At Cannon, he entered the building at the side and found the stairs to the basement. He walked through the long tunnel to the U.S. Capitol, then followed the maze-like path through the sub-basement of the Capitol and came to the underground corridor that led to the Senate office buildings. Several aides and a few senators rushing to the floor for a vote recognized him. He was accustomed to that. He used to joke that he had appeared in more photographs with President Hanover than Margaret had. Newspapers and television news shows had flashed his image repeatedly since the assassination.

For the first time since leaving the Treasury Department, he looked behind. Down the length of the tunnel, he saw no one hurrying to keep up with him.

Dunne arrived at the Dirksen Building—imagine, he thought, a defender of segregation being commemorated by an office building that now sits two blocks away from the Thurgood Marshall Judiciary Building—and took the stairs to the street level. He exited the building and hailed a cab.

“Convention Center,” he said.

Dunne got out at the Convention Center and entered the building. A computer exposition filled the hall. He paused over literature at a display table and looked out through the windows. He spotted no one. But then if they—whoever they might be—were doing their jobs well, he would not see them. He pocketed a few brochures and departed the center. He was two blocks away from the address for First Ladies.

The suite on the second floor was locked. Dunne knocked, and nobody answered. Dunne smelled the food being cooked in the Chinese restaurant below.

“Ain’t nobody home.”

Dunne turned around. A tall, young black man wearing wraparound sunglasses, baggy nylon pants, a Redskins T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and hiking boots was speaking to him. His hair was closely cropped, his chin dimpled. He folded his brawny arms—a weight lifter’s arms—in front of his chest.

“Where did they go?” Dunne asked.

“Why you asking?”

“My name is Clarence Dunne.”

“And?”

“I’m here on government work.”

“Big shit. My name’s Twayne Marcus Starrell. And I hate the government.”

“You work around here?”

“Maybe I do.”

“They close up shop recently?”

“I heard this guy on television last night. And this was it: He says information is a fuckin’ resource. More valuable than gold, he says. He says, anyone give anything away for nothing is a god-damn fool’s chump. Do I look like a fool’s chump?”

“No, you don’t, Mr. Starrell.”

“Fuckin’ right. You a cop? I ain’t playin’ squeals.”

“No, I work for the Department of Treasury.”

“You a money man?” Starrell laughed. “Got some fresh Mack Bennies for me?”

“Wish I did. It’s not that sort of a job. But I’ll pay you for your time.”

Dunne checked his wallet.

“Fifty dollars, if you help me out.”

“You a cheap nigger-in-a-white-man’s-suit.”