex watches, disappeared; giving way to the bastard child half of the city’s strange dichotomy.
Homeless men, women, and children lined the streets less than a few miles from the White House. Robert pulled past the aftermath of failed lives and empty promises, unconcerned. Sad, but not my problem .
He parked in a narrow alley between two dingy brick buildings and negotiated with six grime-covered, half toothless men eager to insure his car’s safety. Minutes later, he methodically navigated through an endless maze of cardboard condos and rusted-out shopping carts, carefully searching each weathered face, describing Charlie to anyone lucid enough to understand.
“Help me get something to eat?”
“Brother, can you spare a quarter?”
“Mister, I’m hungry and can’t find my mommy.”
“My wallet was stolen and I need carfare to get home.”
“I ain’t gonna lie. I need some money for beer. Will you help?” Panhandlers, drug addicts, the mentally ill. Some slept under staircases, between garbage dumpsters, and in open fields, their bodies wrapped in large sheets of plastic or copies of the Washington Post.
Soup and bread lines stretched for blocks, like concert-goers waiting for tickets to see Springsteen or Madonna. Kids “dumpster dived” for food or things they could trade, and an elderly black man in dark glasses played a plastic flute for spare change.
“No, I ain’t never seen nobody like that,” a bag lady stammered, swigging beer from a can in a brown paper sack. “If ya gots a few dollars I’ll be careful to watch out tho.” Robert smiled, declined her offer, and moved through a small park in the middle of the area. Crowded with destitute men, prostitutes, johns, drug dealers, addicts, and a few neglected children, used needles and crack vials peppered the grass like common pieces of trash, picked up, examined, and reused at random. Urine and decay fermented the air.
Sirens competed for attention with rap music pounding from a boom box.
At picnic tables, some played chess and dominos, while onlookers drank wine, stared blankly into space, or just talked to themselves.
Ninety minutes later, Robert got the feeling even if they did know, no one here would tell him where to find Charlie. An outsider, he could expect little more than silence. He finished up in the park and headed back for his car.
“Hey you, Mister,” a cement mixer voice shouted.
A haggard man in a wheelchair waved to him from a half a block away, rolling in his direction. Legless from the knees down, his clothing looked so worn, it was not readily obvious he wore Marine dress blues.
Three tarnished medals dangled from his chest.
“Popeye Michaels at your service,” he said, pushing long salt-and-pepper hair out of his eyes. “People around here call me Popeye.” Robert introduced himself and shook Popeye’s hand. He recognized one of the ornaments clinging to the old vet’s chest. The Congressional Medal of Honor.
Popeye wrapped his hair in a ponytail, securing it with a rubber band.
“I understand you’re looking for someone, and thought I could be of help.”
“Can you?” asked Robert.
“That depends on who you are,” answered Popeye. “Folks around here ain’t big on strangers, especially ones carrying that kind of heat.” He pointed to the bulges under Robert’s arms. “Looks like nine’s from here.”
Robert smiled and knelt down. The stench of cheap gin on Popeye was strong, but better than most of what he’d smelled that day.
“Yes, they’re nines,” said Robert. “Look, Charlie’s a friend, and I need to speak to him. It’s urgent.”
Popeye flashed a mouthful of deep yellow teeth and black cavities.
“Everything’s urgent around here, Mr. Veil,” he said. “And I’m sorry, but Charlie ain’t got no friends.”
He spun the chair around and rolled away, forcing several cursing people off the sidewalk.
Robert caught up and jumped in his path.
“You idiot,” Popeye snapped. “You could’ve killed me.” Robert took a deep breath. “Listen, Charlie came to my office last night looking for help, then disappeared. No, we’re not friends, but it’s very important that I see him right away.” Popeye’s eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned his head to one side.
“Okay,” he said, after a long minute. “Follow me into my office.” He wheeled up the street, whirled into an alley, and stopped. “Exactly what do you want with ole Charlie?”
Exasperated, Robert bit his tongue. “Like I said, he came to me with a problem, then disappeared.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I can’t say. It’s confidential.”
“Good,” said Popeye, a smile on his face. “I like that. You sure you’re not a cop?”
“No, I’m not,” said Robert. “Let’s just say I’m a freelancer.” Popeye sucked air through one of his cavities then took a deep breath.
“I don’t exactly know where he is,” he said. “Charlie’s always moving around, coming and going. And around here, everybody minds their own business.”
Robert pulled out his wallet, a business card and two twenty’s, and handed them to Popeye.
“I know you probably don’t like charity,” said Robert.
“Whatever gave you that impression?” answered Popeye, snatching the money from his hand.
Robert laughed. “If you hear or see anything, hit a pay phone and call me.”
Popeye pocketed the card and money. “I never said I didn’t have any info for you. I just said I didn’t know where Charlie was right now.” Robert raised an eyebrow.
“Go over to the Crossroads Rescue Mission on R Street NW. Ask for Patrick Miller. He’ll be able to help you. Meanwhile I will keep an eye out.”
Robert jumped out of the way as Popeye hurled out of the alley. He called out to the crippled vet, who turned his chair.
“Was Charlie sick or injured that you know of?”
