Читать книгу A Thin Place - Jack Peterson - Страница 25

April 25, 1992

Washington, DC

In Samuel Crockett’s opinion, the steps of the Lincoln Memorial always had best view in Washington DC, but today was even more special as he took his customary seat on the top step and looked down the National Mall toward the Capitol building. Springtime blossoms from hundreds of late-blooming Yoshino cherry flanking each side of the mall were so beautiful he was certain that no words could ever properly describe their grandeur. He had purposely chosen the perfect time to visit his old stomping grounds, but he had a problem. He was beginning to feel as archaic as the former Soviet Union. There was a time when he roamed the halls of Congress with the respect of a Russian general in the Kremlin, but no more. He was a long forgotten entity, old news, thrown out with the rest of the unelectable fugitives. Not only had reality set in, his week had been exhausting and unproductive.

Late that night, Crockett sat alone at the bar at a trendy Georgetown restaurant, waiting for a table. It had been nine years since he vacated his office on Capitol Hill. Navigating the maze of governmental offices for the last four days had been far more demanding than he remembered. He wasn’t sure if it age or the aggravation of running into so many dead ends that made him weary, but he knew he was spent. It was time to go home.

A voice came from behind. “Excuse me, Congressman.”

Crockett looked over his shoulder. A man he guessed to be in his mid-thirties stood patiently waiting for an acknowledgement of his informal greeting. While he was in no mood for trivial pleasantries, Crockett politely swiveled his stool around and took a chance. “How is it you know who I am?”

“Well sir, you made quite a splash while you were in office and I have a pretty good memory,” the man said, handing Crockett his card. I worked for the Post as an assistant to the senior political editor. “My name is Mathew Manning.”

Still not particularly interested in casual conversation, Crockett palmed the card without looking at it, scanning the dinner crowd over Manning’s shoulder.

Manning ignored the slight. “I might also add that I am a huge fan of your monologues. I saw your Mark Twain Tonight benefit performance in San Francisco last year. I even bought one of your tapes.”

Crockett quickly backed off, suddenly breaking a smile. “Well, I am afraid I am no Hal Holbrook, but at least I have a legitimate claim to his middle name.”

“Congressman, I’m dining alone at my table and there is an extra chair. I’d be honored if you joined me.”

Crockett looked around again, weighing the wait time for a table. It was intimidating. He picked up his drink and accepted the offer.

Manning was noticeably excited. “I must say that life was not as much fun around here after you left. Your tenacity is still legendary. You were irascible, almost ruthless. For the Post, you were a media darling. You sold newspapers.”

Crockett smiled, ignoring the compliment. “So tell me Mr. Manning, how is life at the Washington Post these days?”

“Well, I no longer work there. I have a degree in finance and work for the CDC. I am based in Atlanta now. I am here on vacation, visiting some old friends. Please, call me Matthew.”

Crockett needed no explanation of the CDC. He used to sit on an appropriation committee for the CDC when he was a congressman. While everyone called it the CDC, the agency’s name had long ago changed to Centers for Disease Control and Prevention putting an emphasis on prevention. It was headquartered in Atlanta but had ten other locations in the United States and Puerto Rico. It was one of the two most powerful agencies in the US government. Only the Food and Drug Administration could match it in size.

As dinner progressed, Manning shared that he was thirty-five, divorced, had no children and spent his leisure time jogging. He also was up front about not being particularly enamored with his position at the CDC. His only complimentary offering about the organization was that the job paid his bills.

As dinner progressed, Crockett was running out of small talk. He couldn’t resist testing Manning with the same question he had been asking everyone else for the last week. “Matthew, I’ve been in DC doing a little research. Tell me, what do you know about autism?”

The look on Manning’s face told Crocket that he might as well have asked the wall. Crockett smiled. “That’s just about the same response I’ve gotten from everybody else around here. Please forgive me. I just took a chance.”

Manning waved off the apology. “No, no apology required. The only reason I hesitated is that it’s ironic that you mention it. My friend’s nephew was recently diagnosed with autism.”

“So you do know something about it?

“Just what my friend has told me, except...”

Crockett waited, but Manning’s hesitation lasted too long. “Except what?”

“It’s just a little ironic that you mention it. I heard some chatter around the lunchroom at the CDC about it a couple of weeks ago.”

“What kind of chatter?”

“I didn’t really understand much of it, something about a memo one of the drug manufacturer’s sent to the FDA.”

Crockett felt the adrenalin rushing through his body. He forgot all about how tired he was. “Why would a drug company have any interest in autism?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I heard someone say it could have had something to do with the new Hepatitis-B vaccination schedules that were just added to the national vaccination program. Again, I am not in the loop, but there was a buzz on both subjects around the same time. I don’t see how one could relate to the other. It was probably just a coincidence.”

Crockett decided not to press his luck. Whether there was anything to Manning’s idle conversation or not, he intended to follow it up. Having a contact inside the CDC was a plus, even if he was a bean counter.

After dessert, Crockett reached into his pocket and pulled out Manning’s card to check his contact number. He offered one of his own to Manning. “Matthew, I’m afraid it’s a bit late in the hour for me. I have a plane to catch in the morning. If you will allow me to give you a call from time to time if I have any research questions, I would sincerely appreciate it.”

Five minutes later, as Crockett stood outside trying to hail a cab for the ride back to the Marriott. Two blocks away, a bellman was escorting an elderly gentleman to his room. The old man insisted on carrying his own luggage to his suite on the third floor of The Georgetown Inn. The bellman unlocked the door, turned on the light, looked about the room and determined all was in order.

“Welcome to Georgetown,” the bellman announced proudly. “If you need anything else, just call the front desk. We’re here to help you enjoy your stay.”

The man sat his bag down, waving his hand. “Please, wait,” he asked politely. He reached into his pocket and handed a bill to the bellman who promptly pocketed it.

“Enjoy your stay,” the bellman said, closing the door behind as he left.

Riding down the elevator, the bellman thought perhaps the old man’s insistence on carrying his bag was his way of minimizing the tip, but the designer-brand leather suitcase he insisted on carrying didn’t fit the mold of a man watching his pennies. He rationalized wealthy people were sometimes the most frugal, and it wasn’t unusual for them to be light tippers, but he was not concerned. At the end of the day, the tips all balanced out. Considered bad etiquette to look at a tip when received, he reached into his pocket for the bill the old man gave him. Benjamin Franklin was smiling at him. He had received hundred dollar tips before, but never from a man that wrote his name on duct tape and pasted it on both sides of a thousand dollar suitcase. He would make a personal commitment to see that Dr. Jeremiah Trent had an enjoyable stay.