She picked up a newspaper and read. On the front page of the metro section, Addis saw a photograph of a smiling Gillian Silva. He recalled the photo she had showed him yesterday. Plump breasts. Sleek legs. Pouty lips. Now cold flesh.

Rudd saw that he was looking at the story about Silva.

“Imagine being her parents,” she said.

“I couldn’t,” Addis said.

23 - Downtown Washington June 27

23

Downtown Washington June 27

Twayne Starrell’s uncle asked Clarence Dunne if he belonged to a church. He frowned when Dunne mentioned an Episcopalian house in suburban Maryland. He handed Dunne a flyer for a new church.

“For true Africans,” he said.

Dunne was waiting for Starrell in the uncle’s small office. The uncle had sent Starrell out for rat traps. The city had cut back its rodent office, the winter was mild, and they’re damn well everywhere, the uncle explained to Dunne. He then apologized for cursing. The uncle returned to the paperwork piled on his desk. Dunne pondered the request he had received that morning from Jake Grayton: Please prepare an evaluation of each member of the security detail at the White House. Grayton wanted the report completed tomorrow. That should keep me busy, Dunne said to himself.

Starrell was surprised when he returned and found Dunne in the office. Dunne wanted to shake his head. Starrell was wearing a thick gold chain, a University of Maryland sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and the same bad-ass sunglasses from the previous day. Dunne recognized Starrell’s sneakers from a newspaper story. They cost nearly two hundred dollars and young black men were fighting each other—even slaughtering each other—over these shoes.

“Mr. Money Man, the black Clint Eastwood returns to the scene of the crime,” Starrell said. “Wasn’t sure that would happen.”

He handed his uncle the bag of traps.

“We’re going huntin’,” Starrell said to Dunne. “Looking for those ghetto ponies. Ride’em, cowboy. Buffalo cowboys, right, Unc?”

“Buffalo soldiers,” the uncle said.

“Yeah, but after they were done fighting for the Man, they got good jobs, right, Unc? Fancy cowboy jobs, right?”

The uncle ignored the remark.

“Would you mind if I borrowed Mr. Starrell for a few hours, maybe the day?” Dunne asked the uncle.

“Who says I want to be borrowed?” Starrell said. He pressed his hands together and flexed his muscles.

“Here,” Dunne said. He gave Starrell an envelope containing one hundred and fifty dollars.

“Borrowed was a euphemism,” Dunne said. “You’ll be paid.”

“To be a Secret Agent man?” Starrell said and laughed. “A government man? Unc, he tell you where he’s from?”

Dunne turned to the uncle.

“Does he have your permission?” Dunne asked.

“Fuck, I don’t need his permission.”

Dunne stared into the reflective plastic of Starrell’s sunglasses. “You work for him. He’s your uncle. You need his permission.”

“You work for the government?” the uncle asked.

Dunne nodded.