The air was moist and heavy. Summer suited Washington, Addis thought, as he walked out the Pennsylvania Avenue gate. It smothered a city with clogged arteries. He put on sunglasses and passed through the concrete barriers that now sat in the middle of the street. The illusion of security, he told himself. Did they have to be so damn ugly? Why not a moat, filled with large carp? A gift from the Japanese people, perhaps. Or every lobbyist and lawyer-fixer in town could chip in. A lily pad each.

He crossed 17th Street to the sidewalk coffee stand.

“Cherry Coke?” the vendor asked.

“You know it.”

Addis had made Tommy Corman’s street-corner business famous. In the first year of the Hanover administration, Addis came by most afternoons. Soon, people started waiting for him at the stand: job-seekers, trade association representatives, administration officials who had not been invited to an important meeting, tourists, and gawkers. The Secretary of Labor once staked out the stand when he could not get in to see Hanover. Please give this memo to the President, he had urged Addis. It had been written on plain paper, no letterhead. Addis had to stop his regular visits to the coffee stand.

“Sorry to hear about Dunne,” Corman said. He brushed the green-dyed dreadlocks from in front of his face. Corman had dropped out of MIT, gone white-Rastafarian. “He came by sometimes. No cream, three sugars. It’s a bitch … . Hey, tell me, what’s going to happen with Margaret and the new President? That’s wild, man.” He handed Addis the drink.

“Sure is,” Addis said. He paid Corman. “Business okay?”

“Yeah, you know, the suits leave in the summer. But Middle America drops by. You wouldn’t believe how many people still don’t know their espresso from their cappuccino. But it’s not so bad. This waiter I know at the Mayflower told me that people are calling there and asking for the room where they found that reporter and that girl. And on the radio, they said skinheads were using razor blades to carve the word HAPPY on themselves. It’s a sick world, man.”

Addis took the drink and thanked Corman.

“Haile Selassie, man. Peace.”

Addis headed back toward the White House. As he waited for the light to change, he half-noticed a man in a white suit next to him.

“May I share something with you?” the man asked. It was Evan Hynes-Pierce.

“Not today,” Addis said. He took care not to look directly at the reporter. The light changed, and they crossed the street.

“A bit of news, that’s all,” Hynes-Pierce said.

Addis felt a piece of paper being slipped into his jacket pocket.

“Read it at your convenience,” Hynes-Pierce said. “It’s a strange coincidence. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. We can talk after you’ve had the opportunity to digest. You’ll see, matters have become more serious.”