Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) (14 page)

"I'll see you tonight," Eve said as she slid down from the high VW Camper seat.

"Should I pick you up?" Rick asked.

"The traffic down here in rush hour is horrible. It's not worth it. I'll just take an L bus." Eve turned and considered the brick walls and glass doors of the squared-off building on 16th Street. "Plus, I don't know when I'll be getting out. The saying is that 'the lights never go out at Marsden Angle' because someone is always working. Usually, some desperate associate."

She turned and gave Rick a smile, "And now, one desperate paralegal."

She slammed the bus door shut and turned to walk into the building. Rick thought that no one else would notice the slight touches as she made sure her clothes were exactly right or the way she re-gripped her leather briefcase just a bit tighter as she opened the door.

The VW chugged away from the curb and slowly picked up speed, just making second gear before he hauled the flat steering wheel around to turn onto H Street. Across Lafayette Park, about a hundred demonstrators were outside the White House. A quick glance told Rick that the protesters were vets, but their signs were about missing benefits, not stopping the war. They looked bedraggled but determined.

Rick wondered how his former housemate, Corey Gravelin, was doing. He'd been the one chosen to hold the film with the evidence of presidential crimes, the film that had cost Rick two friends and nearly his own life. From what he'd seen in a cursory look at the headlines for the past few weeks, it looked as if the White House was in full meltdown. There were days when Rick was sure that the president was the only person left in the place; the rest were either in jail, in disgrace, or in deep conversations with prosecutors.

Couldn't have happened to a better bunch of people as far as Rick was concerned.

He felt a sudden intense pain as he remembered the friends who had died only a few months before because of secrets that the government was willing to kill for to keep out of the press.

Dina Scholten had been the first to break through the emotional walls he'd constructed after his return from Vietnam. They were a part of his dogged attempts to keep his nightmares under control, but she'd showed him that he could have friends—he was going to have the dreams anyway. Dina and Hector Rodriguez, one of the few other survivors from his platoon, had both died because they'd helped him after a government hit squad marked him for elimination.

Rick shook the tension out of his shoulders and brought his attention back to the living—the dead would show up tonight anyway. There would be plenty of time to talk to them.

First, he had errands to run. He didn't want to park the VW in any of the underground parking garages—to be honest, he wasn't sure it would make it out again—so he drove slowly in search of a parking spot—finally locating one a block north of M Street.

He walked over to the American Broadcasting Network on 18th Street, enjoying the tentative warmth of an early Washington spring day. After the brutal cold of the Montana winter, it felt great. It was a shame that it would be followed, all too soon, by sweltering humidity. In Washington, when the real summer hit, the colors drained out of everything. Even the trees, green now, would turn gray in a month or so from the amount of moisture in the air.

Today was one of the days when Rick could understand living in Washington. The azaleas were blooming, the sunlight seemed to caress rather than burn, and every office worker had found a reason to get out and enjoy the city.

As he turned up the short walkway to the door on 18th, it opened and Larry Summers, the security guard and fellow vet, said, "Hey man, I know you were scared of that next game of chess but running away for six months is taking the game a bit too seriously."

"Scared? Hell, I was out getting my ass beaten by a bunch of 10-year-olds so I'd dumb down enough to give you a fair game," Rick said, as they exchanged a "black power" handshake. "How's it going?"

"Same old," the slim black man responded. "The Watergate thing is so crazy they had to put on another courier. The White House seems to leak a new story on the hour. Don't quote me, but I swear I saw Mayweather actually smile the other day."

"Jamie?" Rick stepped back in mock surprise. "I didn't think he knew how."

"Yeah, well, the tension is getting to everyone. Last week, Ken Garrison punched out Evans over a story."

"Garrison?" Rick shook his head. "He's the nicest guy in the place."

"Well, he knocked Tom flat and just walked out." "And as the sole officer of law and order on duty, did you respond appropriately?"

"Sure did. I held the door and saluted him as he passed by." Larry grinned. "Evans always treated me like one of those little blackface jockeys rich people have on their lawns."

"Oh that's just wrong." Rick said, "For one thing, you're way too tall."

Rick expertly dodged a half-hearted punch and headed down the hall past the newsroom, shaking his head at the idea of the unflappable Garrison taking a swing at anyone, much less the man who would decide if any of his stories made air. The tension here must really be amazing.

Since it was still only mid-morning—hours away from the Global Report's six o'clock deadline—the newsroom was almost empty. The writers were seated with their backs to him, diligently examining their newspapers. This might have been a bit more impressive if they weren't both reading the sports section.

A single desk assistant was on duty, a heavy-set black man whose name Rick didn't know. He was clearly not enjoying tending to the wire machines. As Rick watched, he grabbed the rolls of copy and distributed them, making sure to slam them on each desk with enough force to make them look like crushed beer cans.

"Hey, dude! Where did you disappear to?"

On his right, Don Moretti was leaning against his doorway smoking a cigarette. He flicked ashes on the linoleum floor and asked, "Did that imitation can of film work out for you? You never came back after that."

The film can had been part of a desperate plan to rescue Eve from the fixer someone had sent to make sure that any evidence the president had taken bribes from South Vietnam stayed lost and forgotten.

Since the agent and a Korean woman who worked for him had ended up dead, Rick wasn't about to discuss it.

"It was perfect," he said.

When Rick didn't offer any more details, Moretti took a long look at his face, nodded slightly, and took another pull on his cigarette. "Glad to hear it. You know, it's amazing how much I learn just talking to you."

"It's because you're a trained journalist, Don." Rick continued toward the rear of the building, "You'll have to excuse me. I'm going to see if Casey Ross is around."

"Looking for your old job back?" Moretti asked. "They were pretty pissed when you just disappeared, but the last two guys missed air."

Rick stopped and turned around. "Missed air?"

"Yup. Apparently they never learned to tell time."

Moretti turned back into his edit room. "That or the drugs burned out that part of their brains. They didn't even realize that it was a problem even after everyone started to scream at them. It was not a pretty sight. You might have a chance after all—compared to these guys, you're a Rhodes Scholar."

"It's not a very high bar," Rick said and heard a snort of laughter from the editor.

Nothing had changed at the Assignment Desk. The wire machines kept up their steady rhythm, the phones rang constantly, and the editors were in much the same positions as the last time he'd been there. It did seem as if the hanging haze of cigarette smoke was a bit thicker, but Rick supposed that could just be his over-exposure to fresh air.

Casey Ross was bent over his typewriter with a telephone jammed against his shoulder. He glanced at Rick and wordlessly pointed at the empty desk next to him, never losing his concentration. Rick nodded to the other two editors and carefully made his way through the tight spaces between the desks, chairs, and wire machines.

He made it to the empty chair and dropped into it. Since it was comfortable and out-of-the way, he decided to stay for as long as possible. He lit the Zippo on his thigh, fired up a Winston, and settled back, happy to observe.

From the steady cadence of the conversation, Ross was repeating an argument he'd obviously had many times before. "Geri. It's a great story. We both know that. But New York simply isn't interested."

Ross paused and made a face while listening to the other side of the conversation.

"Geri, Geri. Don't get all upset. Yes, strip mining is a serious issue, and no one is more interested in environmental stories than I am. But, with everyone lining up for gas, they want stories on where to get more energy, not the problems that might cause."

Ross lit another cigarette while he listened.

"Strip mining" had caught Rick's attention, and he began to listen to the conversation, pretending to leaf through a copy of the Christian Science Monitor, Ross was clearly trying to wrap it up. "Geri, Geri. Stop for a second, will ya?"

After a short pause, he began again. "Look, you keep researching the story, and I'll keep trying to get the show interested. Hey, you could even try to sell it to the morning show. However, for today, you concentrate on tonight's story like a good girl. Mayweather is doing the news, but you'll cover the dinner the Nixons are throwing for the returned POWs. I mean, you'll have Bob Hope, Jimmy Stewart, and John Wayne—there's got to be a terrific piece to be made out of that."

After a series of quick "Yesses" and an "Absolutely," Ross hung up the phone and dropped his face into his hands. "God, why did we let broads into broadcasting?"

Rick stopped pretending to read the paper. "Who was that?"

"Geri Hardin."

"Where did she come from? I thought Carol Ann was the only female reporter."

"You mean Romper Room's 'Miss Peggy'?"

Rick snorted, and Ross said, "Hey, far too many years ago, that's where Carol Ann started. On the other hand, Geri was in Saigon. She went there to be with her boyfriend, of course, but she ended up stringing for us; and, I hate to admit it, she didn't do bad at all. So when she got tired of death and destruction, and found out her boyfriend was screwing half of the girls on Tu Do Street, she dumped the guy, came back home, and got a job as a reporter."

Ross took a final drag on his cigarette and crushed it out in the overflowing ashtray on his desk. "And if you're about to say that she slept her way into the job—"

"I wasn't."

"All I can report is that it wasn't with me," Ross finished. "Now let's turn to the subject at hand. Meaning you."

The desk editor stopped and Rick assumed he was looking for an explanation of where he'd gone and why, something Rick certainly wasn't about to give him.

"Well, I'm looking for some work. I don't think Cosmopolitan Courier is going to hire me. Not until I pay for their bike at least. So I need to keep a low profile for a bit. You know how hard I can work, and I just figured I'd check."

Ross studied him for a moment. "So no explanation?"

"Nope."

"OK. Do you still have a bike?"

Rick shook his head. "I will in a couple of days. I had to leave it…well, I left it with a local biker gang, and the negotiations to get it back are going to be ticklish."

"I'll bet." Ross smiled and then looked at one of the TV screens that were playing silently on the wall over the wire machines. After a moment, he pointed at the TV marked "Network" where a commercial filled with quick cuts of smiling faces was running. "As you can see, the network, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to start a morning show so we can get our collective butts soundly beaten by the Today Show."

He swiveled back to face Rick. "Here's the thing. I have to find a desk assistant to cover an overnight shift—1:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m.—and all the prima donnas we've got on staff think they're too good to work at night. I believe they think that a lack of sleep will hurt their chances for that anchor job that's just around the corner."

Ross shook his head. "An anchor job is never going to happen to anyone in this group of turkeys. However, we still need to staff these hours. You game for a little midnight madness?"

"Sure. What do I have to do?"

"What does any desk assistant do?" Ross said, putting his hand on the phone but not picking up the receiver. "Roll wire, get coffee, and run scripts. It's not like it requires any skill."

He picked up the phone and said into it, "One second."

Then to Rick, "So, you're our new semi-official overnight D.A. Since you've never given us any information about yourself, we'll make it freelance. And, as a bonus to the worst possible hours, you get to be off the streets, something you appear to be interested in."

He held up his hand. "No, don't say anything. It'll either be a lie or an effusive expression of thanks, and the former will embarrass you and the latter, me. You'll start on June 19th when Brezhnev is at the White House. Now get out of here." He waved dismissively and turned to the phone.

M Street was crowded. The pace on the sidewalk was noticeably slower than usual as sauntering replaced the usual Washington speed walk. Rick knew it wouldn't last. In a matter of weeks, walkers scurrying to get out of the winter cold would be replaced by walkers scurrying to get out of the summer heat. Rick could believe the old story about how the British used to pay their diplomats stationed here a "tropical duty" bonus.

"Will you buy a candle to support disabled children?"

Rick looked at the ugly brownish candle being thrust at him by a ragged teenager with hair falling out of a tangled ponytail. She had the glazed look of the convert in her eyes and, whether she'd been converted by New Hope, the Children of God, the Jesus Freaks, the Healthy Happy Holy People, or the Soul Rush followers of the Guru Maharaji Ji, he knew that none of that money was going to children, disabled or otherwise.

Looking past her, he could see four or five knots further down the sidewalk where other cults were selling pamphlets, wind chimes, or pictures of their particular Beloved Leader. A dozen Hare Krishna Dancers were spinning ecstatically on the corner of 19th Street, banging tambourines and finger cymbals, faces turned to the sky.

Rick looked back at the girl with the candle and said, "Disabled children? Come on, that's not even original. What dumbass religion are you working for?"

Now that he was paying attention, he could see that she was very young, maybe thirteen and quite possibly younger, and looked like she could use a bath and a good meal. She had tears in her eyes.

Feeling like a complete jackass, he reached into his jeans and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He'd read somewhere that giving alms was actually about the soul of the giver and not the need of the recipient.

Anyway, he liked to watch their faces.

This girl suddenly looked like a normal kid as her eyes widened, her shoulders relaxed, and a smile blossomed. Rick realized that she'd been tensed up for the contempt or rejection she undoubtedly got from most passersby, and he'd stepped right up and delivered.

She started to say something, then stopped. She was looking around him at the snarl of cars crawling along M Street. Instantly, the childish expression of appreciation was replaced by an almost feral look of fear and submission. She mumbled something and darted away.

Rick took a couple of steps into the recessed doorway behind him. Less visible to the street, he watched as the girl darted between two parked cars and stood at the edge of the M Street traffic with her hand up. A battered blue Econoline van pulled up, and the passenger rolled down the window.

Sitting in the passenger seat was Flick Crane.

Rick turned and went inside the store. Embarrassingly, it was the Erotic Bakery, a favorite for bachelorette parties and gay birthdays. Stoically, he pretended to admire the phallus-shaped cakes while watching the van through the window.

As he watched, the girl proudly handed Flick the twenty and then dug through the pockets in her oversized bell-bottom jeans, producing a small pile of grubby bills and some change. At the sight of the coins, Flick spoke to her sharply, and she flinched, as if she thought he was going to hit her.

She shook her head and seemed to pull into herself, trying to become smaller and to move as far away from the van as possible without actually moving her feet.

Flick snapped another question, and the tangled ponytail bobbed as she checked the contents of the canvas newspaper carrier's bag on her shoulder. She nodded, and Flick made a dismissive gesture, clearly telling her to get back to work. As the van pulled away, Rick could see him hold the twenty up to the driver and throw his head back in a laugh.

"Can I show you one of these or would you rather see the men's cakes we have over there?" A sweet-faced college-age girl was looking at him across the bakery counter. Rick took a quick look at the lifelike baked replicas of the female anatomy she indicated and said, "Oh, no, thanks, I was just…umm…browsing."

"OK, something for a boyfriend, then?" She bent down and searched the display case for a second. "We do have some marzipan penises here somewhere. I've been told they're delicious."

"No, I was just looking. Got to go." Rick escaped before she could stand up again. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and smiled, amused at his own reaction.

On the sidewalk, he turned right and headed for the VW, thinking about how Kristee had said Flick was an enforcer for this weird religious-political cult in Virginia.

Whoever they were, he knew they had been involved in the Wounded Knee shootout, but why would they go halfway across the country to cause trouble? Why had they been willing to kill to stop the Arrows from being delivered to Lame Deer?

Before he reached the VW, he stopped and snapped his fingers. Shaking his head, he turned and walked down to the Union Trust Bank at Connecticut and L Streets. His favorite bank manager—well, actually, the only bank manager he'd ever liked, or even remembered—was sitting at his desk at the door. Rick assumed he was placed there because he still believed in the concept of customer service, and the real managers didn't want him to corrupt the rest of the staff.

The graying head came up as soon as Rick came through the door. "Why Rick. You've been away forever! It's good to see you."

"And it's good to see you again, Mr. Nicholson."

Nicholson came around his desk and gave Rick a warm handshake. "Please call me Jeremy."

"Yes sir, Mr. Nicholson."

The older man shook his head with a smile and asked, "Do you want to go downstairs?"

Rick nodded, and Nicholson led the way to an elevator just inside the front door. It opened immediately, and they went down a floor to the safety deposit boxes. Rick signed the card, produced his key, and they unlocked the two locks on Box 213. Nicholson led Rick to an empty room and closed the door.

Opening the box, Rick looked at the neat stacks of cash inside. He'd taken quite a bit with him to Montana, but there was still about $10,000 left, neatly stacked in blocks of 20 one-hundred-dollar bills. He took a brick and put ten folded hundred-dollar bills in his shirt pocket. Then, he undid his belt, unbuttoned the top button of his jeans, and slipped the remaining bills into a pocket from an old pair of jeans that he'd sewn in the same place as the outside rear pocket so that the thread was hidden. The money was held tight against his butt. Nothing in that pocket had ever been found in a casual search. Rick figured if he lost the money because he'd taken his pants off, it was either an extremely serious police search or he deserved whatever happened.

He re-did his jeans, closed the box, and returned it to its niche in the wall of boxes. He knew that anyone who saw a scruffy biker with all that money would automatically assume it was stolen. In fact, it wasn't a result of how much he'd received but how little he'd spent.

When you wore the same boots, jeans, and t-shirt every day, you only needed so many clothes. Group houses were incredibly cheap, especially if you shared food costs, and until now, his motorcycle had been the property of Cosmopolitan Couriers.

He just didn't spend much money. He kept a checking account and a credit card under each of his identities, Rick and Jim Putnam, which he normally only used to cash his paychecks. He wrote checks every April when he paid state and federal taxes for both identities, far less hassle than trying to avoid paying.

He was quite content with this way of life. He had the money to buy whatever he wanted, and, luckily, most of what he wanted couldn't be bought with money.

Nicholson was speaking to another customer when Rick emerged from the elevator, so he waved "thank you" and left.