CHAPTER ONE

Drumbeats pounded out from the Circle. The sound went unheard in the restaurant but was unmistakable once I stepped outside. The alley was still puddled with yesterday’s rain, and I crossed it unconcerned about the dirty pools and arrived at the next sidewalk having missed every puddle. I passed the corner beauty shop and walked up the next staircase, where I found bouncers Dante and Dennis sitting outside Tumult’s doorway.

Hey, Amy, I saw you walking up, Dante said. His dark Italian features did him justice even under the street lights. Did they let you out?

Nope, I answered. Today I let myself out.

They both looked impressed. Congratulations.

Good for you, said Dennis, who was built more like a blonde bear.

Want a beer? Dante tilted his head toward the doors behind him.

Actually I came to tell you I’d be in the Circle. But now that you mention it, yeah, I could really use a beer.

Dante held the door open for me just as Shaggy’s It Wasn’t Me began to play inside. Frank’s at the front bar.

I made my way through the crowd, past the dartboards and pool cues, and sat down at the corner of the front bar. This spot got a lot of the wait-staff traffic so there was usually an unoccupied chair. Frank saw me, and I waited as he finished pouring a few drinks. Frank was one of those people who could be any age, from twenty-eight to forty-eight. He was quick-witted with a boyish face and his blue eyes showed happiness rather than life’s pressures. But his light brown graying hair, slight potbelly, and the fact that he could make any drink, even the most obscure, from memory, made you think he’d been at this for thirty years.

Hey, Blondie, did you just get out? he asked me, thinking it’s quitting time already. Frank didn’t live by the clock, so time had lost all meaning to him.

No, I left early. And for good, I declared.

That’s a call for celebration. What’ll ya have?

Beer. I smiled. Any kind. Surprise me.

He poured me something dark from the far tap and awaited my reaction. Wow. Now this makes everything worth it. Frank, what is it about a cold beer?

Bubbles, he said, glad that I liked his choice. This is the prize for making it through the workday. Even for those who refused to take one more step in a bad situation, he winked and started to walk away.

Woo! What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here? A woman stepped up to the bar beside my chair. Two cosmos, please. She fished in her purse for a mirror and glanced toward me. Her dark skin was covered in silver sparkles and J.Lo perfume. Amy! Well, look at that. How you doing girl?

Hey, Michaela. I smiled at the thin, six-foot brunette wearing a tight white blouse and pink miniskirt. Michael by day, Michaela by night she told me months ago when I met her, saying the first part in her original voice and the second in her more natural, feminine voice. I’m just fine. What about you, got the night off?

Don’t you know it, she opened the mirror and checked her appearance. Ugh, I am so glad they finally caught that sniper. Can you believe it? All those people, my God, she shook her head. I hadn’t slept in weeks and it’s causing these dark circles under my eyes.

Everybody’s got those. You’ll blend in.

Honey, bite your tongue! My makeup lady works all the way out in Tyson’s and I was too afraid until yesterday to go out there and get more concealer. With those open parking lots? I don’t think so. She lightly touched the skin under her eyes and closed the mirror. And none too soon, either. See that man in the corner getting us a table? She pointed to the right behind me. That’s Wayne. Isn’t he delicious?

I leaned my chair back to look. Whoa, I said, seeing the tall, dark skinned and built man she pointed a pink nail at. He looks athletic.

I hope so. She smiled. I saw Dante on the way in. He looks good.

Yeah, I agreed, slowly becoming aware that I smelled like coffee. My tight outfit was cute, but my ratty ponytail coupled with the coffee smell weren’t working for me.

Well, just so you know, Juan over at DIK has his eye on Dante.

So I’ve seen. I rolled my eyes. Last time we were there Juan all but threw himself at him.

Shameless, I know, she presented a folded bill to Frank. Thanks, babe, she winked at him and reached for her cosmos. Listen, Amy, you and Dante should come by the club again. We’re doing bingo Sundays and Thursdays now.

I nodded and watched her cross the floor toward her date. You look good, Michaela!

Don’t I know, she said, accenting each syllable.

At the restaurant two doors down, the customers were getting restless. I’m probably on a smoke break, flirting with a busboy in a corner somewhere, goofing off by some and all means. This is coming out of the tip, they’ll say. Of course it will.

They’ll push cold coffee cups to the edges of the tables, toss napkins onto their plates, look around some more, bewildered, agitated. This is certainly coming out of the tip.

They’ll shake their soda glasses to clang the ice, grown up babies with rattles vying for attention. By now fingers will wave in the air, Miss! Over here, we’re ready, they’ll say to anyone carrying a tray or just walking by. Sir! Over here.

Wait ’til I tell my coworkers about this place tomorrow.

Wait ’til I tell the folks at home the lousy service they have in the nation’s capital.

They’re going to miss movies, the beginnings of favorite TV shows, they won’t finish the work they brought home from the office.

Wait ’til I speak to the manager, that waitress won’t know what hit her.

A breeze blew in from the door and woke me from my daydream. Frank was at the other end of the bar, pouring martinis. I finished my beer and left him a ten, knowing he hadn’t charged me for anything.

I’m gonna head up to the Circle, I told Dante as I stepped outside.

Feel better? he asked. Are you sure?

I nodded. This is just what I needed.

A wave of people reached the top landing and Dennis started checking ID’s. Well, you’re out of there, Dennis said. Can’t go back now.

Dante and I exchanged a look. Of course she can go back, Dante laughed. He looked at me, They probably don’t even know you’re gone.

You could go back in and they wouldn’t know you were gone? Dennis asked, handing the last girl in his line her ID.

I laughed. That’s kinda the way that place works, I said. Oh, I looked at Dante, Michaela says they’re doing bingo twice a week now. She wanted me to tell you.

Cool. Who’s the new guy she’s with? A commotion stirred from the alley and we looked to the right of Tumult where a guy was pushing his way through the crowd.

Huh? Oh, his name’s Wayne, I said, distracted by the movement. I don’t know where she met him. Maybe at the club.

Two police officers came running from the alley behind the pushy man, the lead officer shouting at their prey and plodding through the puddles as he continued the chase. A girl screamed as the cold water from yesterday’s rain hit her legs.

The second officer stopped chase and leaned on Tumult’s railing to catch his breath. Doubled over, he shouted into a hand radio, took a few deep breaths and started chasing again. The girl was wiping her legs and skirt with tissues that her friends handed her. What a jerk! she said, and her friends agreed.

The man being chased ran toward the movie theater’s alley that led to the equally crowded Connecticut Avenue and probable freedom, but instead ran past the theater to what looked like a dark alleyway on the other side.

What’s he doing? I asked. Oh, he’s done.

Yeah, that was stupid, Dante said.

That’s no escape, buddy! It’s a brick wall! Dennis yelled. Laughter echoed up from the sidewalk below as everyone was watching the scene unfold. The police caught up to the runner, pinned him on the ground, cuffed and searched him. The drumbeats from the Circle started up again.

"Yeah . . .  I said as things wrapped up. I’ll be in the Circle if you need me."

Dante kissed my hand. I’m done in two hours, but I get a break before that, he said. I’ll come find you.

Two guys and their dates ascended the stairs toward us. What’s going on over there? one of the girls asked.

The three of us looked at each other, deciding which of us cared to say anything. Dennis said one word, Drugs, in monotone, already bored with the scene. I descended the stairs, heading toward P Street and the drumbeats.

The air was filled with perfume and cigarette smoke, and even the wide sidewalk couldn’t accommodate the night crowd. Many people just walked in the street alongside the traffic. I was in no hurry, so I meandered the sidewalk. The night air was chilly, but I was still so warm from work that it felt refreshing.

The sidewalk was lined with trees, each tree with a two-foot high wall of light-colored stone built around it. During the day people sat or lounged on the walls reading or talking on the phone. At night, the walls served as resting places for people out bar hopping. Tonight was no exception. Teenagers with skateboards sat on the long wall encircling three trees outside Tumult. Across the alley, the 20’s and 30’s crowd had taken over the walls surrounding single trees, all the way up to P Street. The sidewalk and alley were filled with groups of friends, from black-clad guys and girls with pink and purple hair to slightly older men and women both with chests bulging, dressed in their skimpiest or tightest clothes, to even older friends in jeans with tight and low-cut shirts, all the way up to the silver-haired couples elegantly dressed for expensive dinners. Here and there were a few suits, a few frumpy dresses, and the occasional man dressed as a woman. There were groups of friends, couples, male couples, female couples, pretty much everyone but children. I was a little surprised, this being the day before Halloween, that no one was in costume yet.

I passed the Upscale, watching the manager try to deal with the angry people I left behind. Alright sir, what did you order? I heard through the open door, and then the commotion started as the entire section realized someone was being helped. Some of them called the manager to them; others rushed toward him to get his attention. This being the first time I ever walked out on a job, I stopped to watch. The manager hadn’t heard Mr. Red Shirt’s order and asked him to repeat it. At the same time two more malcontents approached from his left flank and started yelling their version. Somebody dropped a tray of glasses in the back of the restaurant, an hourly event met with cheering at the Upscale, and the confusion was only getting started. Part of me, the responsible part, wanted to go back in there and finish the job I’d started. That part even felt bad for the people I’d left behind.

But then I spotted my tray, still on the coffee girls’ table where I’d left it. I was finally on the outside looking in again. I’d come full circle, and going back in there was the last thing on earth that I would do. I willed my feet to keep moving. I heard, Has anyone seen Amy!?! just before walking out of earshot.

The drumbeats were getting louder as I approached the Circle and I found the drum guy at the Metro entrance banging away on his buckets. He worked up a distinct rhythm using buckets of various sizes that he wheeled around from corner to corner in a liquor store cart. You could recognize his sound from blocks away, especially when he worked in his signature blasts from a lifeguard whistle tied around his neck. I stopped and watched for a little bit, bouncing to the beat with the rest of the crowd. A few drunken people stepped up to dance and the drum guy paced his beat to their movement. When they started falling on each other, I decided to move on.

I crossed into the park, which was easy this time of night because the circle traffic was nearly at a standstill with bar hoppers and cabs bumper-to-bumper. Dupont Circle boasted a park in the circle’s center, with a fountain and trees, benches and grassy spaces. It was a gathering place for all types of people, for good or ill, twenty-four hours a day while the traffic circled around. The neighborhood surrounding the park was also known as Dupont Circle, gay capital of Washington D.C., and a sort of happenings hot spot. There were plenty of tourists by day, but the nightlife was full of people who went out to see and be seen.

When I first debated living in Washington, D.C., I was given specific and strange warnings about Dupont Circle. Specifically: Stay out of the park, especially at night. You’ll probably get shot. And strangely, rumors warned of cross-dressers wandering the Dupont streets, and of drag races on certain holidays. That was men dressed as women running toward a finish line, not car races. These things were in addition to the usual crime, corruption, and prostitution of typical cities. Dupont Circle was a crazy place, with its own set of rules that would defy logic if it were anywhere else. But here it worked. It was Washington, D.C. like no one outside this town had seen.

I found an empty space on the west side of the fountain where I sat down to consider my options. It had been two years since I’d moved to the nation’s capital. It was in my first year that, thankfully, my life went to shit. That’s when things started getting good.

That’s just about the time I’d heard of the Upscale.

CHAPTER TWO

The person responsible for my arrival in Washington was the lobbyist Norm Watters, widely known and respected in his field, as much for his successful track record as for his kind demeanor. Watters & Company represented a number of clients, the biggest of which was a trade association made up of department stores—anybody with something to sell and employees to pay. Department stores still had money to burn at the turn of the new Millennium, and that definitely got the attention of Congress.

We handle all the finances for the association, my new coworker Chad instructed. Anything from membership dues to office overhead to the lobbyists’ payroll.

When do the lobbyists come in? I asked.

Chad laughed. They don’t. They have their own office, on the Hill. I’ve been sent over here as Watters’ right hand man, to assist his own clientele separate from the association. It’s a big step for me, for my career. And I don’t intend for anything to screw it up. Got that? he stared up at me. Chad was in his late twenties, portly, and about eight inches shorter than me.

I’ll do my best, I said, trying not to be so tall.

The office was beautiful. The building itself was a historic landmark, a few blocks from the White House. The lobby was wide and filled with white marble. We entered our office space through a grand cherry door that locked behind us automatically. All of the office spaces were located in the corners of the building, so we had plenty of windows and lots of light, antique cherry and mahogany desks, and spotless, plush carpets in cream and forest green. It was a magnificent place to call my workplace.

Chad continued talking, It is also our job to deal directly with the association’s membership to gauge their company needs. We relay those needs to the Hill office, so that the lobbyists can do their thing with Congress. They relay their progress back to us, and we translate it out of Hill-speak and into regular human English in our monthly newsletters to the association. Ms. Ashe, why do you have that look on your face?

Oh, I’m just not sure why the two offices.

He sighed. "You work for Watters and Company, first and foremost; the association has their own office. Besides that, the lobbyists spend most of their days and evenings away from their office, ‘showing the flag.’ This way, retailers can call over to us and always reach someone. Make sense? Good, now let’s get to the newsletters. You did say you had a job before this, right?"

Yes. I worked for the University while I finished my degree.

"Well then, this should be no problem for you. Open this link, and . . . Here, from this page hit the toolbar, right click, bring in data from the main page, bop, bop, bop, and save it with the other docs, got it?"

"I think so . . . Wait, what did you hit to pop the data in?"

"Come on! Weren’t you listening at all? Fine, we’ll go through it again . . . Toolbar, click the arrow, then bring in the data, he banged the mouse and keyboard. Got it this time, Ms. Ashe? You know, there’s a lot that I need to teach you today and this is just the first thing on the list. I was here late last night making the list so we’d start with the easy stuff first. If you can’t get this child’s play then maybe you’re not the right person for this job."

No, I think I got it now. I missed a step because I was writing notes.

"So you’re an expert then? I don’t know why I bother teaching you. You know everything. You worked in an office before, right? I mean, you weren’t working at a college bar?"

Thankfully, Chad wasn’t my boss. Mr. Watters was a pleasant man in his early sixties who had been at this lobbying business long enough that virtually nothing got him down.

When does Mr. Watters come in?

Chad laughed. It’s August, was all he said.

Despite Chad, the job really was a nice way to make a living. I had a parking space downtown, a gym in the building that was open twenty-four hours a day, and an excellent health plan.

My first Friday in the office, Chad invited me to lunch at Capitol City Brewery. This being the first nice gesture Chad had made, I didn’t want to pass it up.

We walked a few blocks in the heat and the sunshine to Cap City, which was buzzing with the downtown lunch crowd. They brew their own beer there, but we stuck to cokes—mine regular and Chad’s diet.

Surrounded by stainless steel beer vats and chalkboard beer lists suspended from the high ceiling, Chad and I settled in for our industrial business lunch. So how do you think you’re doing in the office? he asked after we’d ordered our sandwiches.

Ah, the dreaded question. What does anybody think? What he really meant was, What do you think my opinion of you is?

Well, I get more and more comfortable every day, I lied. And I’ve been thinking of ways to alter the newsletters a bit. Chad suddenly gave me a sharp look and I knew I’d said something wrong. I quickly explained myself, and tried not to use the word uh.

I don’t think we need to change anything. Chad dismissed.

Yes, but the feedback I’m getting seems to support a couple changes.

What feedback are you talking about? Have you been talking to the members? Chad and I had agreed to let him handle the calls from members while I handled the paperwork aspects of the office. He did lobbyist duties, whatever those were, and I did the grunt work, the bill paying, filing, and typing.

Well, yes. Yesterday when you were out at lunch the phone rang a couple times.

You were supposed to transfer everyone to my voicemail. Can I not trust you in the office by yourself while I’m out at lunch?

Chad went for two-hour lunches every day. I did transfer everyone, but some people talked to me. Nothing major—I guess you’d sent out a memo that there was a new person on board? They just wanted to put a voice with the memo.

Chad freaked. You are not supposed to be talking to the members! I’ll be sure to bring this up with your boss. Our food arrived at that moment and I thanked the waitress, happy to have a distraction. Chad kept going anyway, his voice getting louder by the sentence. You may think I was at lunch with my girlfriend, but I was getting the Senate’s opinion about our new bill. And here I find that while I was gone you are ‘chatting it up’ with the members.

Did you need anything else? No? Okay, the waitress said without pausing for any response. She put her hand on my shoulder briefly and walked away.

What’s her problem? Chad asked.

I needed a change of topic. So, um, did the Senate have anything good to say?

Chad sighed. "It’s really none of your business. Connie’s information is between me and the Hill office. We’re the lobbyists here."

Right. I concentrated on my sandwich for a while. So, how’s Connie?

He immediately brightened. Chad loved to talk about Connie. "She’s doing well. You know, if you would have told me two years ago that I’d meet this smart, beautiful, and funny woman I wouldn’t have believed you. I’m thinking about proposing . . . "

Well that’s really great, I said.

Yes, but we’re both so committed to our jobs that there hasn’t been a good time to plan it out.

If it would help him mellow out, I was all for it. Well, don’t keep her waiting or she might not know you’re serious.

So now you’re the dating expert? He actually said it nicely, but his word choice made it sound worse than it was. He was a real piece of work, but I was getting used to him. After a while, he dropped the condescending Ms. Ashe tone with me and just started calling me Amy.

Chad wasn’t my only major adjustment. My commute into the city every day wasn’t the best, but at least it was time outside the office. Route 1 was bumper-to-bumper and had stoplights every block of the way into D.C. During the hour-long trip into the city, I never once used the gas pedal since simply letting my foot off the brake here and there would drift me into the city with the other traffic. But the trip ate up gas anyway and I’d be at the gas station every three days. This was not an affordable way to spend my time or my money, so I tried taking 201, more of a highway-like drive. I could cruise along for nearly fifteen minutes, giggling to myself at how early I was going to get to work when without warning, roadwork where 201 becomes D.C.’s New York Ave made the traffic utterly stop. The road was not quite as wide as two lanes at this point, though it was painted to look like two lanes and cars sped along trying to pass one another anyway. The road was enclosed by jersey walls—concrete half-wall barriers where the white lines should be—so any false move and it was bye-bye paint job. As an added degree of difficulty, the road surface tilted from left to right and back again at odd intervals. Cars would lean right and suddenly shift to lean left while drivers tried to guide the vehicles straight to avoid the barriers. After that obstacle was a straight stretch where the flow of traffic would speed up to fifty miles per hour and then stop without warning at a stoplight hidden on the other side of an underpass. If the brakes held, I had nearly a half-hour left of bumper-to-bumper driving to reach my office fifteen blocks away. I usually arrived sweating through my blouse, so I started wearing a T-shirt and changing into my blouse when I got to work. But it would still take another half-hour before my hands would stop shaking.

I would drive Route 1 on Monday, cursing at myself as I sat in traffic going nowhere and would vow to take 201 on Tuesday, which would leave me cursing and shaking back to Route 1 again on Wednesday. I alternated like this for a couple weeks, each day believing my course would suddenly prove clear and smooth and fast. But soon I started to get good at the drive, believe it or not. Route 1 was never less than frustrating, but it was clockwork: after an hour of coasting and braking I’d be at work. And though I never drove 201 without experiencing at least one moment of sheer terror behind the wheel, I usually managed to get those moments down to one per trip.

But the daily grind proved too much for my old car, which grunted and groaned and threatened to give out on me.

The Metro at College Park was only five minutes from my temporary apartment, but the train ride into the city took nearly as long as driving because the track wasn’t yet finished. Each train line is color coded, but while construction ensued on the Green line, Green trains shared the Red line. It allowed for Maryland commuters northeast of D.C. to ride the Metro into work nearly two years before the completion of the Green line. The down side was that the shared track meant Green trains would stop in a long tunnel and wait their turn between Red trains. It was normal but spooky, and people would start freaking out. But the hour and a half daily round trip in high heels on a stuffy and overcrowded train car that swayed back and forth and stopped in tunnels, this was actually not the worst part of my day. That part was still reserved by Chad.

The Metro delivered me to the mercy of Chad every morning, who yelled most of the day—about the morning traffic he’d encountered, about the lady in his building who hogged the dryer, about some minute flaw in my work, and about the other applicants he wished would have been hired instead of me—until finally the Metro would haul my sorry self back to the apartment at night. Everything set Chad off. One day it was the Polar Water man that did it.

Chad started to rant that if D.C. would take better care of their pipes we wouldn’t have to buy bottled water. The pipelines are the originals put in when the city was first built.

You don’t say? I didn’t know that, the water man said cheerfully.

Of course not, Chad started.

Well, thank you for the water! I jumped out of my chair to escort the water guy to the door. We’ll see you next month at this time, right?

Yeah, he nodded to me, but it was too late, Chad was coming up fast behind us.

I went to GW, that’s why I’m so educated about these things. I guess they don’t teach you that in delivery school. Just a bunch of crack-heads teaching other crack-heads how to drive, isn’t that right? Chad’s new word was crack-head, and everyone was one, from the water man to the clients who called and even Mr. Watters was a crack-head at times.

Well, thanks again! I don’t want to keep you from your deliveries, and I let the man out the door. He looked back at me as he walked down the hall and I mouthed, I’m sorry to him.

Amazing how they let such people into offices, Chad remarked. I wasn’t sure which of us he was talking about. I’ll be in my office, he sang as he walked away.

CHAPTER THREE

I scrutinized my map. "These state streets that don’t seem to have any rhyme or reason to their directions. The numbered streets go north and south, that’s easy enough, and the letters go horizontally . . . "

East and west, Chad corrected. We were on stake-out in his car one sunny afternoon instead of sitting in the office.

Right, east and west.

D.C.’s got four quadrants, based on where you are from the Capitol Building.

"The quadrants make a lot of sense to me,