Incident on Walsh Street
A Novella
by
Thomas C. Stone
Cooper’s Press
http://www.cooperspress.com
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Thomas C. Stone
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-1-877557-24-8
More Titles by Thomas C. Stone:
To The Stars
Stolen Worlds
Minerva’s Soul
The Harry Irons Trilogy
Rolling Thunder
Gender Wars
Song Of The Elowai
Smolif
I
Treasury Agent James Molder slumped in the darkened front seat of his nondescript sedan. Walsh Street was clear of traffic. In front of the old brownstone building he watched a man in a chauffeur’s uniform as he waited for a giant white poodle to do its business. A yellow Porsche roadster pulled to a stop at the corner and Molder stopped watching the dog walker. The car pulled onto Walsh, proceeded to the garage, and turned inside.
She was punctual. In all the time he’d watched her, she was always where she was supposed to be. Never any surprises. Work, home, the occasional dinner party or a movie with friends, nothing unusual. Just another beltway professional, except for her association with one particular individual.
Molder looked at his wristwatch, jotted the time into a notepad and looked back to the building. Exactly two minutes passed before a light appeared in a window on the fourth floor. She was home and most likely in for the night. Now he could take his dinner break.
Dropping his chin to his collar, Molder spoke into a tiny microphone. “Howard? Everything okay?”
“Just fine,” came the reply through his earpiece. “She’s already in the shower.”
“How’s the view?”
“Pretty fucking incredible, actually.”
“Howard, you’re a dog.”
“Goes with the job.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have to starve. I’m going for a pastrami.”
“Okay. See you in an hour?”
“Probably less. Call you when I’m back.”
“Roger that.”
Molder stepped from the sedan and stretched. Watching the woman was an easy job but it meant hours on end of just sitting. It had rained earlier so the evening air was fresh. Early summer had caught most Washington residents by surprise and not a few missed the cool breezes of the short spring.
Molder walked to the end of the block and rounded the corner. Just as he reached the deli, another car, a sleek silver Lexus, slowed on the street outside the brownstone and passed unnoticed into the underground garage. It parked in the empty supervisor’s space and a middle-aged man climbed out.
*
Six months prior, a tenant was mugged in the same underground garage, so now it was Carter’s habit to take unusual precautions. He felt the pistol tucked away inside his coat pocket. He didn’t like carrying it and was uncertain if he would use it if the occasion arose but somehow the weight lent him confidence and he patted the gun reassuringly.
He went to the rear of the Lexus and pulled a cardboard box from the trunk, then carried the box to the elevator. At ground level, he stepped from the lift and walked to the super’s apartment where he leaned on the bell.
A voice floated from the intercom. “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Open up, will you? I’ve got the cleaning stuff.”
“Okay, just a minute.”
Carter waited at the door and shifted his hold on the box. As expected, Fritz took his time. Finally, the locks clicked open and the door swung open. Fritz was still using the wheelchair.
“How long until the cast comes off?”
“Doctor says another three weeks.”
Carter sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
Fritz looked surprised. “Oh. That. That’s some incense I got to cover cooking odors.”
Carter frowned. “Yeah, right. Look, if you’ve got to smoke that stuff, at least do it in the bathroom with the vent on. If the old man knew, he’d tell me to fire you. Besides, Roselyn will smell it on my clothes.”
Fritz held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I’m sitting in here all day with a busted leg, can’t get out, you know how it is. Say, you want a beer? Put the box down. You in a hurry?”
Carter placed the box on the kitchen table. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have a beer.” He took a bottle from the refrigerator and walked into the living room. Fritz taxied in behind. The TV was on and a commentator described the projected effects of the President’s latest stimulus package. Carter sat on the couch and popped the beer.
“Three more weeks, huh?
“That’s what the doctor said.”
“Any problems with the tenants?”
“A couple, but I just called the plumber. The bill is gonna be outrageous because he had to come Sunday afternoon.”
Carter nodded and took a sip. Fritz’s apartment was the only place he could relax anymore. Since the old man retired, things were always hectic at the office. Home was even worse. As a couple, he and Roselyn were in a state of decay yet still co-dependent. The kids blocked it out with practiced periods of avoidance and solemn resignation to a imperfect world. At home, the phone always rang with one inane problem or another from the properties he managed. He didn’t have to worry about those things at Carter’s. He could have a beer at Carter’s. Although Roselyn was usually stiff by tea-time, she didn’t like Carter to drink. She said she didn’t like the person he became.
“Had a circuit breaker trip last week,” Fritz continued, “remember?”
Carter nodded.
“Blew again yesterday. Well, it didn’t blow, it tripped. No big deal.”
“Should we call an electrician?”
“I don’t think so. It’s kind of an odd thing. Never done that before. Not with two apartments sitting vacant. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
The television displayed an account of British social unrest with vivid pictures of policemen being swarmed by angry Muslims. Fritz shook his head.
“Riots in London, the center of civility. Who’d have guessed.”
Carter shrugged and took another sip. “It’s a crazy world, Fritz.”
“You can say that again. By the way, there was some weight in the building Saturday night. Limo in the garage, bodyguard lurking in the lobby, the whole deal.”
Curious, Carter looked at Fritz. “Really? Who was it?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t see them come in and didn’t see them go out. Bodyguards stood in front of the cameras. Can you believe that? If there’s a next time, I’m going to get an autograph. Do you know how much authentic autographs of Elvis are going for?”
“Elvis is dead.”
“That’s what they say. One hundred and fifty dollars, that’s how much.”
“You think Elvis is visiting someone in our building?”
Fritz was silent a moment. He shook his head. “No, not Elvis. It can’t be. He doesn’t travel in limos anymore. He’s in cognito.”
The TV switched to the commentator again as he reported a case of sexual assault. With a grave face, the newswoman reported the accounts of anonymous victims. One was shown with a computer-distorted face as she tearfully described her ordeal.
“I thought it was an initiation into the club,” the victim said. “I didn’t know what they really had in mind. At first it was just a regular party. You know, everybody was having a good time, drinking, dancing, cuttin’ up a little bit. Next thing I know they’re tearing my clothes off.”
Fritz sniffed. “What does she expect, hanging around with animals like that?”
“It’s a sick world,” Carter murmured. He took a long pull off the beer and finished it off. “Is there anything else that needs to be done?”
“Well, let’s see. Smoke alarms need to be checked on four and five. Mrs. Sumner wants to know if we’ll watch her place while she visits her sister in Tacoma. Oh yeah, it’s time for the elevator maintenance people to come in again.”
“Something wrong?”
“No, it’s just time for the periodic maintenance. Although old man Keitlock claimed the button got stuck on the fourth floor last weekend. I checked it out and it looked all right to me.”
“Is that all?”
“Yep, I think so.”
Carter stood. “All right. I’ll be back Saturday afternoon. If anything comes up before then, let me know and I’ll drive out sooner.”
“Thanks, Carter.”
“Just lay off the pot, okay? We have an exclusive clientele here. If you got caught, I probably wouldn’t be able to help you.”
“All right,” said Fritz.
“Thanks for the beer. Call my office if you need help.”
*
After Carter let himself out, Fritz locked the door and wheeled himself back into the living room. He reached under the couch and retrieved a tray that held a small amount of marijuana.
As he rolled a joint, the anchor-woman told him about another delay in the release of FBI files concerning anti-American activity.
II
Without fanfare, the black stretch limo pulled out of the Justice Department parking lot. With a nondescript sedan in front and another behind, the caravan headed west down Constitution. Instead of turning up 15th Street toward the White House, the cars continued past Virginia Avenue, past the Lincoln Memorial, and over the Potomac onto the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. On the west side of the river, they turned north and followed the George Washington Memorial Parkway.
In one hand, the limo’s occupant, the President and Chief Executive of the United States, held a crystal glass that contained an unblended twelve year old Scotch. The other hand held papers that he perused as he sipped his drink.
Although it had been a long day, the President looked fresh. During the course of the day, he’d changed shirts three times and twice changed suits. Unknown to the public, the President had a glandular problem and tended to sweat profusely. Sometimes, even with his medication, he quickly soaked through his clothes, especially on warm days. His innumerable showers and Sisyphean attention to dress constantly made him late for meetings.
He punched a digit on his auto dialer and the cell phone dialed an unlisted number. The connection buzzed once before it was answered.
“Yes sir?”
“Everything prepared?” asked the chief executive.
“Affirmative, sir. When can we expect you?”
The President peered at his gold wristwatch. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Very good sir. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.” He hung up without another word and faced his aide.
“Sure you won’t have a drink?”
“Not while I’m on duty, sir.”
“Suit yourself.” He hoisted his glass. “My work day is over.”
“Yes sir,” the bodyguard said, “you relax for a while. You’ve earned it.”
“Damn right.” He drained the Scotch and poured another.
A fax machine attached to the bar began to buzz causing the bottles to rattle. “Incoming, sir,” the aide observed.
“Hand it to me.”
The aide took the single page from the machine and passed it along. The President took a sip before reading the one paragraph communiqué.
“Damn, damn, damn!”
“Something wrong, sir?”
“When is anything right in this country?” the President snapped back. “Tell the driver to turn around and head for the State Department. I can’t even take a few hours off without some backwater, third world country deciding to grab our diplomats. My evening is ruined. Get the press secretary on the phone and tell him to meet me at State. The same for my wife. I want her there as well. Call Miss Roses and extend my apologies. Tell her we’ll shoot for Saturday evening.”
“Yes sir.”
The driver slowed, turned, and drove around the block until he was headed back into Washington. It took only a few minutes to get to the State Department building and the time passed in silence. The President sulked.
III
Carter Smith shut the door and stepped into his kitchen. Hoping to find dinner waiting, he peeped into the oven but nothing was there. He pushed on the door to the dining room and it swung open. Except for a glow coming from the den, the house was dark.
Carter found Roselyn in front of the television working on her second rented movie and her fifth rum and coke. She glanced at him as he entered the room.
“Where are the kids?”
“Where do you think? It’s after ten o’clock, they’re in bed.” Roselyn reached for a cigarette. She lit it and took a deep drag. “You know, it’s a good thing we had those portraits made last Christmas. Without them, your children might forget what you look like.”
Carter sat at the end of the couch. “What are you watching?”
“A movie.”
“I can see that. What’s it about?”
“What does it matter? You’ll sit here for three minutes, then you’ll drag yourself upstairs and go to bed.”
“I was just asking.”
“Well don’t. Just don’t.”
Roselyn was wrong. Carter sat for less than two minutes before announcing he had work to do. “Think I’ll go to the study and do a little reading.”
“Do whatever you want. As for me, I think I’ll have another drink.”
“Maybe you’ve had enough.”
Roselyn gave Carter a fierce look. Her once beautiful face sagged with alcohol bloat. “I’ve already got a father, Carter.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Carter calmly. “I work for him, remember?”
“Yes. And if you want to keep on working, it would be wise to shut up and mind your own business.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’ll talk to you any way I want. Get out of here. Let me watch my movies. Everything was fine until you came in.”
Carter shrugged and stood. Ignoring him, Roselyn concentrated on the television. Carter started to say something more, but thought better. He left the room and went to his study at the other end of the house. Once there, he shut the door, turned on the desk lamp and opened a book to a section he’d promised himself to re-read.
He wasn’t upset with his wife. The daily scenes had become routine and, after nearly half a dozen years of living with the unyielding machinations of an alcoholic mind, he was accustomed to the abuse. Although he didn’t see them much, he still had the kids. Sometimes it seemed a small consolation, but it satisfied him to know that, at least financially, they were taken care of.
The books and magazines piled on his desk revealed his refuge. To chase away the pains of his loveless marriage, Carter immersed himself in political study, reading whatever he could about American politics.
Every night was the same. He came home, exchanged in repartee with his inebriated wife, then disappeared into his study. A little later, he would climb the stairs to his bedroom and go to bed while his wife spent the night passed out on the couch in front of the TV.
He focused on the page in front of him and forced himself to read. In seconds, he was in Dallas on the twenty-second of November, nineteen sixty-three. As he read, he imagined he could hear the shots ring out. In his mind’s eye, he saw President Kennedy’s head snap backwards. Jacqueline, in an unladylike move, climbed onto the back of the open, slow-moving limo, and reached for a large chunk of the President’s skull.
Carter had witnessed the event on video over and over, the moments stolen from time by the hands of amateur photographers. And like millions of people who went about their daily lives despite an inadequate explanation of what they’d seen with their own eyes and even though the event happened nearly fifty years ago, it affected him in ways he still didn’t understand.
Carter read for an hour, until his eyes could no longer focus. He marked his place in the book and turned out the lights. Padding silently upstairs, he removed his shoes and sat upon the bed. Downstairs in the den Roselyn snored. She wouldn’t wake again until her husband had left for work the next day.
IV
In the early morning hours, Turkey invaded Greece as the Taliban overran U. N. forces in Kabul. Losses were heavy. It was particularly significant for the United States in that the U. N. forces were mainly comprised of French and American units. When the Turkish commanders announced their success, the Italian government released a surprising statement in which they aligned themselves with Turkey. The French responded by sending troops to the Italian border. U. S. Marines launched a series of counterattacks against the Taliban but were ordered to stand down by the President after Iranian Scud missiles were launched en masse to destinations in Israel and Iraq. By mid-morning, the United States found itself in the middle of a rapidly expanding global war.
Carter didn’t hear the news until he got to the office. As he walked in, he was greeted by worried expressions from the secretaries.
“What’s up? Somebody die?”
“Worse,” Marge said gravely, “we’re at war.”
Unbelieving, Carter smiled. “At war? With who?”
“Iran, Afghanistan… it’s complicated. Listen for yourself.” She turned up the volume on her desk radio.
Carter listened to an excited broadcaster. “…already over three dozen sorties launched from the aircraft carriers. Eisenhower and Intrepid. Israeli intelligence reports massive civilian casualties and fires raging out of control in Haifa. Missile attacks on U.S. Marine bases near Kabul have fallen short and caused little to no damage on those installations. I’ve just received another report stating that the Israelis have responded with missile attacks on Baghdad as well as selected Iranian military sites.”
There was a pause and after a moment the announcer stated that the President was about to issue a brief statement. “We’ll be switching to the White House press room in just a moment. Oh. We’re ready to go? Ladies and gentlemen, the presi…” He was cut short and his voice was replaced with that of the President.
“…fellow Americans, this morning at approximately six-thirty a.m., Washington time, Taliban forces attacked and destroyed United Nations’ troop positions in Afghanistan. Among those units were fifteen hundred American men and women. At this time, we have no word on survivors. As a result of this action and the devastating attack on Israel by the Iranians, I have informed congress of my decision to invoke the war powers act.”
Marge glanced at her boss. He listened intently to the radio broadcast, disbelief showing in his expression.
“I have instructed members of the Sixth Fleet to conduct a protracted air campaign against selected Iranian targets. I have also mobilized marine reactionary forces to make preparations for an expedition into Taliban held territory in Afghanistan.”
Carter shook his head and muttered to one in particular. “Insanity,” he said.
One of the ladies in the office asked how the country was going to pay for more war. No one answered.
The President continued. “In active participation with the Israeli military, we will share intelligence gathered by satellite and other sources in an effort to identify and destroy Iranian missile positions. That’s all I have for the moment. We will keep the American people notified as more information becomes available. God bless you all.”
Carter looked at the faces gathered around him. More people had drifted into the office and they all looked to him for guidance. The words fell out of his mouth. “Let’s get back to work.” He turned and strode into his office.
The women looked at one another.
“The world’s falling apart and all he can say is get back to work.”
“Sometimes I wonder of he cares about anything.”
From his desk, Carter plainly heard what they said. He sighed and rose and went back to face them.
“Ladies, there’s nothing we can do. It’s out of our hands. Let’s just get back to work and try to do our best under the circumstances.”
Shirley, the file clerk, took the opportunity to announce that she had a doctor’s appointment and had to leave. “I prob’ly won’t be back today,” she said as she hefted her purse and walked out.
She walked past Carter. He wanted to ask why she hadn’t arranged for the time off, but he held his tongue. Instead, he went to the coffee machine and drew himself a cup. He looked around the office. The property agents were at their desks, but everyone was listening to their desk radios and reading internet news. Not much work was going to get done.
Back at his desk, Carter dialed his home. A sleepy voice answered. “Hello?”
“Did you hear the news.”
Recognizing his voice, an edge crept into her reply. “What news?”
“War in the Middle East. Sounds like the President is going to send in the marines.”
“So?”
“Well, I thought you might like to know.”
“Why should I care?”
“I just thought…”
“You just thought my social awareness needed raising,” she interrupted. “Believe me Carter, I couldn’t care less. And you shouldn’t either as long as it doesn’t affect property rates in the city. Have you talked to my father this morning?”
“No.”
“Well, when you do, he’ll tell you what to think about it. Was there anything else?”
“No, I guess not.”
“All right. I’m having my hair done this afternoon so don’t try to chase me down in order to give me a political commentary.” She hung up without saying good-bye.
Carter gently replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair. As he did so, he felt the revolver in his pocket and realized he’d carried the weapon into the office.
V
By eleven o’clock, half the office personnel were missing. Their absences were explained by quickly concocted excuses or scribbled notes left at their desks. Carter carried another cup of coffee to his desk and switched on the television. Video reports showed the ongoing destruction.
The phone buzzed and Carter picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
It was Harold, Roselyn’s father and the controlling stockholder of the corporation.
“How are you this morning, Harold?”
“In the pink. Heard the news/”
“Yes, I was just…”
“War’s big business. All kinds of money are changing hands already. Have you heard the stock reports?” He didn’t wait for Carter to answer. “Markets are going crazy this morning. It’ll end up way down by the end of the day, but fortunes are going to be made before then. It’s a big day. Probably will be rocky the rest of the week. It’ll help our castrated goose of a President too. Nothing like a good war to stir up the country, make people forget about things for awhile. So listen, what I wanted to tell you was to follow through with the plan to raise rates across the board, commercial and residential. This is a golden opportunity and I don’t want to miss it.”
Carter said nothing. The television was muted but he watched the silent video reports as they played scenes of combat in Kabul.
“Carter? Do you hear me? Are you there?”
“Yes, Harold, I’m here. Anything you say.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“No, nothing wrong. I was just wondering how the President is going to respond to all of this, what with all the domestic problems, the economy and all. Might make it easier to push his agenda at home.”
“Don’t be overly concerned. Our business is good. And it’s going to get better. Everything else is just a sideshow. Trust me, I didn’t get rich by worrying about the political climate.”
“I was just saying…”
“I know what you were saying. Politics is a hobby with you. It is with a lot of people. Nothing wrong with that so long as it doesn’t distract you from what’s really going on.”
“Which is?”
“Why, economics, of course. The tides of commerce. That’s what forms our lives. Besides, wars are for other countries.”
“And people who live in ghettoes.”
“Now you’ve got it. I got to go, I’m teeing off in fifteen minutes.”
“One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, the news has quite a few people upset down here.”
“You mean the people who work for us?”
“Yes. Some have asked to be excused for the day. I know I can’t let everybody off, but I was thinking that since it’s Friday anyway, I could close the office early…”
“You must be joking. Carter, we pay those people to work. If you go easy in rough times, we’ll create a larger problem later. All right?”
“Whatever you say, Harold.”
“Good. Gotta go. Have a good one. The old man hung up and Carter turned up the volume on the TV. A newsman pointed to a map and explained the extent of the Taliban incursion.
Marge walked in and dropped the morning paper on Carter’s desk. She looked at the television and paused. For a moment, they watched the newscast in silence.
“Marge?”
She shifted her attention from the TV. “Yes?”
“What do you say we let everybody out an hour early today?”
“Not a bad idea.”
“Tell ‘em to take a long lunch too.”
Marge raised her eyebrows. “Was that Harold’s idea?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“The way everybody’s feeling, nothing is going to get accomplished around here today anyway.”
“All right. I’ll tell the others.”
Carter opened the newspaper. The headlines announced the outbreak of war. He looked over the lead articles for details of the developing conflict and found plenty. It appeared the media, in its effort to prop up the sagging presidency, was scrambling to gain support for the hostilities. Still, considering public dissatisfaction with the domestic agenda, Carter knew the administration would have a hard time selling a prolonged, wide-scale war. On page seventeen, he found a small article detailing the President’s latest fishing trip. A blurred photo showed the President with an unidentified female. The accompanying article hinted at impropriety.
The President was a married man, but the rumors surrounding his predilection for varied female companionship continued to hound him. It was nothing new to the jaded American public. Indeed, a certain segment of the population seemed to accept and even admire the notion that powerful men needed powerful distractions. As a result, like a knowing uncle, the public and the media winked, placed a finger along their collective noses and turned away. Those who didn’t believe the rumors of infidelity assumed they were concocted by the opposition. The general impression was that it was just another part of the daily barrage of gutter politics and deemed by the media to be no more important than a small article on page seventeen.
Carter stared at the grainy photograph. The woman’s face was blurred and she was partially turned away from the camera. Her shoulder length blonde hair hid most of her face, but from what he could see, Carter could just make out the hint of a smile. She looked vaguely familiar.
The phone rang again. Carter hoped it wasn’t Roselyn and picked it up.
“Carter, it’s Fritz. Sorry to bother you.”
“That’s okay.”
“Seen the news?”
“Yeah, it’s bad. What do you need?”
“Thought you might like to drive out tonight, have a couple of beers. Still got a problem with the elevator sticking on the fourth floor. From this wheelchair, I can’t get access to the switch panel. It’s probably a bad breaker. Think you could come out and take a look? Or send somebody out?”
“I’m a little short-handed. I was planning on coming tomorrow afternoon anyway.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just that there’s some other stuff going on.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s kind of weird. Had a visit from some boys who claimed they were from the Treasury Department.”
“You forget to pay your taxes?”
“No, nothing like that. They said we had a resident who was involved in some high government circles and they were doing a standard security inspection.”
“Which tenant did they say?”
“They didn’t. They wouldn’t tell me. They mainly wanted to know about access codes to the front and the garage entrance. You know, I knew something was going on.”
“What else did they say?”
“That’s about all really.”
“Well, if you can wait until tomorrow, I’d prefer to come out then. If it’s an emergency, we can call the elevator service people.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m pretty sure it’s a breaker problem. If we call the pros in, they’ll gouge us for sure. Tomorrow will be okay.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
Carter hung up and turned back to the television. For the remainder of the day he set a poor example for the office and watched the war news.
VI
Carter slept in but got up in time to take his son to a Little League baseball game. The stands were crowded with parents who sought distraction from current events. Carter’s ten-year-old played a good game, getting two hits and scoring twice, glancing to his dad for approval and encouragement.
During the course of the game, one of the parents lost his temper and made a fool of himself. The man’s daughter was a catcher with the opposing team and had tried to block the plate and tag the runner during a squeeze play. Unfortunately for her, the boy racing towards home barreled into her and sent her sprawling, dropping the ball in the process.
The umpire spread his hands wide. “Safe!” he shouted.
The boy got up and trotted to his dugout, but the girl remained on the ground, blood dripping from her nose. That was when her father went berserk and ran onto the field.
Both coaches met him at home plate to inspect the damage. The injury wasn’t as bad as it looked. The father, however, was beyond consolation.
“He’s playing too rough!” He pointed at the opposing team’s dugout. “He should be out!”
One of the coaches mumbled, “Sometimes it’s a rough game.”
“Well it shouldn’t be – not with girls playing. That boy should be thrown out of the game!”
The catcher was up by then, but it didn’t stem her father’s anger. He turned to the umpire. “What are you going to do about this?”
“Well, sir, if you get off the field, I’m going to resume the game.”
“What about that boy?” Are you going to let him continue to play?”
“Sir, it’s a game. Things happen. No rules were broken.”
The father was incredulous. “No rules were broken? How about letting that bully hurt my daughter? There’s no rules covering that?”
By this time, the man was toe to toe with the umpire. Fear showed on the umpire’s face. The coaches, sensing more ugliness, stood on either side so they could restrain him should it become necessary, which it soon did. Each coach held him by an arm as he screamed profanities at the ump. When his tirade ebbed, he was finally convinced to leave the field.
The man and his daughter walked past Carter headed for their car. Carter realized the girl’s tears were more from embarrassment and shame rather than her injured nose.
“We’ll see about this,” the man huffed as he marched away.
A spectator sitting beside Carter leaned over and said, “There’s going to be trouble. That man is an assistant D.A.”
Carter watched as the lawyer and his daughter climbed into a new Mercedes. The girl kept her head down and cried.
After the game, Carter drove his own son home.
“Dad, why did that man get so mad?”
“I don’t know. I guess because when his daughter got knocked down, he was afraid she might be hurt. You know, I mean really hurt, like a broken leg or a split head. He got scared. Then he got mad and made a fool of himself.”
“Well, if he thought she was hurt, why did he get mad?”
“First he got scared. And when he saw there wasn’t anything to be scared about, the burst of energy…”
“Caused by the adrenaline,” interjected the boy.
“That’s right. When that happened, the energy had to go somewhere. So it went into anger. He got mad at everybody because there was nothing to be mad about in the first place.”
“That’s pretty stupid.”
“Yeah, but it happens to everybody at one time or another. Your mother would say it was inappropriate behavior.”
“I’ve heard her say that before.”
Carter laughed. “I’ll bet you have.”
When they pulled into the drive, Roselyn’s Volvo was missing. Gone shopping, Carter surmised.
“Good game, son.”
“Thanks dad,” he jump from the car and ran into the house.
Not counting the basement, the house was a rambling, three-story affair that sat in the middle of a full acre of meticulously groomed lawn, shrubs, and trees. Roselyn was fastidious about it. At least, she used to be. Now she had the son of a Vietnamese refugee as her gardener. The garage was large enough for four cars, although they had only the two. Additionally, there was a workshop and a gardener’s shed.
A lot of stuff, Carter thought. You’d think it would be enough. Once again noting Roselyn’s absence, he glanced at his watch and saw he had an hour before time to go to the brownstone in Georgetown. Carter strolled into the house, got a beer from the refrigerator, and went to his study.
Quietly shutting the door, he turned to a stack of video cassettes. He selected one, took it from its case, and inserted the tape into the machine. Sitting behind his desk, he tapped the play button on the remote and took a sip of beer. The ancient VCR sprang to life and the television displayed the opening credits from Oliver Stone’s movie about the Kennedy assassination.
VII
Absorbed by the video, Carter neglected to watch the clock. Even so, when he realized it was time to get up, he lingered. He heard a car and looked out his window. Roselyn piloted her Volvo up the drive.
He dropped his feet from the desktop and felt for his shoes. Simultaneously, he took the empty beer can and shoved it to the bottom of his bronze trash can. As he wiggled one foot into a shoe, he reached for the remote. It slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor.
He scrambled around the desk and picked it up as Roselyn entered the kitchen. Punching the TV off, he reached for his other shoe. Roselyn’s steps echoed up the polished wooden floors toward the study. Carter felt a rush of panic course through his body. He pushed the remaining foot into the second shoe and Roselyn opened the door.
She looked around as if looking for something else, perhaps some evidence that her husband was wasting his time on idle pursuits. “What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to go to Georgetown.”
“Yes. I was just on my way out. I’m running a little late.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Why what?”
Roselyn crossed her arms over her expensive, enhanced breasts and eyed her husband. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he answered, irritation creeping in his voice, “just relaxing for awhile before I have to go.”
“I know you better than that.” She looked around the book-lined study. “As a matter of fact, I know you better than you know yourself.” Seeing the VCR was on, she touched the eject button and the machine spat out the tape. She pulled it out and read the title. Carter tried to watch her, but his eyes wouldn’t obey, instead he looked at the floor, the desktop, the books on the shelves, anything but the woman in front of him.
“Carter, you promised. You promised you’d quit looking at this conspiracy crap.” She waved the cassette at him. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a waste of time! It doesn’t matter anymore!” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to think, You broke your promise.”
“Look Roz, I never promised…”
“Are you contradicting me?”
Carter sighed. “No, Roz.”
Roselyn, satisfied, took a breath and softened a little. “It’s your own time, I know. I understand that, but it’s just that I think you could spend it a little more wisely. This stuff you watch,” she waved the cassette in the air, “does nothing to enhance your life. It makes you nervous. It makes you think too much. And when you think too much you stop enjoying life.” Roselyn placed her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes dear.”
“It’s for your own good. You understand that, don’t you?”