“What’s all this?” she asked, her eyes on Jordan’s gun.

“Had to go,” Jack said.

She caressed his head, stroked his hair. “That’s fine, sweetie. And Nick?”

“Just talking with Lem,” Addis said. “And just leaving.”

There’s so much I have to tell Julia.

He brushed past Margaret and whispered to her, “About Blue Ridge. About Chasie. About Griffith. And about …” He moved through the crowd and felt a hand on his shoulder. He thought it belonged to Carey. But he did not acknowledge it. His eyes met O’Connor’s. He shook his head and kept walking. He left the suite and headed to the elevator. Someone called his name from behind. It was Margaret.

50 - Mayflower Hotel July 1

50

Mayflower Hotel July 1

It’s like I got a monster bag of radioactive kryptonite shit, Starrell thought to himself, as he sat in the lobby. All these people going by, all these SSers, they don’t know clue one.

He kept talking to himself: They ain’t the man. I got it. This stuff could blow some big-asses apart. The big bang.

He didn’t know how. But he figured it could. People were dead because of it. Clarence Dunne, too—almost. This White House guy was acting like a god-damn ghost because of it. All in this bag. On this couch. Next to Twayne Marcus Starrell. And Tamika knew he was doing something big.

Starrell watched everybody. The tourists with whiny kids. The hotel people trotting by without smiling at him. The Secret Service agents who checked him out. This white shirt of his—this funeral shirt—smelled, but he was getting his money out of it. Keep observing, he told himself. For what? Fuck if he knew. But there was nothing else to do. So just watch.

Two of the four Secret Service agents started to move. The others were cocking their heads, listening to the earpieces. Shit’s happening. Just keep on waiting, he said silently. The ghost-geek told him to wait thirty minutes.

A man came through the revolving doors. The first thing he looked at were the Secret Service men near the entrance. His eyes were slits, tightly focused. Like he’s zooming bitches, Starrell thought. The officers were talking to each other and did not immediately notice the man. He was wearing a long raincoat, black sneakers—like a basketball ref wears—and portable headphones. But when he stood still nothing moved. No fingertapping or body-swaying. He was like stone. What music was he listening to? The man scanned the room and then his eyes popped open. Like he’s changing his whole look, Starrell thought, and now he’s a gee-whiz gumby-head. The man headed toward the bar.

“If I worked for the suits, I’d follow a crazy-ass like that,” Starrell said to no one.