He'd always drunk his coffee black and, even though he knew he was going to regret this, he wasn't about to change now. He blew steam off the dark surface, sipped . . .
And shuddered. It tasted like . . . like . . .
Words failed him.
He watched the man in the blue flannel shirt next to him lighten his coffee with half-and-half, then spoon in three sugars.
"Does that kill the taste? " The man glanced up at him, apparently startled at being spoken to. "Uh, sorta. I don't really like coffee, but I need it to get going in the morning."
"Yes. You might say I'm abstemious in all matters except coffee. What we won't do to render ourselves properly caffeinated, ay? " He got in line at the cash register. The flannel shirt followed him.
Ahead of him, Duncan watched a steatopygous woman with rollers wound into her orange hair dump three cans of Arizona Iced Tea and twenty creamsicles onto the counter, then ask for two packs of Parliament, boxes, please.
Half turning to the flannel shirt, Duncan said, "I've always believed that one can augur the course of a civilization through observation of its indigenous cuisine, don't you agree? " The flannel shirt said, "What? " ' Exactly." Then it was Duncan's turn to pay.
"Anything else? " said the Middle Eastern gentleman behind the counter.
"Sorry, no, " Duncan said. "My doctor won't allow me more than one medium-size kerosene a day."
"Yes, sir, " the man said and took his money. "Have a nice . . , day.
Outside he walked south, crossed Constitution and strolled up the Mall, gingerly sipping the coffeelike substance as he approached the Capitol.
Here it was Wednesday, a nosurgery day. He should have been relaxed, but a fine tremor from his hand rippled the surface of the liquid in the cup. He knew it wasn't the caffeine.
Admit it, he told himself. If you were wound any tighter you'd implode.
But why shouldn't you be? This is an important day. Even more important for a certain congressman.
He distracted himself by admiring the scenery.
He rarely got downtown anymore. Too bad. It had rained last night, and now a fine mist hazed the air and the grass coruscated in the early morning sunlight. Starlings managed to make themselves heard over the growing thunder of the stampeding herd of arriving federal workers.
He'd forgotten how beautiful the Mall could be before the tourists arrived.
The last time he'd ventured this way had been a big mistake. He'd come down in May during the annual invasion by busloads of eighth graders from everywhere east of the Rockies. The National Gallery had been crawling with roving, cachinnating packs of barely bridled hormones wrapped in scabrous, whelk-laden skin to whom the epitome of true art and intimate self-expression was spray painting the name of their favorite heavy metal group on a wall.
But then, one of the central pieces on exhibit at the National Gallery at the time had been a huge mural, ten feet high, twenty long, all stark white except for a beige vertical stripe two feet from the left edge.
Maybe the kids were onto something after all, Megadeth Rules indeed.
Duncan hadn't been back since.
Further on, a dirty, unshaven man approached him, wearing a black trash bag, he had the drawstring around his waist, his head and arms poking through appropriately placed slits.
"Got some spare change for an old soldier? " the tatterdemalion said.
Duncan stopped and reached into his pocket. "Which war was that? " "Which one were you in? " the man said.
'"The Korean Conflict, as it is now known." Not true. He'd been in college then, premed. But he wanted to see what this "old soldier" would say.
"Me too." Duncan had to smile. "What if I'd said Vietnam? " '"Was in that one too. I'm the Unknown Soldier." Duncan figured he probably meant Universal Soldier but then again, it was very likely that he couldn't remember his name.
'"Clever rain gear you've got there, soldier. The latest from the House of Hefty, if I'm not mistaken." '"Does the job." Duncan handed him a twenty-dollar bill. The man glanced at it, then did a double take.
"God, man! Thanks! Thanks a million! " "Why not? I expect this to be a good day for me. Might as well be a good one for you too." The fellow began backing away, most likely trying to put some distance between them before Duncan changed his mind. "I'll spend this wisely, I assure you, sir." Duncan laughed. "I'm sure you will."
"And you have a good day."
"I assure you I will. A very good day." It all goes according to plan this time
Anxiety nibbled at his stomach lining like hungry fish. Timing was everything here, but with so many variables beyond his control, luck was a considerable factor as well. And Duncan hated to depend on luck.
He walked on until he spotted the camera crew setting up on the House side at the base of the steps leading up to the west portico of the Capitol.
"Something big happening? " Duncan asked.
"Just an interview, " the bearded cameraman said. "Congressman . " "Which one? " "Allard." '"Not Kenneth Allard! The Kenneth Allard?
Here? Right here? " Duncan clapped his hands. "He's one of my favorites! " The cameraman grinned at the soundman. "First time I ever heard anyone say that. ' "Oh, he's a great statesman. A wonderful intellect. An isle of probity in a sea of venality."
"If you say so." Obviously the cameraman had lost what little interest he'd had in talking to Duncan. Not that Duncan could blame him.
Make sure that camera's working, Duncan thought. You're going to see the end of someone's career.
He headed up the four flights of granite steps that led to the Capitol.
He had to get to Congressman Allard before Allard got to the camera.
Last night he'd heard a TV newsreader mention that they'd be interviewing Congressman Allard today on the revival of the Joint Committee on Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines. Duncan had decided then to be here bright and early. This was too rare an opportunity to miss.
He climbed to the top of the Capitol steps and gazed back along the green expanse of the Mall. A mile and a half away, past the Capitol Reflecting Pool, past the towers of the Smithsonian and the museums and galleries that lined the Mall, the obelisk of the Washington Monument gleamed like a spearhead in the morning sunlight and cast a narrow shaft of shadow toward the white rectangle of the Lincoln Memorial behind it. Above them, the Delta shuttle glided toward a landing at Washington National.
Flanking the Mall to the right and left, Pennsylvania, Constitution, and Independence avenues were thick with traffic, all heading this way.
And all around him a steady stream of men and women, mostly men, dressed in suits and carrying briefcases or attache cases, scurrying up the steps. They obviously were not tourists, no Bermuda shorts, cameras, and "I't Washington" caps, and he knew they weren't senators or representatives or staffers. The people who worked here, who belonged here, moved back and forth between the Senate and House office buildings on underground shuttles. These were lobbyists, armed with checkbooks loaded with the grease that keeps the wheels of Congress turning.
The kakistocracy was in session.
Duncan sighed as he watched their hurried, purposeful climb toward the House and Senate chambers. God, there were an awful lot of them.
The Congress of the United States, he thought with a grim smile. The best government money can buy.
Far below, at the bottom of the steps, the soundman nodded as the reporter checked his mike. Good. They were ready. All set up and waiting for U. S. representative Kenneth Allard. Duncan was waiting for him too.
And then he saw him. Allard stepped out on the House side flanked by three of his aides. Pushing sixty, medium height, and on the glabrous protuberance that passed for his head, a thatch of dark brown hair that had once belonged to someone else. He had a paunch but a small one.