Washington, D.C.
At Washington National, I started to take India's hand as we were walking down the long corridor to the terminal, then decided it wasn't even worth pretending. I don't know if she sensed what I'd learned while she was sipping tea at the Mercer, but she smiled so hard, I thought she might start crying again.
"I'll call," I said when we got to the moving ramp over by the Metro stop. I took her hand after all. Maybe O'Neill had the story wrong. Maybe I wanted to touch her one last time.
"Can't you tell me where you're staying?" she asked.
I paused, then told her. She'd never heard of the place, but the address didn't impress her.
"You'll be okay with those?" She was staring at my carry-on, thinking the documents must still be inside. "I'll hold them for you if you want."
"No," I said. "Thanks, but you never know when-" There was no need to finish, nor any way to.
India nodded, turned, and started down the ramp. She wasn't my mother, though. She turned, waved a big good-bye, even blew me a kiss. I waited until she was out of sight, then found a pay phone and called Willie.
"Ever hear of this whorehouse on Rhode Island Avenue?"