The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description (8 page)

“Get out of here, woman!” I barked. “This is not a drill!”
She jumped up, very startled, and left the phone on the table without hanging
up the receiver. I hung up the phone, followed her out, and watched her scurry
down the hall; she never once looked back.

Still, this made me a little nervous. I hadn’t planned for
anyone to be there, so I scampered from office to office inside the Stanky
complex, and, finding no one else, hurried into the Senator’s personal office.

It was the kind of room in which dead people wanted
desperately to remain. Everything was burnished or polished. EVERYTHING. I
could see my reflection in practically anything except the carpet. The room was
lined with law books and punctuated with photos of the famous Stanky clan
shaking hands and smiling like their mouths hurt. I wanted to look closely and
see who made the Wall of Fame, but there wasn’t time. I sat down in Stanky’s
extremely comfortable leather chair and grabbed two tissues from a gold-plated
tissue holder, which was embossed with the seal of the United States.

Wary of my fingerprints being found anywhere unusual, I used
the tissues to open drawers. In the third one, I discovered what I was looking
for. It was a list of credit card numbers taped on the inside of the drawer. It
was exactly the kind of thing that old men who weren’t used to being burgled
do. I smiled and wrote down a couple of them on a piece of Lon’s swanky
stationery using a felt-tip pen so there would be no telling impressions underneath.
Next to them was a small, well-thumbed black book, which I carefully removed. I
turned to “W” and saw, just as I thought, that my new best friend had a
personal account at the Watergate, probably for those unforgettable evenings
with his special companions.

I decided just to take the whole black book with me and
shoved it in a jacket pocket. It looked bulky, but not ridiculous. Then I put
everything else back in its place, shut the door, and headed back down. At the
stairwell, I was met by two firemen. They recognized the cap, and I pushed past
them and went down the stairs quickly, making a beeline out the door. There was
a large crowd gathered in front, including that hot number from Stanky’s
office. I angled the cap down over my face and walked briskly down the street.

I was pretty sure this part of my criminal handiwork would
go undetected, at least for the next several days. Stanky would be out of the
office, so he wouldn’t miss his black book, and, even if everyone looked for
evidence of things being stolen during the false alarm, I was willing to bet
they wouldn’t pick up on something so small and personal.

I headed due east down Maryland Avenue. This was a little
too close to my apartment for my liking, but I knew it was the closest place to
find homeless people because the police try to make sure they stay a good
distance away from the Capitol; they don’t want the tourists to see them.
There’s a small circle park on that street, and I found a dozen homeless men,
half of whom were sleeping. I tossed the cap to one of them and winked. He put
it on and said thanks. I turned and headed in search of a taxi.

Eleven

B
efore I could find another cab, I saw
a pay phone and decided to try something first. I knew Stanky’s unmistakable
New England, “clam chowdah” accent from years of seeing him giving stump
speeches and denying allegations on television, and I thought I could do a
passable impression. I removed a quarter from my pocket, pulled out the black
book I had pilfered, got out the Watergate’s number, and dialed. I got a young
lady and asked her to send me to reservations.

“This is Senatah Lon Stanky,” I said to the woman before she
was even through welcoming me. “I have some impahtant business to take care of,
and I need a suite.”

This threw her for a loop. She excused herself and then
returned. “Sir, your normal suite is being occupied by the Prime Minister of
Ethiopia.”

My first response was to ask her to kick the guy out.
However, I didn’t want to ultimately be accused of starting an international
incident as well as a domestic one. “Do you have anothah suite?” I asked,
trying to imagine what he would do.

“No suites, sir, unfortunately. I asked already. I’m
dreadfully sorry. But some excellent rooms.”

She sounded like she was holding the phone away from her
ear.

“A room, huh?” I made it sound like I was pondering this
rather white trash suggestion. “I guess.”

“Excellent, Senator. We’re very happy to hear you’ll be
staying with us again,” the woman chirped.

Staying with us again
, I thought. I wondered how
often he did this. “I’m happy to be coming back,” I said in a robust mimic.
“I’ll send one of my trusted aides …” what name to give? “Don Rich, ovah to
make suah everything’s set.”

“That’ll be wonderful, Senator. Do you happen to have your
account number handy?”

Ah, she was a sly one. I pulled out the black book, gave her
the number, and she seemed satisfied. I hung up and searched for a cab in
earnest.

I tried a dozen ways of keeping a low profile inside the cab
but had no idea how successful I was. When we rode by the Capitol, I was quite
worried that some news junkie would spot me and ruin everything I was planning,
but that didn’t happened. We made it back to what now seemed like my long-time
home, the Watergate, and I marched up to the front desk, still trying to avoid
eye contact with the world.

I smiled at the front desk attendant—the people on the day
shift were quite a bit better-looking than the ones working nights. She was
pretty in a blond, dried-out, tanning-bed kind of way, and I could tell she had
been in a sorority in college. Hell, I bet she would’ve joined two if they’d
have let her.

“I’m Don Rich. I think you’re supposed to have a reservation
for …”

“Senator Stanky. Of course,” she smiled. “Are you new? I
haven’t seen you before.”

God
, I thought. This guy really gets around.

She really didn’t care about whether I was new or not
though. “How many nights?”

Oh Lord. What should I say? “I’m … not sure.”

“We’ll put down one and go from there,” she winked.

“Let me ask you a couple of things,” I said, and she looked
at me earnestly.

I wanted to tell her not to look so closely, but I didn’t
dare. I thought of my aching shoulder, and said, “The Senator said to find a
good masseuse. Can you do that for me?”

She nodded and wrote herself a note.

“And I’m supposed to take care of some other matters for the
Senator,” I said, trying to look embarrassed. I lowered my voice. “I forgot to
get the cash he asked for, and he’s gonna kill me. Is there any way I can have
you give me some cash and just charge that to the room?” I was really going for
the gusto here.

“This is unusual …”

“This isn’t just anyone,” I reminded her. Probably everyone
said that at the Watergate.

She bit her lip and thought hard. I thought she was going to
turn me down. “I think … I’m … How much?”

I racked my brain. I didn’t want to ask for too little, but
I also didn’t want to get turned down. “A thousand.”

“Fine,” she nodded, and reached to open one of the cash
drawers.

Fine! She just said fine! I just told her to charge a
thousand dollars to this guy’s room, and she was going to hand me the cash.
Maybe I should’ve asked for more. I told myself I should really do this kind of
thing more often.

“Will hundreds be okay?”

I pressed my luck. “How about two hundred in twenties?” I
grinned, and she counted the money. My hand tingled as I grabbed them. I put
them in the right breast pocket of my jacket.

“When do you need the masseuse?” she asked.

“Half an hour,” I said, realizing I could request anything
and get it, no questions asked. “The Senator will be …”

“Coming in the side door? Yes, I know …” she lowered her
voice. “We all know.” She grinned conspiratorially and handed me three key
cards. “Good luck, Don. You’ll need it.”

She didn’t know how right she was.

By now, I was starting to feel like a recluse and was wary
when anyone looked my way. Could they see through the extra pounds and hair to
reveal the wanted felon right in front of them?

I sighed with relief when I got an elevator all to myself.
The room was on the eighth floor—my lucky number, thankfully. The room was very
similar to the room the night before, only bigger, but I didn’t even walk
around to check everything out. It seemed more like a cage now. Or maybe, as
long as I could keep the act up, it was a haven. But it had a huge bed and a
big tub, so I wasn’t going to bicker too much. I sighed and plopped down on the
bed.

Then I got back up, knowing more than ten seconds in a
supine position would send me straight to slumberland. I removed the black book
from my suit pocket, placed it on a table, and did a credible job of folding my
suit pants and making sure my shirt wasn’t too wrinkled as I hung it on one of
the wood hangers in the closet-suite. After taking off everything but my
boxers, I slipped into another terrycloth robe and propped my feet up on the
sofa.

By this time, I was so tired I was practically dreaming, but
I was determined to hold off until after my date with the masseuse, now that my
shoulder had deemed me its mortal enemy. I knew when he or she—I was hoping for
a she—touched me, it would hurt like hell, but it hurt like hell right now, and
at least they could tell me just how expensive the reconstructive surgery would
eventually be.

But even more pressing was the news. I flicked on the TV,
and once again saw my fat college face filling up the screen.

“Within a day, this unknown intern has set Washington on its
ear. We’ll tell you more about it when we return.”

Oh great. They had already found me guilty before I’d even
had a massage, and now I would have to wait to hear about it after sitting
through a bunch of commercials, which I hate even at the best of times. There
were something like 2,012 ads before the news continued, mostly dealing with
dental care, feminine hygiene and doggie nutrition, but finally the
plastic-surgery-happy anchor returned and smiled like her face was going to
crack.

“Unnamed FBI sources are continuing to point to Trent Norris
as a prime suspect in yesterday’s assassination of Gregory Timmons. Several
other seemingly unrelated offenses have now surfaced involving Norris. Who is
this man accused of so much, and what happened?”

So much? What other crimes? My fight? Did they know about
the little old lady? Those weren’t crimes; those were infractions. They
couldn’t have found out about the Stanky incident yet. My stomach felt like a
washing machine when they cut to a scene of the crowd in the aftermath of the
Timmons shooting.

They then cut to a serious-looking man, not much older than
me, who spoke gravely of the assassination, how everyone wanted to know who did
it, and blah, blah, blah …
Get to the good stuff
, I thought, and then
wished I hadn’t.

They flashed the same awful picture of me—I was perversely
happy no one had stepped forward with a better one—and started talking about
me.

“Southern boy now wanted in this crime.”

My stomach went on spin cycle.

“Police reportedly received a tip that a second man—the
boyfriend of a woman Norris had recently dated—was shot about midnight last
evening. DC police declined to comment on Norris’s status as a suspect in the
case, stating only that his car had been seen in the area, that he apparently
had an altercation with DC parking personnel just a block from the young
woman’s house, and he was wanted for questioning.”

They cut to a shot—obviously taken the night before—of a
body right in front of Stephanie’s house. It took me a second to recognize the
location, but, when I figured that out, I knew who it was. The body was covered
and the paramedics were taking it away. It looked to be about the same size as
me but quite dead. Timmons’ killer had listened to my answering machine and
gone to Stephanie’s expecting to find me, and he thought he had. He found Roger
instead.

Before finishing, the reporter pointed out my run-in with
police the day before, when I had reported the burglary. This made it look like
I was the criminal who wanted to outsmart the police right under their noses.
Great.

I grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. I knew at that
moment how Elvis must have felt when he shot that TV in Vegas, but I was also
quite sure I’d get arrested if I did the same thing. Stephanie had obviously
seen my face on the news this morning and had mentioned her connection with me
to the police; they had put two and two together and gotten twenty-two.

I hoped my masseuse would come sooner than the police,
although now I wasn’t so sure. I was on a killing spree. I looked like today’s
lunatic, the guy who should’ve been a postal worker, a cult figure to write instant
books about, and remember during holiday trivia games. I lay motionless,
staring up at points on the ceiling for what seemed like weeks.

Finally, the masseuse came, and I told him I was Senator
Stanky’s nephew. He was a burly man named Howard with forearms the size of
bowling pins and a crew cut so short he might as well not have bothered. I
avoided looking at him directly, hoping he wouldn’t have any great interest in
the news of the day. He got a better look at my backside than my face, and for
that I was eternally grateful.

Despite my disappointment in not getting some gorgeous Swede
named Ursula or Helga, he did a great job. Of course, this was my first
massage, so I had little to compare him to, but he succeeded in making my arm
feel slightly better, though only after he made it hurt so bad I nearly puked.
He told me he didn’t think anything was seriously wrong with it, but I’d be a
little sore for a few days.
A little sore!
I thought. Howard must’ve
been a tough guy.