The Devils Teardrop

with grave tact, fielded cursory comments such as “Where’ve you been hiding?” “How you doing, Jerry?” No one here really wanted answers; they were hard at work distancing themselves from the soon-to-be-former mayor.
    The other question Kennedy heard was: “Heard you weren’t coming to the fireworks tonight, Jerry. What brings you out here?”
    Well, what brought him out was Claire.
    The secretary of the African-American Teachers’ Association had called and, only moderately embarrassed, had said it would be better for him not to attend the party he was supposed to be keynote speaker at. “Probably best for everybody.”
    Well, he’d have been perfectly content to slink back home. But sitting in his City Hall office beside him on the couch, Claire had had a different idea. “Let’s get drunk and go watch the goddamn fireworks.”
    “I don’t know,” Kennedy had said dubiously.
    “Well, I do. You’re not the sulking kind, honey. Go out with your head high.”
    And he’d thought for a few seconds and decided it was the smartest thing he’d heard all night. She’d tracked down a bottle of Moët and they’d drunk it on the way here.
    As they wound through the crowd on the reviewing stand Kennedy shook the hand of Congressman Lanier, who obviously recognized Agent Ardell for exactly what he was—a jailor.
    Lanier probably could think of nothing to say that didn’t sound like gloating so he merely tipped his head and offered a very unflirtatious “Claire, you’re beautiful tonight.”
    “Paul,” she said and, nodding to the quiet Mrs. Lanier, added, “Mindy.”
    “Jerry,” Lanier asked, “what’s the latest on the shootings?”
    “I’m still waiting to hear.”
    “We’ve got room for you right over there, Mayor,” said a junior aide, pointing at a deserted bank of orange folding chairs behind the other viewers. “Your friend too.” He glanced at the large agent.
    “No, no,” Kennedy said. “We’ll just sit on the stairs.”
    “No, please . . .”
    But, for the moment at least, Kennedy retained some social autonomy, even if he had no fiscal, and he waved off Lanier and the aide. He sat down beside Claire on the top step, dropping his jacket on the wood for her to sit on. C. P. Ardell seemed dense but he was apparently sensitive enough to know what kind of embarrassment the mayor would be feeling at the presence of a federal agent so the big man sat a few feet away from the mayor and his wife, didn’t hover over them.
    “Used to come here when I was a kid,” the agent said to the mayor. “Every Sunday.”
    This surprised Kennedy. Most FBI agents were transplants to the area. “You grew up here?”
    “Sure did. Wouldn’t live in Maryland or Virginia for a million dollars.”
    “Where’s your home, Agent Ardell?” Claire asked him.
    “Near the zoo. Just off the parkway.”
    Kennedy laughed faintly. At least if he had to be under detention he was glad his turnkey was a loyal citizen.
    Feeling warm from the champagne, he moved closerto Claire and took her hand. They looked out over the Mall. Gazed at the hundreds of thousands of people milling about. Kennedy was pleased to see that there was no microphone on the reviewing stand. He didn’t want to hear any speeches. Didn’t want anybody to offer the mike to him for impromptu remarks—Lord, what on earth could he say? All he wanted was to sit with his wife and watch the fireworks blossom over his city. And forget the agony of this day. In his radio plea to the Digger he’d referred to this as the last day of the year. But it was, apparently, the end of many things: his chance to help the city, the lives of many of his residents, so horribly killed.
    The end of his tenure in office too; Lanier and the others in Congress who wanted to snatch the District away from its people would probably be able to leverage the Digger incident into something impeachable—maybe interference with a police investigation, something like that. Add in the Board of Education scandal and Kennedy could be out of office within a few months. Wendell Jefferies and all the other aides would be swept out with him. And that would be the end of Project 2000.
    The end of all his hopes for the District. His poor city would be set back another ten years. Maybe the next mayor—
    But then Kennedy noticed something odd. That the spectators seemed to be moving east purposefully, as if they were being herded. Why? he wondered. The view was perfect from