Джордж Пелеканос: The Double

“On O’Reilly he claimed to have no remorse for the lives he took, including women. Do you find that odd?”

“Not particularly. Kyle took out one hundred and fifty enemy combatants who would have killed countless American marines and soldiers if they had the chance. That Texan saved a lot of lives.”

“By taking lives.”

“Yes.” Lucas gripped the arm of his chair.

“Spero, are you all right?”

I’m fine.

“Why?”

“You seem disturbed.”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

Olivia O’Leary cleared her throat. “You should make an appointment and come in.”

“I’m straight. Anyway, I’m not exactly the type who, you know, sits in a room and discusses his feelings.”

“Doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you if you do. It’s always beneficial to talk to someone.”

A brief silence settled between them.

“You’re a good person, Olivia.”

“I think you are, too.”

Lucas pushed himself up from his chair and stood to his height. “Take care, Doc.”

“ You take care.”

On the way out of the building, Lucas passed a woman, early in her middle age, seated in a chair outside a room with a closed door. She had a towel wrapped around one bloodless hand and it was pressed against her face. Her eyes were pink and swollen, and there were mascara tracks on her cheeks. He had heard her deep sobs from far down the hall. He guessed she had been crying for some time. He had seen her kind here before. Another war-fucked soldier’s mom.

Walking on, he thought of the woman he was about to meet for drinks. Sex took his mind off the stink of death.

Lucas valeted his Jeep outside a boutique hotel on the 1200 block of 16th Street, four blocks north of the White House. He wore a lightly textured powder-blue shirt, cream-colored 501s, and brown double-buckle monk straps made in Italy. He could clean up when he wanted to, and when it was appropriate. He’d heard about this hotel and its refurbishment in 2009. His brother Leo brought women to the bar here, if they and the occasion were special. Leo had said the place was first-class.

Lucas walked on a checkerboard marble floor through a lobby lit by lamps and dusk filtered through skylights. He passed a pedestaled bust of Thomas Jefferson and a library whose shelves held leather-bound books, and he walked on into the bar, clean and subtly lit, and saw her sitting at the stick. She was wearing a simple orange dress with a low neckline that clung to her nicely rather than cheaply. The orange lighting of the bar complemented her dress. He stepped up to her and reached out his hand. She smiled, took it, and gripped it firmly.

“I’m Charlotte.”

“Spero Lucas. Now we’re properly introduced.”

“Have a seat. I saved it for you.”

“I bet that wasn’t easy. A buncha guys must’ve been trying to score this seat.”

“Tons. I had to beat them off.”

“Your hand must be awful tired.”

Charlotte laughed charitably. “Please, sit down.”

He took a seat beside her in a high black chair. They were by the turn in the bar, nearest the windows fronting 16th. There were others in the room, but Lucas took no notice.

“I’m having wine,” said Charlotte. “Do you like Italian red?”

“Sure, why not.”

“This Barolo’s pretty nice.” She offered him her glass to try it.

He took a sip and nodded. “That’s good.”

Charlotte looked him over. “Let’s have a bottle. You want to?”

He stayed with her lovely blue eyes. “I’m game.”

The bartender, a slender, quiet man, soon came with a bottle, showed its label to Charlotte, then uncorked it and poured a bit in a fresh glass. She tasted it and made a motion with her chin, and he poured her a full portion and some for Lucas.

“Shall I leave the bottle on the bar?” said the tender.

“Please,” said Charlotte.

They tapped glasses. He watched her close her eyes as she drank. Now that he was close, he saw that she was older than him by several years. Late thirties if he had to guess. Her age was in her smile lines and the light imprints around her eyes, but it showed nowhere else. Her skin was smooth and her complexion was flawless. She smelled faintly of rainwater. He supposed it was her shampoo. For jewelry she wore a thin gold bracelet with a Grecian key inlay, and a strand of ice-blue crystals around her neck. A tan line showed on her ring finger.

“Work today?” she said.

“Yes. You?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a lobbyist over on K Street.” She gave him a brief history of her career. She had been a Hill staffer for several years and eventually had served on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and traveled extensively overseas. The natural progression and her Middle East and Near East connections led her to lobbying, and her current firm.

“Who are some of your clients?”

“Pakistan,” she said.

“Wow.”

“It’s work. What did you do today?”

Lucas described his day. He said that the secret most investigators keep is that the bulk of their modern-day work is done via computer programs, but that he preferred to get out and talk to people when he could. He described the Virginia Christian conversation, that technically they were on opposite sides of the fence, but that he’d liked her, and he felt she’d liked him.

“I’m a marine,” he said, keeping it in the present tense, as he tended to do. He told her where he had served. He told her about his visit to Walter Reed, something he normally wouldn’t share with anyone but fellow veterans and family. It could come off as self-serving, but she seemed interested.

“You look like you came out of the war all right,” said Charlotte.

“I’m ahead,” said Lucas.

“Why’d you settle back in D.C.?”

“Home. Family.” And again, he began to talk unguardedly.

He told her that he was the son of Greek-American parents, one of four siblings, three of whom had been adopted. His sister, Irene, was the biological product of the marriage, and was now an attorney in San Francisco. She was emotionally distant and largely absent from their lives. Dimitrius, the oldest brother, was a charming, degenerate criminal, and currently in the wind. Another brother, Leo, was a local high school teacher and a standout individual in every respect since childhood. A combination of rock star, athlete, do-gooder, and stud. Spero was the youngest of the bunch. High school wrestler, not particularly gifted academically, but a hard worker. Tried community college, then joined the Corps. His father passed while Lucas was serving in Iraq. He was still close to his mom.

“Do you ever wonder who your real parents are?” said Charlotte.

“I know who my parents are,” said Lucas. “Van and Eleni Lucas.”

“Stupid question.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

Charlotte leaned in toward him. “So what do you do for fun?”

“I ride a bicycle and I have a kayak,” said Lucas. “I like to get out there.”

“What else?”

“I’m into older movies and music. I read a lot of books.”

“What kind of music?”

“Smart lyrics with guitars. Solos get me off. That takes away my punk credentials, but hey. I like stuff with a Southern bent or feel. Lucero, My Morning Jacket, DBT. The Hold Steady, Dinosaur Jr., Sonic Youth... guitar-heavy stuff. At home I’ll listen to reggae.”

“That means...”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t smoke marijuana,” said Charlotte.

“I won’t hold it against you.”

“It makes me sleepy.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” said Charlotte.