Gallery was designed by I. M. Pei and seemed out of place with the more traditional structures surrounding the Mall. Its walls came together at impossibly sharp angles, particularly the southern face, which always made DeMarco think of the bow of a stone ship sailing through a concrete-and-asphalt urban sea.
In the atrium, suspended from the ceiling, was a large Alexander Calder mobile. The mobile was constructed of steel and aluminum and painted black and blue and red. It had a wingspan of nearly eighty feet and weighed almost a thousand pounds. Lying on the ground the mobile would have appeared as aerodynamic as an anvil, but suspended it was an object of the skies, born for flight, and the smallest air currents caused it to flutter and twist. DeMarco could see the mobile gently turning as Billy took his hot dog from the vendor.
As Billy slathered mustard on his hot dog, Emma took up a position under a nearby tree, aiming her cold blue eyes at Billy’s broad back. With an imperial jerk of her head she directed DeMarco to another tree twenty feet away. Emma’s strategy was to surround Billy psychologically if not physically.
Billy finished putting relish on his hot dog. He walked a few steps, dropped the wrapper from the hot dog in a nearby waste can, and took a seat on a bench a few feet away. From the bench, his head turned first to look at Emma, then over to DeMarco. He took an uncertain bite of the hot dog and chewed it slowly. DeMarco watched Billy’s Adam’s apple bob; he was so nervous he was having a hard time swallowing.
Emma then made a move that DeMarco thought was both inspired and ridiculous. She walked up to the hot dog vendor, obtained a paper sack from him, and went over to the trash can where Billy had thrown the wrapper from his hot dog. She reached inside the trash can and delicately picked up the wax paper using only two fingers, then looked Billy in the eye as she placed the wrapper in the sack as if she were collecting evidence from a crime scene.
Billy stared at Emma for a moment and attempted to resume his lunch. He raised the hot dog toward his mouth to take a second bite but stopped with it an inch from his lips. Suddenly he threw the hot dog on the ground and strode aggressively toward Emma. DeMarco quickly moved to stand next to his partner.
“Why are you followin’ me?” Billy asked. His body was rigid with anger and his fists were clenched. DeMarco could hear the South in his speech and figured that Billy’s voice was normally low pitched and gentle. Behind the display of righteous outrage, DeMarco could also sense his fear.
DeMarco had seen Mattis in the video and pictures of him in the papers, but the video and the photos hadn’t prepared him for the impression the man made up close and in person. He did look like Mickey Mantle as Mike had said, and the resemblance was more than physical: he projected the same all-American, country-boy innocence that Mantle had at the beginning of his career. Billy’s face, his voice, his clear blue eyes all conveyed exactly what he was alleged to be: simple but honest, dutiful son, faithful servant to his nation’s masters. He looked exactly like the kind of man who would take a bullet for a politician.
Speaking to Emma, Billy repeated, “Lady, I asked you: Why are you followin’ me?” For some reason Billy assumed Emma was in charge, a small point which annoyed DeMarco.
Emma, uncharacteristically, glanced over at DeMarco to see how he wanted to play it. DeMarco thought of giving Billy the runaround: telling him they weren’t following him, while making it apparent he was lying through his teeth—but he didn’t.
He didn’t know what made him say it. He’d like to claim he had made some gigantic, intuitive leap, but he hadn’t. The first thing that popped out of DeMarco’s mouth was completely unfiltered by his brain.
“You were just an agent in the wrong place, weren’t you, Billy?” DeMarco said softly.
When DeMarco quoted
In the atrium, suspended from the ceiling, was a large Alexander Calder mobile. The mobile was constructed of steel and aluminum and painted black and blue and red. It had a wingspan of nearly eighty feet and weighed almost a thousand pounds. Lying on the ground the mobile would have appeared as aerodynamic as an anvil, but suspended it was an object of the skies, born for flight, and the smallest air currents caused it to flutter and twist. DeMarco could see the mobile gently turning as Billy took his hot dog from the vendor.
As Billy slathered mustard on his hot dog, Emma took up a position under a nearby tree, aiming her cold blue eyes at Billy’s broad back. With an imperial jerk of her head she directed DeMarco to another tree twenty feet away. Emma’s strategy was to surround Billy psychologically if not physically.
Billy finished putting relish on his hot dog. He walked a few steps, dropped the wrapper from the hot dog in a nearby waste can, and took a seat on a bench a few feet away. From the bench, his head turned first to look at Emma, then over to DeMarco. He took an uncertain bite of the hot dog and chewed it slowly. DeMarco watched Billy’s Adam’s apple bob; he was so nervous he was having a hard time swallowing.
Emma then made a move that DeMarco thought was both inspired and ridiculous. She walked up to the hot dog vendor, obtained a paper sack from him, and went over to the trash can where Billy had thrown the wrapper from his hot dog. She reached inside the trash can and delicately picked up the wax paper using only two fingers, then looked Billy in the eye as she placed the wrapper in the sack as if she were collecting evidence from a crime scene.
Billy stared at Emma for a moment and attempted to resume his lunch. He raised the hot dog toward his mouth to take a second bite but stopped with it an inch from his lips. Suddenly he threw the hot dog on the ground and strode aggressively toward Emma. DeMarco quickly moved to stand next to his partner.
“Why are you followin’ me?” Billy asked. His body was rigid with anger and his fists were clenched. DeMarco could hear the South in his speech and figured that Billy’s voice was normally low pitched and gentle. Behind the display of righteous outrage, DeMarco could also sense his fear.
DeMarco had seen Mattis in the video and pictures of him in the papers, but the video and the photos hadn’t prepared him for the impression the man made up close and in person. He did look like Mickey Mantle as Mike had said, and the resemblance was more than physical: he projected the same all-American, country-boy innocence that Mantle had at the beginning of his career. Billy’s face, his voice, his clear blue eyes all conveyed exactly what he was alleged to be: simple but honest, dutiful son, faithful servant to his nation’s masters. He looked exactly like the kind of man who would take a bullet for a politician.
Speaking to Emma, Billy repeated, “Lady, I asked you: Why are you followin’ me?” For some reason Billy assumed Emma was in charge, a small point which annoyed DeMarco.
Emma, uncharacteristically, glanced over at DeMarco to see how he wanted to play it. DeMarco thought of giving Billy the runaround: telling him they weren’t following him, while making it apparent he was lying through his teeth—but he didn’t.
He didn’t know what made him say it. He’d like to claim he had made some gigantic, intuitive leap, but he hadn’t. The first thing that popped out of DeMarco’s mouth was completely unfiltered by his brain.
“You were just an agent in the wrong place, weren’t you, Billy?” DeMarco said softly.
When DeMarco quoted
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