A man with prematurely white hair and lips stuck in a perpetual pout dug into his pocket. A napkin went to his forehead and wiped away the sweat. Twenty minutes had passed since his mark had entered the store. He remained outside, afraid the mark would recognize him from the café.
His third day tracking the man who waited inside. He checked his bank account. The latest wire transfer had cleared. Five thousand a day to get the job done. He should have asked for more, considering the urgency in the handler’s voice.
The payment could have come from only one of two sources. Through a series of middlemen, of course. But eight years in Washington had taught him to look upstream, past all the whitewater, to the head of the river. No action would occur without their approval. Another, deeper source funded those two. He had often thought of uncovering the money behind the money, but why expose the goldmine when the coins kept coming his way. A knife flipped open and scraped a trace of dirt from his otherwise immaculate fingernails.
More sweat dripped down his sun-reddened face. He folded the napkin in two, searching for a dry spot, and dabbed at his temple. Salt stung his eyes, and he blinked forcefully, squeezing the eyelids shut, as if that could ease the pain. One last dab. He cursed the light, paused, and cursed the target. A passing woman turned to see if he had spoken to her. Realizing he hadn’t, she pushed on down the sidewalk. His back went against a tree which offered a false hope of shade from its leafy sieve. A scratched, leather sole propped up against the trunk.
He removed his phone to look at the screen which read ‘Private Number.’
“Already?” he said to himself. “You might want to wait more than an hour.”
A sigh released and he answered. The voice on the other end rumbled through the speaker. He nodded his head a couple times as though the caller could see him.
“He’s in the bookstore. The one off K and 17th.”
“Following him in would be a bad idea.”
“Not as far as I can tell. I’ve taken precautions not to be noticed. He certainly hasn’t indicated he knows he’s being followed.”
“Maybe if you hurry, but I have no idea how long he’ll be in there.”
“I really don’t think it’s a good idea. He’s bound to slip up sooner or later. No point risking my cover by … but … yes, sir.”
A grunt coincided with the end of the call. He looked both ways and dashed across the street. A taxi blew a concerned horn but didn’t slow down, an impolite gesture its reward.
Posters decorated the front window of the bookstore, the largest celebrating a signing from a prominent gay rights activist. A stack of his books, The People’s Rights Act: Why It’s Just the Beginning, greeted the man from a display table situated just inside the entrance. He picked up a copy and thumbed through it. A moment later, it returned to the table. What those people did behind closed doors didn’t concern him, although he was surprised by the speed at which the nation had accepted their exit from the closet. Clearly, they had powerful supporters in high places. Either one of the two sources or the money behind the money. Or both. What did he care as long as the wire transfers kept coming?
He found the target standing in the current events section, a long coat draped over his thin body. It made the man uncomfortable thinking about wearing it in this heat. A quick shake of his head and he wandered to the magazine rack to pick through Gentleman’s Monthly. Another blessing of the People’s Rights Act. He skipped the ads and the articles and headed straight to the spread in the centerfold. A brunette this month. He didn’t have to use his imagination to know what she looked like beneath her clothes.
The target continued in his same spot, engrossed in whatever he held in his hands. He remained there long after the man had finished skimming the entire magazine display for anything that might entertain him for a moment.
The phone buzzed and he looked at the screen. He typed back a short message. Looking up, he watched for the operatives moving in and positioned himself closer to the target. From this distance, the video would be clear, but the sound might come out distorted. He took another couple steps to his right and hoped the target wouldn’t notice.
The operatives made contact with the target. If they were simply playing the part, they did a good job. By their mannerisms, however, the man figured it wasn’t an act. He had seen their type coming out of the back alley bars he used to frequent when a client wanted her husband caught in the act. A couple short years ago, the husbands and their lovers would have found themselves in front of a judge as he handed out a sentence, the man’s photographs all the proof needed to convict. Today, he worked for them to find evidence of the target disparaging any of them publicly. Most offenders received a fine and a stern warning. The law was worded vaguely enough, though, to permit a wide range of penalties, the harshest, he supposed, reserved for people like the target.
“Excuse me. Could I get past you? I’m trying to reach that book right there.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“Say. Aren’t you Jeremiah?”
“My name is Jeremiah.”
“I mean that preacher guy.”
“I suppose that’s me.”
“Honey. Come here. It’s Jeremiah. See, I told you it was him. We were discussing you from the back, and I said it was you. My husband, here, said it wasn’t. I guess I was right. You’re going to owe me in bed tonight.”
“If you’ll excuse me.”
“What’s the matter? Not a fan of homosexuals? How would you know if you don’t try?”
The man shut off the video. Jeremiah walked out as the taunts followed him out the door. Curious stares trailed both him and the man as they headed into the fierce August heat. The sweat immediately began to stream down his forehead. He wondered how long it would take to lose all the liquid inside him. A moist napkin dabbed at his brows.
Jeremiah took the shady side of the street, leaving the sunny side for the private investigator. A muttered curse prefaced a long diatribe against the target. Each day, each moment he spent following him, the greater the aversion became. He considered fabricating evidence just to be free of this assignment. The money kept his feet moving forward.
At the end of the fifth block, a gust of wind stirred up a cloud of dust. The swirling mass coated the inside of his nostrils and leaked down into his throat. He sputtered and coughed, trying to remove the particles which attached to his lungs. More wind, more dust clouds, an endless reserve from a parched ground whose only relief was the sweat which fell from his face. He looked into the bronze sky, searching for a sign of a summer shower. It replied with the same response it had since March. He covered his face as best he could and continued his walk.
Jeremiah had vanished into the dust storm, and the man’s heart pounded at the thought he had lost the target. His head turned down each branch of the crossroads until he found the mark heading south towards the Potomac. He hurried to catch up so he wouldn’t lose him again.
A homeless man called out to Jeremiah as he passed by. Jeremiah stopped to listen. The investigator approached and caught the end of their conversation.
“I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Can you spare some change, then?”
“What do you need it for?”
“I’m hungry. Can you help?”
“Come with me. I’ll take you to a restaurant, get you anything you want.”
“All you people do is pretend to help.”
“I’m willing to take you, if you’re willing to go. I might be able to hook you up with a place in a shelter.”
“How about my coat, then?”
“No.”
“Go ahead. Take it.”
“Really?”
“Sure, friend.”
The march resumed. Overhead, the bronze sky rumbled. Streaks of lightning, far up in the heavens, flashed like sparks from a chariot’s wheels. The skies, though, seemed as barren as the empty, brown earth beneath. No rain would fall. At least, he wouldn’t get wet.
A park bench served as his observation point for the next three hours. Jeremiah sat on the other side of a dusty field beneath the twisted branches of a timeworn oak, half asleep or lost in some sort of deep contemplation. The man relieved himself twice in a public restroom but, otherwise, remained on the bench. By the time, Jeremiah stood up to leave, a pair of aching boards had replaced the man’s legs. He shook them out and stalked his prey once more.
Another hour in pursuit before Jeremiah finally entered a restaurant. The man’s stomach gurgled in appreciation. The hostess took him to a seat in the corner so that Jeremiah’s back was to him. A seat change put him more to the side. A better position from which to record a conversation.
He unrolled the silverware from a deep red serviette and laid it out on the right. The white tablecloth, impeccably laundered, hung off the sides in perfect symmetry. A pair of glasses waited to receive water and his choice of wine.
A table of four men, businessmen by their suits and the crux of their banter, sat to his left. Three of the men regaled each other with their exploits both in the boardroom and in the bedroom. The fourth sat stiffly in his chair as though uncomfortable with the direction they headed. A shout above the din brought the waiter back with an order for another bottle of Bordeaux.
Twenty people, give or take, sat around the bar. Rows of crystal hung from special slots above the bartenders’ heads. Their busy hands reached constantly for a glass or a bottle off the top shelf, mixing drinks and sending them down to their thirsty clients. Buddies, both old ones and newfound ones, slapped backs in jovial, drunken delight. One woman in particular received a lot of attention. Silvery earrings, perhaps platinum, dangled from her soft lobes. A matching necklace carrying a tear-drop diamond the size of a small coin adorned her chest. A low cut, green dress which sunk almost to her thigh embraced her body. A group of men attempted to do the same, each one taking a turn to get their personalized rejection.
The waiter arrived with a menu. A subtle cologne radiated off his skin. The man became conscious of his sun-drenched odor and shifted in his seat. The waiter didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“Have you decided on your wine?”
“The Chateau Foyenne.”
“Bottle or glass?”
“Just a glass. On second thought, I’ll take the bottle.”
The man leafed through the menu to find a meal fitting for his wine. An osso buco served with a side of polenta and seasoned vegetables stopped his search. The price remained conspicuously absent. Not that he cared. The money behind the money would reimburse him.
He settled in to wait. Three full days with nothing to show but escalating expenses, a trio of suits in need of dry cleaning, and a growing aversion to his target.
Jeremiah sat not more than a loud conversation away. Out of place in more ways than one. Ragged clothes, that dour look he wore by default. He kept his head low as though he didn’t want to be noticed. No one did, or if they did, no one cared. Other than the waiter who let out a subtle scoff each time he turned away from Jeremiah’s table. Every so often, Jeremiah lifted his eyes and scanned the room. The man followed his gaze but couldn’t determine Jeremiah’s intent.
Sometime after the waiter took the man’s order and before it slowly made its way out of the kitchen, another woman entered the restaurant. Her short haircut and somewhat masculine style of dress fooled him at first. He checked twice to make sure it was a woman. A third time when she sidled up to the woman in the green dress to give her a kiss. The profile of her chest gave her away. He raised his eyebrows in disappointment for the missed opportunity he wouldn’t have had anyway.
The two women made their way from the bar to an empty table next to Jeremiah’s. Nothing in his expression gave away what he thought. The woman with the short haircut leaned over and asked him a question, garbled so that the man didn’t understand all the words. He pointed the camera towards their table and hit record.
“I’m simply trying to enjoy my meal.”
“But you are that Jeremiah, right? The one who hates homosexuals.”
“I don’t hate homosexuals. So, if you don’t mind.”
“Aren’t you a preacher? You are a preacher. I know what you should do. Show us you’re not a bigot. Marry us right here, right now.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I told you. You hate homosexuals.”
“I don’t.”
“Then, why won’t you marry us?”
“Marriage is between one man and one woman. Anything else goes against God’s will. What you’re asking me to do is wrong in his eyes. So, with all due respect, you will need to find someone else.”
The man smiled and spoke softly to himself. “I got you,” he said.