[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/GvejVyl.png[/img][/center] [hr] [b]Washington Highlands[/b] [b]Washington D.C.[/b] [b]12:10 AM[/b] “You up?” Demarco rubbed his hands and waited on the fiend’s reply. He was posted up on the corner of Bambay and 9th, the shadow of the Highland Terrace housing looming from above. The white boy idled at the curb was behind the wheel of a beat up Ford Ranger with Maryland tags. The truck looked like it was white once upon a time, but years of wear and tear had bleached the car’s paint so that it was a faded off-white and bits of primer showed through the cracked hood. “One and one,” said the white boy. Demarco took the twenty dollar bill and passed him two gelcaps of dope. The truck sped off down the street as Demarco stepped back on to the curb and tucked his hands back into the front pocket of his hoodie. He used his hands and made a quick count of the gelcaps resting inside the large pocket. He was down to twenty. He’d have to get a re-up before the night was through. He was just one of six dealers who worked the package for Tray. Demarco worked here on the corner, but there was the boy Renzo who served customers inside Highland Terrace along with two other dealers who worked the Park Southern Apartments and Highland Dwellings down the way. Tray had a small operation when compared to some of the crews that ran the corners up in Northeast DC, but Demarco knew even their small operation made serious bank. They served the usual DC fiends, but the corner of Bambay and 9th was a short walk from the Maryland line and PG County on the other side. Working class whites and blacks, upper middle class professionals, hell even soldiers from that nearby military base all came to Demarco’s corner for a fix. He served more white people than he did blacks, and he was sure it was almost true for every corner crew in DC. It’s why the people in the Capitol building downtown were calling it an epidemic now. Because it was affecting white people, and they were the ones who mattered to them. When Demarco’s older cousin died because she mainlined some dope that was cut with too much rat poison, nobody from Congress gave a fuck. When Demarco’s dad got twenty-five years for selling coke and dope, the politicians labeled him a “superpredator” and called him a “community parasite.” And when crack got its hooks into his grandma back in the 80’s, made her sell her body and life for the rock, it wasn’t an epidemic then. Demarco had learned at a very early age that getting someone to care about your pain and suffering had a lot in common with the drug game. It was all about location, location, location. Demarco gave a long look at a dark town car and its tinted windows as it slowly rolled down 9th towards the corner. His antenna was up for anything suspicious. It was the color and general shape to be a police, but MPD knockos didn’t ride in anything that nice. The car pulled up to the corner and idled there waiting. Demarco shrugged and started his slow walk towards the window. Shit, even town car driving motherfuckers needed to get right. “You up?” he asked as the window started to slide down. The man who looked back at him was either police, or he once was. That fucked up haircut that was too close to the scalp was favored by either police or soldiers, and only police wore those thick ass mustaches anymore. But it was too obvious, no creep at all to the situation. Demarco knew MPD sent their undercovers out looking the part, or at least trying to. This motherfucker right here was as subtle as a bomb. “Good evening, you young street entrepreneur,” the man said cheerfully. “How much for your entire stock?” [hr] [b]Atkins & Knight[/b] [b]10:24 AM[/b] Steel pressed the button for the twelfth floor as the elevator’s doors slid shut. He was alone on the ride up. Two hours earlier it would have been packed with clerical and legal staff on their way up, but everyone by now was settled in for another day’s work buying and selling political influence. The doors opened on twelve and Steel stepped out into a lobby basked in tasteful lighting. The law firm’s logo -- the letters A and K designed in some professional font that was no doubt focus-tested to death -- was always the first thing anyone saw when stepping off the elevator. Furniture that was worth the price of Steel’s apartment was strategically placed around the lobby along with artwork by local District artists. The place smacked of corporate money and power. Steel did his best to dress accordingly. He wore boots with dark jeans, a checkered blue shirt with a blue sports jacket and navy tie. The receptionist greeted him with a professional smile. “Hi. How can I help you, sir?” He leaned against her desk, careful to keep his left arm down below the surface. It always raised questions in people’s minds when they saw his hand. Better to not give the receptionist the chance to stare and wonder. “Sargent Steel to see Robert Edison,” he said. “I believe I have an appointment.” “What’s your first name, Sergeant?” she asked. “Sargent,” he said with a smile. “It’s a first name, not a rank.” “I see you here,” she said after a quick search on her computer. “I’ll buzz Mr. Edison and he’ll be out shortly to see you. Have a seat.” Bob Edison came out five minutes later. Steel was always struck by how casual Bob always dressed. With his khaki slacks and polo shirts, he looked more like a college football coach than a partner in one of the biggest lobbying firms on K Street. The coaching air was helped by the fact Bob was about fifty pounds overweight and had a face that was perpetually sunburnt thanks to many hours on the golf links. “Hey, Sarge,” Edison said, offering Steel a plump handshake. “Come on back.” He followed Bob towards his corner office. A&K’s south wall was all glass and looked out over D.C. The Washington Monument could be seen off in the distance, even closer was Lafayette Square and The White House. Bob’s office on the western side of the building had a nice view of the Potomac and the Pentagon. A&K sat just a short walk or drive from every single major hub of government activity in this city. For people in the lobbying business it ws all about proximity to power. Location, location, location. Steel found someone waiting for them once they arrived in Bob’s office. A young, clean shaven man wearing a suit that Steel immediately identified as off the rack. Men’s Wearhouse, Jos. A Bank, one of those places. He stood and favored Steel with a wide smile. His youth, lack of means, and eager to please pegged him as one of the many, many young professionals that littered the District. That type of policy wonk or junior community affairs clerk that would one day run the free world, god help them all. “Sarge, this is Eric Wideman. He’s comms director for Congressman Laurence Mitchell.” “Larry the Lion,” said Steel. Wideman shook hand with him and he saw the younger man’s eyes drift towards Steel’s metal left hand. “It’s a fake,” he said before Wideman could ask. “Lost the real one when I was overseas, yes I was in the military, it has some limited capabilities, I can grab and hold stuff under a certain weight limit, but no finer motor skills. I think that’s all the questions most people have for me when they see it.” Steel resisted the urge to smirk when he saw Wideman’s flushed face. Bob took a seat behind his desk and ushered for the two men to do the same. Wideman spoke once he overcame his temporary embarrassment. “Well, Mr. Steel, I was surprised to find that a lobbyist firm like A&K would undertake the services of a private investigator.” “We require help every so often,” said Bob. “Background checks and vetting, odds and ends, the occasional… delicate situation that needs a light touch.” “That’s me,” said Steel. “The man with the metal hand and the kid gloves.” “You did come highly recommended by Mr. Edison,” said Wideman. “Capable and discreet,” said Bob. “Sarge here handles work for us as well as some criminal law firms in D.C.” “Man’s gotta eat,” said Steel. “I take my work where I can get it.” Wideman nodded and cleared his throat. “Good…Bob, do you think we could have the room?” “Say no more,” said Bob. He stood and checked his watch. “Actually, I need to be somewhere at eleven. You two can see yourself out after you’re done.” Wideman’s eyes followed Bob as he left the office. When he was gone, his focus snapped back to Steel. “Mr. Steel, do you keep up with the comings and goings on the Hill?” “I make it a habit not to,” Steel said with a shrug. “But I know who your boss is. Larry the Lion is what you would call a character.” “He’s also making moves on the Hill,” Wideman said, lowering his voice. Who that was exactly for, Steel couldn’t figure. “Word is that Clayburn is getting ready to retire. If that happens, Congressman Mitchell is in a position to step up in the party leadership. He has enough backing among the caucuses to make a serious run at minority leader.” “And if the general election falls like you want to,” said Steel. “That minority leader position becomes speaker of the house. I’ve seen enough CSPAN to know how it works.” Steel was waiting to hear where he came into this thing. If he was being dragged down here for just a [i]Schoolhouse Rock[/i] lesson, he would be very upset. “There’s a potential problem, though,” said Wideman. “The congressman has a big liability in the form of his son, Jeremy.” Steel raised an eyebrow at Wideman. “A typical congressional brat?” “Jeremy is…,” Wideman laughed. “Well he’s the congressman’s son from his second marriage, he’s spent his whole life with a powerful and influential father. That does things to a kid. As much as Congressman Mitchell is loved here in D.C., he’s idolized back in Tennessee. Jeremey has been raised thinking he can do whatever he wants and get away with it… and he mostly does. He’s been arrested for drug charges by cops in both Memphis and here in the District time and time again, but the congressman -- add his staff I might add -- use their influence to keep those arrests dismissed and sealed.” “I seem to recall Congressman Mitchell being a pretty tough proponent of the drug war,” said Steel. “Fights tooth and nail any time a decriminalization bill comes up.” Wideman side-eyed him, perhaps wondering how this man who claimed to know so little about politics knew those detail about his boss. “Right, well,” Wideman continued. “You see what a mess that could be. Especially now considering… Jeremy’s gone missing.” The plot thins, Steel thought ironically. They’d arrived to the heart of the matter. Steel reached into his breast shirt pocket and pulled out his small notepad and pen. “When was the last time he was seen?” “Four days ago,” said Wideman. “His roomate at Georgetown said he was leaving the apartment to go on a beer run. Never came back. We’re hesitant to file a missing persons report… if it gets out that a congressman’s son is missing, it risks a lot more information about him coming to light.” It took Steel a moment to situate everything. His left hand moved slowly, opening up its fingers and giving him enough room to rest the notebook on the palm. He was just thankful he hadn’t lost his right hand. His handwriting was already bad enough. Steel wrote down Jeremy’s name and asked Wideman for his date of birth, height, weight, eye, and hair color. Then he got the boy’s phone number, the address of his apartment, and the name and number of his roommate. “Bob tell you about my fee?” he asked without looking up. “Yes, and money is not an object. We’ll be happy to pay you directly out of the congressman’s PAC.” Steel paused at that. PAC funds were supposed to be for campaigns only. Paying PI’s to track down scumbag sons made it less of a campaign war chest, and more of a slush fund. But it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been paid out of a PAC. And he very much doubted he’d be the last. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said after asking Wideman all the questions he needed to start with. “Just know that you will be compensated with more than money if this works out,” Wideman said with a smile that bordered on sleazy. “You’ll have a very powerful congressman in debt to you, one that may end up speaker of the house… or something higher when all is said and done.” “Lucky me,” said Steel.