“Yes. The army.”
“Iraq? Syria?”
“Afghanistan,” Jake said.
“Ah, one of the snake eaters,” the man said. “Have you thought about joining the Watchmen?”
“I don’t live in Virginia,” Jake said.
“Okay,” the man said. “We’ll be coming to your neighborhood soon. Think it over when we get there.”
“You were in the army?” Jake asked.
“He was a fuckin’ squid,” the other man said. “Excuse the language.”
Jake laughed and said, “See you,” and went inside.
Inside he found an airport-style security check. Goines showed up, apparently alerted by the Watchmen, as Jake was processing through the X-ray and metal detectors.
“Mister Winter?” Jake nodded, and as he retrieved his briefcase and cane, Goines said, “This way.”
Goines was annoyed. A small blond man with a dimpled chin, a ten-cent knockoff of his boss, he carried a petulant look. His eyes were like a chicken’s, and like a chicken, he cocked his head to the side to look at Jake as they rode up a couple of floors in the elevator. He led the way to his office, past a secretary in an outer cubicle, and said, “This better be important,” and pointed at a chair as he settled behind his desk.
“There are some indications that the Watchmen may be involved in the detention of Lincoln Bowe,” Jake said, crossing his legs. “The president wants me to find Bowe. He wants me to find him now.”
“What indications?”
“Rumors, mostly,” Jake said. “The FBI investigation is picking up vibrations that the Watchmen are involved, or, at least, that a lot of people think so.”
“That’s a bunch of crap.” Goines stood up again, walked over to his window, hands in his pants pockets, looked out his office window. He had a view of an aggressively blank-walled building on the other side of the street, part of a medical center. “People seem to be lining up to shoot at us. If it turns out that a Watchman is involved, he’s on his own, he’s an outlaw. We sure as hell don’t condone it.”
Jake said, “Just before he disappeared, Bowe called the governor a cocksucker.”
Blood drained away from Goines’s face, and a quick tic of fear passed across it. He shook his finger at Jake but said, casually enough, “That was unforgivable. Governor Goodman is a sophisticated gentleman, a successful lawyer before he entered public service. He understands the likes of Lincoln Bowe. He would never go after Bowe, but you can’t blame him for not liking a man who could be so vulgar. He won’t be pleased with the prospect of tearing up the Watchmen on Bowe’s behalf.”
Jake thought, Jesus, I haven’t seen a tap dance like this in years. Is this place bugged?
“I can absolutely understand that and so does the president,” Jake said. Bureaucratic-speak: he could do it as well as anyone, or even better. “The president said, ‘I trust Governor Goodman implicitly, but that doesn’t mean that there might not be some rotten apples at the bottom of the barrel.’ And that’s all I’m asking: that you check for rotten apples.”
“The governor can speak to that. But you must have heard that some of us think that Bowe has gone on a little vacation, and is letting us twist in the wind.”
“We’re looking into that, too,” Jake said.
“Good.” Goines looked at his watch: “One minute: let’s go see the governor.”
4
The governor’s outer office was a large, cool room with gray fabric chairs and mahogany tables, decorated with bald eagles—wildlife paintings of the kind seen on postage stamps, eagles with talons extended, about to land on weathered branches, or soaring over lakes with white-capped mountains in the background. A two-foot-long bronze eagle launched itself off a stand in the center of the room; a bronze scroll of the U.S. Constitution was draped over the stand.
An elderly secretary and a blond college intern worked behind a double desk. The elderly woman called into the governor’s office,
“Iraq? Syria?”
“Afghanistan,” Jake said.
“Ah, one of the snake eaters,” the man said. “Have you thought about joining the Watchmen?”
“I don’t live in Virginia,” Jake said.
“Okay,” the man said. “We’ll be coming to your neighborhood soon. Think it over when we get there.”
“You were in the army?” Jake asked.
“He was a fuckin’ squid,” the other man said. “Excuse the language.”
Jake laughed and said, “See you,” and went inside.
Inside he found an airport-style security check. Goines showed up, apparently alerted by the Watchmen, as Jake was processing through the X-ray and metal detectors.
“Mister Winter?” Jake nodded, and as he retrieved his briefcase and cane, Goines said, “This way.”
Goines was annoyed. A small blond man with a dimpled chin, a ten-cent knockoff of his boss, he carried a petulant look. His eyes were like a chicken’s, and like a chicken, he cocked his head to the side to look at Jake as they rode up a couple of floors in the elevator. He led the way to his office, past a secretary in an outer cubicle, and said, “This better be important,” and pointed at a chair as he settled behind his desk.
“There are some indications that the Watchmen may be involved in the detention of Lincoln Bowe,” Jake said, crossing his legs. “The president wants me to find Bowe. He wants me to find him now.”
“What indications?”
“Rumors, mostly,” Jake said. “The FBI investigation is picking up vibrations that the Watchmen are involved, or, at least, that a lot of people think so.”
“That’s a bunch of crap.” Goines stood up again, walked over to his window, hands in his pants pockets, looked out his office window. He had a view of an aggressively blank-walled building on the other side of the street, part of a medical center. “People seem to be lining up to shoot at us. If it turns out that a Watchman is involved, he’s on his own, he’s an outlaw. We sure as hell don’t condone it.”
Jake said, “Just before he disappeared, Bowe called the governor a cocksucker.”
Blood drained away from Goines’s face, and a quick tic of fear passed across it. He shook his finger at Jake but said, casually enough, “That was unforgivable. Governor Goodman is a sophisticated gentleman, a successful lawyer before he entered public service. He understands the likes of Lincoln Bowe. He would never go after Bowe, but you can’t blame him for not liking a man who could be so vulgar. He won’t be pleased with the prospect of tearing up the Watchmen on Bowe’s behalf.”
Jake thought, Jesus, I haven’t seen a tap dance like this in years. Is this place bugged?
“I can absolutely understand that and so does the president,” Jake said. Bureaucratic-speak: he could do it as well as anyone, or even better. “The president said, ‘I trust Governor Goodman implicitly, but that doesn’t mean that there might not be some rotten apples at the bottom of the barrel.’ And that’s all I’m asking: that you check for rotten apples.”
“The governor can speak to that. But you must have heard that some of us think that Bowe has gone on a little vacation, and is letting us twist in the wind.”
“We’re looking into that, too,” Jake said.
“Good.” Goines looked at his watch: “One minute: let’s go see the governor.”
4
The governor’s outer office was a large, cool room with gray fabric chairs and mahogany tables, decorated with bald eagles—wildlife paintings of the kind seen on postage stamps, eagles with talons extended, about to land on weathered branches, or soaring over lakes with white-capped mountains in the background. A two-foot-long bronze eagle launched itself off a stand in the center of the room; a bronze scroll of the U.S. Constitution was draped over the stand.
An elderly secretary and a blond college intern worked behind a double desk. The elderly woman called into the governor’s office,
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