“Yes—yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Miss Evans?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
Dana and Jeff Connors were walking in West Potomac Park. “I think I’m going to have a roommate,” Dana said. “He should be here in the next few weeks.”
Jeff looked at her in surprise. “He?”
Dana found herself pleased at his reaction. “Yes. His name is Kemal. He’s twelve years old.” She told him the story.
“He sounds like a great kid.”
“He is. He’s been through hell, Jeff. I want to help him forget.”
He looked at Dana and said, “I’d like to help, too.”
That night they made love for the first time.
16
There are two Washington, D.Cs. One is a city of inordinate beauty: imposing architecture, world-class museums, statues, monuments to the giants of the past: Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington…a city of verdant parks, cherry blossoms, and velvet air.
The other Washington, D.C., is a citadel of the homeless, a city with one of the highest crime rates in the nation, a labyrinth of muggings and murders.
The Monroe Arms is an elegant boutique hotel discreetly tucked away not far from the corner of 27th and K streets. It does no advertising and caters mainly to its regular clientele. The hotel was built a number of years ago by an enterprising young real estate entrepreneur named Lara Cameron.
Jeremy Robinson, the hotel’s general manager, had just arrived on his evening shift and was studying the guest register with a perplexed expression on his face. He checked the names of the occupants of the elite Terrace Suites once again to make certain someone had not made a mistake.
In Suite 325, a faded actress was rehearsing for a play opening at the National Theater. According to a story in The Washington Post, she was hoping to make a comeback.
In 425, the suite above hers, was a well-known arms dealer who visited Washington regularly. The name on the guest register was J. L. Smith, but his looks suggested one of the Middle East countries. Mr. Smith was an extraordinarily generous tipper.
Suite 525 was registered to William Quint, a congressman who headed the powerful drug oversight committee.
Above, Suite 625 was occupied by a computer software salesman who visited Washington once a month.
Registered in Suite 725 was Pat Murphy, an international lobbyist.
So far, so good, Jeremy Robinson thought. The guests were all well known to him. It was Suite 825, the Imperial Suite on the top floor, that was the enigma. It was the most elegant suite in the hotel, and it was always held in reserve for the most important VIPs. It occupied the entire floor and was exquisitely decorated with valuable paintings and antiques. It had its own private elevator leading to the basement garage, so that its guests who wished to be anonymous could arrive and depart in privacy.
What puzzled Jeremy Robinson was the name on the hotel register: Eugene Gant. Was there actually a person by that name, or had someone who enjoyed reading Thomas Wolfe selected it as an alias?
Carl Gorman, the day clerk who had registered the eponymous Mr. Gant, had left on his vacation a few hours earlier, and was unreachable. Robinson hated mysteries. Who was Eugene Gant and why had he been given the Imperial Suite?
In Suite 325, on the third floor, Dame Gisella Barrett was rehearsing for a play. She was a distinguished-looking woman in her late sixties, an actress who had once mesmerized audiences and critics from London’s West End to Manhattan’s Broadway. There were still faint traces of beauty in her face, but they were overlaid with bitterness.
She had read the article in The Washington Post that said she had come to Washington to make a comeback. A comeback! Dame Barrett thought indignantly. How dare they! I’ve never been away.
True, it had been more than twenty years since she had last appeared onstage, but that was only because a great actress needed a great part, a brilliant director, and an understanding producer. The directors today were too young to cope with the grandeur of real Theater, and the great English producers—H. M. Tenant, Binkie Beaumont, C. B. Cochran—were all gone. Even the reasonably competent American producers, Helburn, Belasco, and Golden, were no longer around. There was no question about it: The current theater was controlled by know-nothing parvenus with no background. The old days had been so wonderful. There were playwrights back then whose pens were dipped in lightning. Dame Barrett had starred in the part of Ellie Dunn in Shaw’s Heartbreak House.