Part I
The Straw Man
Chapter One
Andre marvels, watching a kid, a stranger of maybe sixteen, pinch another wallet. This lift makes the kid’s fifth, at least that Andre’s seen this morning—two on the train, two on the underground platform, and now this one on the jam-packed escalator that climbs toward the surface. The kid’s got skills, mad skills. He makes his lift and keeps on moving. There. Right there. The kid picks up another, his sixth, with the practiced grace of a ballerino, this time the mark, some corporate chump, probably a lobbyist, with slicked-back hair and a shit-eating grin. No one suspects a thing, and why should they? This kid blends in, looks like a prep-school student—and, who knows, perhaps he is—his aesthetic complete with a bookbag, khakis, and a dog-eared copy of de Tocqueville tucked beneath his arm. The kid reminds Andre of himself at that age—lean, hungry, steel eyes with smooth skin—but Andre concedes that he never possessed this kid’s talent.
Aboveground the kid disappears into the big-city bustle, and Andre thinks, Good for you, li’l man. Go in peace. For sure, the kid has plenty of places to hide. Northwest this morning is a mess: snowy, busy, noisy, the perfect urban jungle in which to flee. Andre works around the corner, and a lifetime ago, his family made a home inside a boarded-up rathole six blocks over. Andre has, in fact, lived in the District his entire life, thirty-five years save a stint across the river, two years in juvie for a grift gone bad on a nearby street. Seventeen years ago, when he left kiddie correctional, he never imagined he’d work on K Street, or that he’d own a walk-in closet full of three-piece suits, and the sudden realization, that he might lose it all, cuts like shards of glass crushed into the lining of his stomach.
He trudges a path through wet snow. Last night’s blizzard has caused panic in DC; the streets, slick with black ice, prove too difficult for all but yellow cabs. He wishes he’d taken a different route, perhaps down L Street, where hobos toss dice and the high-rises don’t funnel the cold. He’s tired of freezing winters. Tired of cold that blisters his fingertips. Tired of crowds and congestion and construction. If he loses his job today, and he’s pretty sure he will, he’ll move across the country, someplace with palm trees, someplace where no one bothers to vote.
On the corner, a homeless man sits atop a grate, his fists punching a peg leg that peeks from beneath his blanket. The man howls, frustrated that no one will help a white veteran. Most folks ignore him. Some folks laugh. A doe-eyed blonde, maybe nineteen or twenty, drops coins into his tin cup. The man sifts the change, sorting nickels from pennies, then pitches the gift back into the blonde’s face. “Bitch, what the fuck am I supposed to do with eighteen cents?”
The blonde, stunned and shamed, looks toward Andre, her wide eyes asking: What did I do wrong? Andre wants to shrug, to say the guy’s an asshole, but he has a point. Three nickels, three pennies: that won’t even buy you ramen noodles. Instead Andre furrows his brow and, in his most apologetic tone, the voice he knows comforts young white women, says, “My God, are you okay? He has no right to treat you that way. Should I call the cops?”
He knows the blonde will say no, and when she does, her humiliation vanishing, she smiles with the confidence of a fool assured by a complete stranger. Andre pops his suit’s collar, breathes warmth into his fists, takes pride that he hasn’t lost his touch.
The homeless man shouts, trembling with rage, his sunburned face and filthy beard giving the appearance of a downtrodden Santa. Andre suspects this guy’s newly homeless. If this bum had lived on the streets for long, he’d know that the archdiocese opens hypothermia shelters when the weather gets this cold. He’d also know that today, near Dupont, the Methodists distribute leather-bound Bibles and burlap sacks brimming with groceries. Louder and louder the homeless man screams, claims he’s a veteran of Kandahar, an assertion Andre doubts. The VA, for all its faults, can do a lot better than a peg leg, a wooden cone that looks like part of a preschooler’s pirate costume. Andre suppresses the urge to snatch the man’s blanket, to expose his working limbs, to prove that the peg leg is nothing more than a prop. Everyone else in Washington has a scam; why shouldn’t this guy?
Andre pushes forward, passing chain bakeries and trendy cafés, remembers when white folks feared walking down these streets. This morning, the tourists have flocked here, defying the cold, crowding the sidewalks, in search of apple-spice muffins, pumpkin lattes, and silly trinkets like bobbleheads that double as proof of patriotism.
Two more blocks, his woolen socks now soaked, Andre reaches his office building. A dozen women huddle fifteen feet from the entrance, shivering, cigarettes in hand. He recognizes each of them—analysts he’s led in the field—and his stomach sinks when each avoids meeting his eyes.
He enters the building through brass revolving doors, finds custodians mopping footprints from the marble floor. He crosses the lobby, access card in hand, and rushes the turnstiles that separate him from the elevators. This is the test, he knows. If the turnstile fails to read his card, he’s finished. So when the security light flashes green, allowing Andre to pass, he feels a moment’s relief. He strolls toward the elevator, head held high, shoulders pinned back, the smoothest brother he could possibly be. Behind the front desk, the guard, a barrel-chested ex-marine, stands and clears his throat.
“Excuse me, Mr. Ross,” Sabatino whispers. It’s not his fault. Sab’s just doing his job. Still, Andre remembers getting Sabatino’s smart-ass nephew an internship on the Hill.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Ross. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, she called down, said to call ahead when you got in.” Sabatino looks both ways, then leans close. “But say I didn’t see you? That’ll give you time, five, six minutes. Get you a good head start?”
Andre chuckles. Never doubt the loyalty of a U.S. Marine. He claps Sabatino’s shoulder, smiles to show his gratitude, says, “Thanks, I’m good. Go ahead. Call her. I’m heading up now.”
“Yes, sir,” Sabatino says. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“A small favor. There’s a homeless guy by the Metro stop.”
“The lying fuck who says he’s a vet?”
“Contact city hall. Tell them to send a van. Use the firm’s name. Someone needs to get that asshole off the streets. Otherwise he’ll freeze to death.”
Sabatino agrees, then calls the elevator. The brass doors open, inviting Andre inside, where, over a hidden speaker, plays Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things.”
“Good luck, Mr. Ross,” Sab says. “Let me know if you need backup.”
Andre presses his access card against the control panel, and the doors shut. The panel beeps twice, and the elevator whisks him skyward, past six stories of analysts and researchers: the well-paid statisticians, pollsters, accountants, media trackers, copywriters, and investigators, many of whom will be happy to see him gone. Their glee isn’t personal. They simply want his job. A senior associate falls, one of them rises. Office politics, plain and simple.
The elevator doors open. The lights of the eighth-floor lobby flicker, and Andre knows this may be the last time he steps into the nerve center of Martin, Fitzpatrick & DeVille. He sidesteps the receptionist, pursues the hall that leads toward his office. The path is a straight shot between the offices of the other senior associates, with their Ivy League degrees and inherited vacation homes. Halfway down the busy hall, he passes a glass-enclosed conference room and casts a sideways glance inside. He recognizes a face, no, two faces, no, three, four, five, six, seven. Shit. Then he spots a poster-board map of Indianapolis, and a heavy weight shifts inside his chest. He knows he’ll be fired by the end of the day, but now he’s pissed. For Christ’s sake, he’s worked Indianapolis for six months, made media contacts, registered his political action committee, presented an electoral strategy that pleased the finicky billionaire client. He feels his anger spike but resolves to play it cool, left hand slipped inside his pocket, a dash of swagger in his step. He knows they’re watching him, judging him, sizing him up, and he will never—never—let these white people see him sweat.