prop. Everyone else in Washington has a scam; why shouldn’t this guy?
Andre pushes forward, passing chain bakeries and trendy cafés, remembers when white folks feared walking down these streets. This morning, the tourists have flocked here, defying the cold, crowding the sidewalks, in search of apple-spice muffins, pumpkin lattes, and silly trinkets like bobbleheads that double as proof of patriotism.
Two more blocks, his woolen socks now soaked, Andre reaches his office building. A dozen women huddle fifteen feet from the entrance, shivering, cigarettes in hand. He recognizes each of them—analysts he’s led in the field—and his stomach sinks when each avoids meeting his eyes.
He enters the building through brass revolving doors, finds custodians mopping footprints from the marble floor. He crosses the lobby, access card in hand, and rushes the turnstiles that separate him from the elevators. This is the test, he knows. If the turnstile fails to read his card, he’s finished. So when the security light flashes green, allowing Andre to pass, he feels a moment’s relief. He strolls toward the elevator, head held high, shoulders pinned back, the smoothest brother he could possibly be. Behind the front desk, the guard, a barrel-chested ex-marine, stands and clears his throat.
“Excuse me, Mr. Ross,” Sabatino whispers. It’s not his fault. Sab’s just doing his job. Still, Andre remembers getting Sabatino’s smart-ass nephew an internship on the Hill.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Ross. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, she called down, said to call ahead when you got in.” Sabatino looks both ways, then leans close. “But say I didn’t see you? That’ll give you time, five, six minutes. Get you a good head start?”
Andre chuckles. Never doubt the loyalty of a U.S. Marine. He claps Sabatino’s shoulder, smiles to show his gratitude, says, “Thanks, I’m good. Go ahead. Call her. I’m heading up now.”
“Yes, sir,” Sabatino says. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“A small favor. There’s a homeless guy by the Metro stop.”
“The lying fuck who says he’s a vet?”
“Contact city hall. Tell them to send a van. Use the firm’s name. Someone needs to get that asshole off the streets. Otherwise he’ll freeze to death.”
Sabatino agrees, then calls the elevator. The brass doors open, inviting Andre inside, where, over a hidden speaker, plays Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things.”
“Good luck, Mr. Ross,” Sab says. “Let me know if you need backup.”
Andre presses his access card against the control panel, and the doors shut. The panel beeps twice, and the elevator whisks him skyward, past six stories of analysts and researchers: the well-paid statisticians, pollsters, accountants, media trackers, copywriters, and investigators, many of whom will be happy to see him gone. Their glee isn’t personal. They simply want his job. A senior associate falls, one of them rises. Office politics, plain and simple.
The elevator doors open. The lights of the eighth-floor lobby flicker, and Andre knows this may be the last time he steps into the nerve center of Martin, Fitzpatrick & DeVille. He sidesteps the receptionist, pursues the hall that leads toward his office. The path is a straight shot between the offices of the other senior associates, with their Ivy League degrees and inherited vacation homes. Halfway down the busy hall, he passes a glass-enclosed conference room and casts a sideways glance inside. He recognizes a face, no, two faces, no, three, four, five, six, seven. Shit. Then he spots a poster-board map of Indianapolis, and a heavy weight shifts inside his chest. He knows he’ll be fired by the end of the day, but now he’s pissed. For Christ’s sake, he’s worked Indianapolis for six months, made media contacts, registered his political action committee, presented an electoral strategy that pleased the finicky billionaire client. He feels his anger spike but resolves to play it cool, left hand slipped inside his pocket, a dash of swagger in his step. He knows they’re watching him, judging him, sizing him up, and he will never—never—let these white people see him sweat.
In his office waits Fiona Fitzpatrick, the sole female founding partner. He appreciates that she’s come in person to announce his fate. For nearly seventeen years she’s been good to him, a second mother, the trusted mentor who shepherded his career. He has few regrets about his most recent campaign—his assignment was to form a political action committee that would get a governor elected, and that’s precisely what he did. But he understands that his tactics may have brought shame upon the firm and, quite possibly, embarrassed the woman who has shown