Pop Goes the Weasel (3 page)

So let the games begin. The Four Horsemen.

At ten twenty-five, he went down to the garage again. He carefully circled around the Jaguar and walked to the purple and
blue taxicab. He had already begun to lose himself in delicious fantasy.

Shafer reached into his pants pocket and pulled out three unusual-looking dice. They were twenty-sided, the kind used in most
fantasy games, or RPGs. They had numerals on them rather than dots.

He held the dice in his left hand, rolling them over and over.

There were explicit rules to the Four Horsemen; everything was supposed to depend on the dice roll. The idea was to come up
with an outrageous fantasy, a mindblower. The four players around the world were competing. There had never been a game like
this—nothing even came close.

Shafer had already prepared an adventure for himself, but there were alternatives for every event. Much depended on the dice.

That was the main point—anything could happen.

He got into the taxi, started it up. Good Lord, was he ready for this!

HE HAD A GORGEOUS PLAN mapped out. He would pick up only those few passengers—“fares”—who caught his eye, fired up his
imagination to the limit. He wasn’t in a hurry. He had all night; he had all weekend. He was on a busman’s holiday.

His route had been laid out beforehand. First, he drove to the fashionable Adams-Morgan neighborhood. He watched the busy
sidewalks, which seemed one long syncopated rhythm of movement. Bar-grazers slouching toward hipness. It seemed that every
other restaurant in Adams-Morgan called itself a café. Driving slowly and checking the glittery sights, he passed Café Picasso,
Café Lautrec, La Fourchette Café, Bukom Café, Café Dalbol, Montego Café, Sheba Café.

Around eleven-thirty, on Columbia Road, he slowed the taxicab. His heart began to thump. Something very good was shaping up
ahead.

A handsome-looking couple was leaving the popular Chief Ike’s Mambo Room. A man and a woman, Hispanic, probably in their late
twenties. Sensual beyond belief.

He rolled the dice across the front seat: six, five, four—a total of fifteen. A high count.

Danger! That made sense. A couple was always tricky and risky
.

Shafer waited for them to cross the pavement, moving away from the restaurant canopy.
They came right toward him
. How accommodating. He touched the handle of the magnum that he kept under the front seat. He was ready for anything.

As they started to climb into the taxi, he changed his mind. He could do that!

Shafer saw that neither of them was as attractive as he’d thought. The man’s cheeks and forehead were slightly mottled; the
pomade in his black hair was too thick and greasy. The woman was a few pounds heavier than he liked, plumper than she’d looked
from a distance in the flattering streetlights.

“Off duty,” he said, and sped away. Both of them gave him the finger.

Shafer laughed out loud. “You’re in luck tonight! Fools! Luckiest night of your lives, and you don’t even know it.”

The incomparable thrill of the fantasy had completely taken hold of him. He’d had total power over the couple. He had control
of life and death.

“Death
be
proud,” he whispered.

He stopped for more coffee at a Starbucks on Rhode Island Avenue. Nothing like it. He purchased three black coffees and heaped
six sugars in each.

An hour later, he was in Southeast. He hadn’t stopped for another fare. The streets were crowded to the max with pedestrians.
There weren’t enough taxis, not even gypsies in this part of Washington.

He regretted having let the Hispanic couple get away. He’d begun to romanticize them in his mind, to visualize them as they’d
looked in the streetlight. Remembrance of things past, right? He thought of Proust’s monumental opening line:
“For a long time I used to go to bed early.”
And so had Shafer—until he discovered the game of games.

Then he saw her—a perfect brown goddess standing right there before him, as if someone had just given him a wonderful present.
She was walking by herself, about a block from E Street, moving fast, purposefully. He was instantly high again.

He loved the way she moved, the swivel of her long legs, the exactness of her carriage.

As he came up behind her, she began looking around, checking the street. Looking for a taxi? Could it be? Did she want him?

She had on a light cream suit, a purple silk shirt, high heels. She looked too classy and adult to be going to a club. She
appeared to be in control of herself.

He quickly rolled the twenty-sided dice again and held his breath. Counted the numerals. His heart leaped. This was what the
Horsemen was all about.

She was waving her hand at him, signaling.
“Taxi!”
she called. “Taxi! Are you free?”

He guided the taxi over to the curb, and she took three quick, delicate steps toward him. She was wearing shimmery, silken
high heels that were just delightful. She was much prettier up close. She was a nine and a half out of ten.

The cab door swung open and blocked his view of her for a second.

Then he saw that she was carrying flowers, and wondered why. Something special tonight? Well, that was certainly true. The
flowers were for her own funeral.

“Oh, thank you so much for stopping.” She spoke breathlessly as she settled into the taxi. He could tell that she was letting
herself relax and feel safe. Her voice was soothing, sweet, down-to-earth and real.

“At your service.” Shafer turned and smiled at her. “By the way, I’m Death. You’re my fantasy for this weekend.”

MONDAY MORNINGS I usually work the soup kitchen at St. Anthony’s in Southeast, where I’ve been a volunteer for the past half-dozen
years. I do the seven-to-nine shift, three days a week.

That morning I felt restless and uneasy. I was still getting over the Mr. Smith case, which had taken me all over the East
Coast and to Europe. Maybe I needed a real vacation, a holiday far away from Washington.

I watched the usual lineup of men, women, and children who had no money for food. It was about five deep and went up Twelfth
Street to the second corner. It seemed such a pity, so unfair that so many folks still go hungry in Washington, or get fed
only once a day.

I had started helping out at the kitchen years before on account of my wife, Maria. She was doing casework as a social worker
at St. Anthony’s when we first met. Maria was the uncrowned princess of St. Anthony’s; everybody loved her, and she loved
me. She had been shot, murdered in a drive-by incident not far from the soup kitchen. We’d been married four years and had
two small children. The case has never been solved, and that still tortures me. Maybe that’s what drives me to solve every
case I can, no matter how bad the odds.

At St. Anthony’s soup kitchen, I help make sure nobody gets too riled up or causes undue trouble during meals. I’m six-three,
around two hundred pounds, and built for peacekeeping, if and when it’s necessary. I can usually ward off trouble with a few
quiet words and nonthreatening gestures. Most of these people are here to eat, though, not fight or cause trouble.

I also dish out peanut butter and jelly to anyone who wants seconds or even thirds, of the stuff. Jimmy Moore, the Irish American
who runs the soup kitchen with much love and just the right amount of discipline, has always believed in the healing power
of p.b. and j. Some of the regulars at the kitchen call me “Peanut Butter Man.” They’ve been doing it for years.

“You don’t look so good today,” said a short ample woman who’s been coming to the kitchen for the past year or two. I know
her name is Laura, and that she was born in Detroit and has two grown sons. She used to work as a housekeeper on M Street
in Georgetown, but the family felt she’d gotten too old for the job and let her go with only a couple weeks’ severance and
warm words of appreciation.

“You deserve better. You deserve
me
,” Laura said, and laughed mischievously. “What do you say?”

“Laura, you’re too kind with your compliments,” I said, serving up her usual extra dish. “Anyway, you’ve met Christine. You
know I’m already spoken for.”

Laura giggled as she hugged herself with both arms. She had a fine, healthy laugh, even under the circumstances. “A young
girl has to dream, you know. Nice to see you, as always.”

“Same to you, Laura. As always, nice to see you. Enjoy the meal.”

“Oh, I do. You can
see
I do.”

As I said my cheery hellos and dished out heaped portions of peanut butter, I allowed myself to think about Christine. Laura
was probably right; maybe I didn’t look so good today. I probably hadn’t looked too terrific for a few days.

I remembered a night about two weeks back. I had just finished working a multiple-homicide case in Boston. Christine and I
stood on the porch in front of her house out in Mitchellville. I was trying to live my life differently, but it’s hard to
change. I had a saying I really liked: H
EART
L
EADS
H
EAD
.

I could smell the flowers in the night air, roses and impatiens growing in profusion. I could also smell Gardenia Passion,
a favorite perfume that Christine was wearing that night.

She and I had known each other for a year and a half. We’d met during a murder investigation that had ended with the death
of her husband. Eventually we began to go out. I was thinking that it had all been leading to this moment on the porch. At
least it had in my mind.

I had never seen Christine when she didn’t look good to me and make me feel lightheaded. She’s tall, almost five-ten, and
that’s nice. She had a smile that could probably light up half the country. That night, she was wearing tight, faded jeans
and a white T-shirt knotted around her waist. Her feet were bare, and her nails were dabbed with red polish. Her beautiful
brown eyes were shining.

I reached out and took her into my arms, and suddenly everything seemed right with the world. I forgot all about the terrible
case I’d just finished; I forgot about the particularly vicious killer known as Mr. Smith.

I cupped her sweet, kind face gently in my hands. I like to think that nothing scares me anymore, and many things don’t, but
I guess the more good things you have in your life, the easier it is to experience fear. Christine felt so precious to me
—so maybe I was scared.

Heart leads head
.

It isn’t the way most men act, but I was learning.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life, Christine. You help me see and feel things in new ways. I love
your smile, your way with people—especially kids—your kindness. I love to hold you like this. I love you more than I could
say if I stood here and talked for the rest of the night. I love you so much. Will you marry me, Christine?”

She didn’t answer right away. I felt her pull back, just a little, and my heart caught. I looked into her eyes, and what I
saw was pain and uncertainty. It nearly broke my heart.

“Oh, Alex, Alex,” she whispered, and looked as if she might cry. “I can’t give you an answer. You just came back from Boston.
You were on another horrible, horrible murder case. I can’t take that. Your life was in danger again. That terrible madman
was in your house. He threatened your family. You can’t deny any of that.”

I couldn’t. It had been a terrifying experience, and I had nearly died. “I won’t deny anything you said. But I do love you.
I can’t deny that, either. I’ll quit the police force if that’s what it takes.”

“No.” A softness came into her eyes. She shook her head back and forth. “That would be all wrong. For both of us.”

We held each other on the porch, and I knew we were in trouble. I didn’t know how to resolve it. I had no idea. Maybe if I
left the force, became a full-time therapist again, led a more normal life for Christine and the kids. But could I do that?
Could I really quit?

“Ask me again,” she whispered. “Ask me again, sometime.”

CHRISTINE AND I had dated since that night, and it just felt right, easy, comfortable, and romantic. It always was that way
between us. Still, I wondered if our problem could be fixed. Could she be happy with a homicide detective? Could I stop being
one? I didn’t know.

I was brought out of my reverie about Christine by the high-pitched, stuttering wail of a siren out on Twelfth Street, just
turning off E. I winced when I saw Sampson’s black Nissan pull up in front of St. Anthony’s.

He turned off the siren on his rooftop but then beeped the car horn, sat on it. I knew he was here for me, probably to take
me somewhere I didn’t want to go. The horn continued to blare.

“It’s your friend John Sampson,” Jimmy Moore called out. “You hear him, Alex?”

“I know who it is,” I called back to Jimmy. “I’m hoping he goes away.”

“Sure doesn’t sound like it.”

I finally walked outside, crossing through the soup-kitchen line and receiving a few jokey jeers. People I had known for a
long time accused me of working half a day, or said that if I didn’t like the job, could they have it.

“What’s up?” I called to Sampson before I got all the way out to his black sports car.

Sampson’s side window came sliding down. I leaned inside the car. “You forget? It’s my day off,” I reminded him.

“It’s Nina Childs,” Sampson said in the low, soft voice he used only when he was angry or very serious. He was trying to deaden
his facial muscles, to look tough, not emotional, but it wasn’t working real well. “Nina’s dead, Alex.”

I shivered involuntarily. I opened the car door and got in. I didn’t even go back to the kitchen to tell Jimmy Moore I was
leaving. Sampson jerked the car away from the curbside fast. The siren came on again, but now I almost welcomed the mournful
wail. It numbed me.

“What do you know so far?” I asked as we rushed along the intensely bleak streets of Southeast, then crossed the slate-gray
Anacostia River.