American Quartet Read online

  He slept like a baby, a leaden, dreamless sleep, and wakened ravenously hungry. He showered, shaved and carefully applied his wig, moustache and straggly beard. He put on khaki pants, a khaki shirt and workman’s shoes. He moved close to the smiling image in the mirror.

  “I am a stalwart of the stalwarts,” he whispered, watching his breath patterns on the glass.

  Once more he checked the revolver, making sure that the cartridges were in their proper places. He buffed the pearl handle against his pants, then pointed the gun toward his image in the dresser mirror.

  “The President’s nomination was an act of God. His election was an act of God. His removal is an act of God.”

  He felt a tingle of pleasure in his crotch, then put the gun in his left hip pocket. He must, he knew, follow the pattern exactly, as Guiteau had done on that fateful morning.

  The air was still crisp, but the sun was already a brilliant glow behind the Capitol in the distance as he walked leisurely through the deserted streets, past the East Gate of the White House in which the President and his family slumbered peacefully. An occasional car passed by on Pennsylvania Avenue. Posting the letter in a mailbox, he crossed to Lafayette Park and sat down on one of the benches facing the White House. The sun, rising quickly now, threw long columnar shadows along the front portico. A spark of light caught the hanging brass lamp, transforming it into a burst of glitter. The panes shimmered like still waters as the sun’s rays washed over them.

  Stretching, he put his legs in front of him, felt the reassuring weight of the gun and looked about, gratified that he was, except for the squirrels and pigeons, the only living figure in the park. When a bum who might have just risen out of the shrubbery sat on a nearby bench, he left and walked back to the hotel. He had a leisurely breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee and read the Washington Post.

  What did Guiteau read ninety-nine years ago to this day? What was Guiteau’s state of mind? Had he found the hole of delicious calm, the eye of a hurricane? Had the newspapers told him that the vigorous, bearded ex-soldier would take off for the July Fourth weekend to escape the oppressive heat of the capital?

  “More coffee?” a waitress asked politely.

  He nodded, studying her as she walked away, annoyed by the patched imperfections of her net stockings. It was the first sour note of the morning. Abruptly he paid the check and left, determined to recapture the symmetry of the illusion.

  By nine o’clock, he had parked the Volkswagen in a tight corner of a construction site where the workers parked their cars. He checked the hard hat stored on the back seat, patted the gun in his left hip pocket and set off for the mall entrance of the gallery. The full edge of his excitement had returned and he felt his blood surging, his heart pounding.

  “I am alive,” he murmured. “Alive. Alive. Alive.”

  Having rehearsed the moment so many times before, he knew that he would arrive inside the gallery at 9:10, perhaps at the exact moment that Guiteau had arrived, filled with the same potent degree of excitement and fear. He knew it was the missing link in himself. Guiteau, fearing reprisal, the malice of the crowd, had even gone to inspect the accommodations of the District jail. Remington acknowledged a different kind of fear. But events were now in motion, and nothing must prevent him from going full circle.

  The gallery had opened at nine. The tourists had begun to crowd inside; groups of high school students, the retired old people in long Bermuda shorts hanging low over scaly bare legs, cameras swinging from their hands. The rotunda was cool, its fluted columns rising like great stone stalks from the black marble floor. He saw in his own mind the old Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Station that had once stood on this site.

  Remington’s eyes roamed the vast rotunda, certain that all vectors would intersect. The signs had all proven it. Everything was irrevocable now. As he moved toward the American galleries, he searched for the ultimate sign, a heavy black-bearded man, nearly six feet tall, in his late forties, a physical copy of the original.

  As he neared the entrance to the American galleries, a nest of rooms at the outer edge of the west gallery from which he planned his exit, he was suddenly confronted by two men, both bearded, both physically perfect for his purposes. A double sign. Two! He hadn’t counted on such a windfall. They were both moving purposefully toward the American section. Which one? He had not counted on choices. According to the plan, he had to act at precisely 9:25, ninety-nine years later to the minute, even at the very second, when the big man had entered the B & O’s waiting room. He reached into his pocket, positioned the revolver in his hand, his fingers curling around the cool trigger.

  When one of the bearded men trailed off to other galleries, he knew that providence had decided. Miraculously, now, the American galleries were almost empty, the guards lost in a haze of boredom. He had calculated the time it would take to fire and fade away; he had counted on a crowd pushing forward as he scurried down the marble steps to the mall that led to the east wing. He had done all he could do. Now it was up to the unknown force to provide.

  The bearded man moved slowly to gallery twenty-six, lingered over the famous George Bellows painting of the battling boxers, then moved to the north wall. At that moment Remington saw the flags, unfurling and flapping in the breeze. Allies Day! Still another sign.

  The bearded man paused, studying the painting. Remington let the seconds pass, then lifted the gun slowly from his hip pocket. The guard had just completed his circle of the room and was wandering off to an adjoining gallery. The room was deserted. The second hand on his watch intersected the six. Crotch tingling, blood surging in his veins, he lifted the gun and stretched out his arm. He sighted along the gun barrel to the spot on the man’s body that he had previously plotted, then squeezed the trigger. The report exploded the silence. He pulled the trigger again. The man faltered, staggered and sank to the floor.

  He was out of the gallery with the sound of the echo. The gun heated his upper thigh as it rested again in his side pocket. He threaded through a group of high school students, rushing eagerly upstairs. Using them for protection, he moved swiftly to the entrance, turning right through the path between the bushes. Joining a crowd crossing the street, he insinuated himself into a line of pedestrians, using them as a second shield. He made it quickly to the Volkswagen, removed his shirt and put on his hard hat.

  Moving close to the construction site, he paused, waited, listened. In the distance he heard the faint sound of an ambulance siren. It grew closer, the sound more raucous. The cacophony of construction sounds splintered the siren’s wail. He got out of the car and hiding behind a steel girder, he saw the ambulance pull up to the entrance. A group of Smithsonian guards were rushing about. Several crossed the street, skirting the construction site, going through the confused motions of a search. He snickered. The bureaucratic mind was appallingly unimaginative. Risk nothing was the bureaucratic watchword. He waited until they had dispersed, then calmly got back into the Volkswagen, put the gun in the glove compartment, and drove slowly through the traffic, accelerating only as he turned into Massachusetts Avenue, then into Twelfth Street heading north.

  The BMW stood in the glaring late morning sun. Behind the picture window, the rustle of curtains told him that Louise was watching. By now, the flowers, a dozen American Beauty roses had arrived, and the note, along with the car keys in the envelope.

  “With gratitude,” the note had read. Gratitude? That idea would haunt her forever. He had promised to see her that morning, as if he could not bear to be away from her. Actually, it was a half-truth. The desire for her was overwhelming, necessary and immediate. He needed her to cap the volcano.

  Louise opened the door before he could ring and drew him inside, kissing him deeply. The material gift had readied her and he could sense her wetness. Behind him in a cracked vase he saw the long-stemmed roses.

  He was ready. The pleasure had been there all morning, waiting, fermenting. He pushed her against the wall of the foyer and almost
in one fervent step parted her panties, inserted himself and lifted her by the buttocks. Her legs closed around his waist and she shivered, contracting.

  “Yes,” she cried as he pumped. He remembered Guiteau’s deadly pointed barrel. He felt her paroxysms, heard her screams in gathering crescendoes. His own pleasure lingered, gaining strength like breaking waves.

  “More,” she gasped as he slid down against the wall. He turned her over roughly, rolled down her panties to her ankles, pressed against the tight small opening. She went down on her knees, helping him as she spread herself and he pounded into her. He held her viselike as she tried to squirm away from the pain.

  “Am I him?” he shouted. She screamed out, incoherent words.

  “Him?” feeling the eruption begin.

  “Him?” he shouted again.

  “Yes! Yes!”

  He collapsed over her, spent, and she whimpered below him, kissing his palm. She had served her purpose. She was part of the grand design and did not question it. The forces that moved him had their own momentum, their own logic. He would never question, only obey.

  7

  THE eggplant was furious. Always, when the chief had berated him, his eyes were bloodshot with anger and his thick black hands shook. He had assembled the entire shift, their faces glum against the sickly green paint of the long office with its rows of mismatched desks and chairs.

  He had his back to the blackboard, erased to some parody of cleanliness by one of the frightened officers, Garber, the only white lieutenant, desperately trying to serve out the last seven months of his twenty. Suddenly the eggplant whirled around to the blackboard and squeaked out a word with a nub of chalk.

  Assholes.

  Fiona had never seen him so angry. They must have really shoved him around upstairs. That meant special trouble for her. She had braced herself, had seen it coming, but had vastly underestimated the fury.

  “Assholes,” he shouted, looking directly at her.

  “You can cut the heart out of a smacked-up nigger on the strip. You can rape some honkie teenage floozie in some back alley. You can waste some hood in front of the White House. That’s okay for open cases. But if we can’t close a killing in a public building, a fucking public building filled with tourists, then we all belong in the shithouse.”

  He sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm himself. His hands were still trembling.

  “Tourists are the business-blood of this city. Next to government, the second biggest industry,” he said almost in a normal voice. He was no longer looking at Fiona. It was obviously the way the chief had put it to him.

  Because of the pressure from upstairs, the case had resulted in confusion and paranoia within their department. There were other open cases, but the glare of publicity was on them, and the eggplant, angry and frustrated, had passed it on down, especially to Teddy and her.

  It was his special way of coping with upstairs pressure. When things got too hot, he had to perform in front of his available underlings, focusing his anger on specific cops. It was obvious that this brief meeting was called for their benefit alone, a kind of public trial.

  “I hate mysteries,” the eggplant shouted to the assembled group, forcing her to tune him in again. What he also meant was that it was bad for the percentages. Last year they had closed more cases. Soon they, the ubiquitous white enemy, would blame it on the fact that too many blacks were running the show, even though they had deliberately kept Fiona as the point lady. Now the eggplant was actually ducking press conferences and had changed his home number.

  “In an election year we have to be especially responsive to the community,” he continued, his eyes wandering, deliberately avoiding Fiona’s and Teddy’s. “And we live in a society where everyone craps on cops. It’s a national pastime. That’s why we need to maintain a good public relations attitude and set up priorities.” Finally, his gaze rested on Fiona. “And my priority is to pour our maximum effort on those cases directly relating to large bodies of people. Do I make myself clear?”

  Fiona nodded eagerly. It was the expected response. Apparently Teddy had been less demonstrative, and the eggplant turned to him with visible fury.

  “There is a tendency around here for long-termers to take things for granted, waiting around to draw retirement. I won’t stand for that. Everybody puts out to the end, down to the last second of the last minute of the last day. You all get that.” The all was superfluous. Everyone knew whom he meant.

  Poor Teddy. He didn’t have the protection of her sex. He became inert, fear-ridden, and it showed.

  “You can’t leave me hanging by my thumbs,” the eggplant had shouted at him after the meeting. The door of his office was open. He wanted everyone to hear.

  She had read and reread her notes, badgering Flannagan at the lab and Hadley in ballistics. Had they missed something? They interviewed eyewitnesses again and again. There simply were no clues. She couldn’t come up with a single theory. Their trips to Hagerstown had led nowhere.

  As she had predicted, the hapless Damato was savaged in the press as a pervert and the nymphet, Celia Baines, had attained a dubious notoriety. But there was nothing concrete, except the blank walls that ended every investigative path.

  The eggplant had tried brutally to force the issue. It was already late July and he had begun to feel the first sharp needles of pressure. The press had turned ghoulish, and had exaggerated the episode. The Post had run a series on crimes in public buildings, and a television station did a three-part series about Washington tourists who had died under mysterious circumstances, going back over more than 150 years of history.

  The District government, meaning the mayor and his staff, already paranoid in a presidential year, saw a conspiracy to hound them out of getting their just budget rewards. As always, the police hierarchy saw the media campaign as an attempt to prove their incompetence on solely racial grounds. The chief and his major deputies were all black.

  His superiors accused the eggplant of creating the limelight so that he could dance in the circle of glory. It was one of the hazards of the publicity seeker. Being caught in the white heat of that spotlight also made one a target. Fiona got little satisfaction from such wisdom. The politics of the bureaucracy had its own wisdom.

  A few days later she was summoned to the eggplant’s office alone, an ominous sign. It was raining, a driving summer rain that tapped out a drumbeat on the dusty windows of his office.

  He sat behind his desk, on which piles of cigarettes filled his numerous ashtrays. For some reason he did not empty them, as if they were there to illustrate his displeasure.

  “That Baines girl,” he grumped. “You let her off the hook. You didn’t even sweat her. Or her old man.” He was matter-of-fact, although she felt the capped pressure. Bloodshot eyes scowled at her.

  “The manager vouched for her that morning. Teddy covered that base. She was working the breakfast shift. The old man was sleeping off a drunk and the mother . . .”

  “Sheet,” he interrupted, punching out yet another cigarette, the nicotine yellow deep against his black gnarled fingers. He picked up a sheaf of papers, read the first page, then threw it back on his desk. She braced herself.

  “Hagerstown PD got another story. The assistant manager was on duty, not the manager. According to him, she didn’t show till noon. That, smartass lady, is bad police work.”

  As senior detective, Teddy had given her latitude and it had blown up in his face. She knew the eggplant had her. She was sorry for that, guilty. But she had indeed overlooked a confirmation. Why? Had she dismissed the girl as innocent too quickly?

  “You and your goddamned Master’s degree.”

  “Maybe I goofed,” she said, opting for quick surrender. “Maybe I was too intuitive. It was my own damned fault.”

  “Women’s intuition,” he smirked. “Magic bullshit. As if it were something holy. You all should stay out of police business.”

  “I don’t appreciate the generalizations,” she snappe
d. The door to his office was closed. No witnesses. His word against hers. She braced for more abuse.

  She watched him struggle to cap the temper. His disdain hung in the room like the after-stench of a fire.

  “I want that bitch sweated. And the manager. And the mother. And her old man. And I want you to sweat her . . . And another thing. I’m divorcing you and Teddy. I think you got his balls in your hand.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He watched her, then showed his large teeth in what passed for a smile.

  “I’ll put it another way, mama,” he said softly. “You’ve pussy whipped him. He’s lost his . . . ,” he groped for a professional touch, “. . . his initiative.”

  “You’ll be humiliating him,” she said. Her stomach tightened. “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair? Fair is for games. Not murder.”

  She braced herself for more.

  “I’m putting Jefferson on your case.”

  “Jefferson.” It came out as an oath.

  Jefferson was a swaggering egomaniacal black stud with a mouthful of ghetto sewer talk. The Ape, they called him in the department. Worse, he was proud of it. He had been a Ranger in Vietnam in the early days, cultivating the image of the cruel avenger. They called him the Ape, someone had told her, because of that old joke.

  “Where does that big Ape sit?”

  “Anywhere he wants.”

  He had a reputation for uncompromising cruelty to criminals, especially black ones, and he was an outspoken honky-hater. She knew that he considered women a subspecies, and white women unclassifiable, although it was rumored that he would use them, if opportunity knocked, for their only obvious function.

  Jefferson had been brought up on so many disciplinary charges that they were considered pro forma. They were always dismissed with a slap on the wrist. Apparently his misdeeds were merely the fantasies of other black cops saddled with the job of patrolling a jungle where their brothers were the principal enemy.

  She had barely talked to him, although he always gave her a lascivious look, accompanied by a grab at his Johnson. The gesture, she knew, was so endemic among black men that she began to feel that she was the only one it offended. Despite his faults, Jefferson was marked as a good cop. But the idea of working with him did not appeal to her.