Where's the injection vial? " She had a point.
"You're right." Gin turned and headed for the door. "I'm out of here.
See you Thursday." It was strange, it didn't add up, but Gin pushed it out of her mind.
She had other things to think about. Like her appointment with Congressman Allard tomorrow morning. Another of Duncan's patients, by the way. She'd assisted on his abdominal liposuction a while back.
And if he didn't work out, she could come back to Senator Vincent.
She hadn't realized it when she signed on here, but here was one of the perks of working with Duncan, If they had juice and they wanted cosmetic surgery, Duncan Lathram was the man to see.
DUNCAN DUNCAN Lathram, MD, STOOD AMONG THE EARLY morning regulars at the self-serve coffee counter at the rear of the 7-Eleven on F Street offFifth. Not exactly his purlieu. He felt a little out of place in his pale blue oxford shirt, blue blazer, and tan slacks, but no one seemed to pay him much mind.
He considered the array of partially filled glass urns before him.
They leave the pots on the heaters, he thought. Barbaric.
Grimacing, he reached for a medium-sized cup, foam, no less, emblazoned with the red-and-green corporate logo, and poured himself a cup of the loi-disant coffee.
He could tell from the color, he was sure he could read the morning paper through it, that they were stretching the grounds by adding too much water. The aroma, make that smell--this acrid effluvium did not deserve three syllables , testified that it had been sitting on the burner far too long.
He'd always drunk his coffee black and, even though he knew he was going to regret this, he wasn't about to change now. He blew steam off the dark surface, sipped . . .
And shuddered. It tasted like . . . like . . .
Words failed him.
He watched the man in the blue flannel shirt next to him lighten his coffee with half-and-half, then spoon in three sugars.
"Does that kill the taste? " The man glanced up at him, apparently startled at being spoken to. "Uh, sorta. I don't really like coffee, but I need it to get going in the morning."
"Yes. You might say I'm abstemious in all matters except coffee. What we won't do to render ourselves properly caffeinated, ay? " He got in line at the cash register. The flannel shirt followed him.
Ahead of him, Duncan watched a steatopygous woman with rollers wound into her orange hair dump three cans of Arizona Iced Tea and twenty creamsicles onto the counter, then ask for two packs of Parliament, boxes, please.
Half turning to the flannel shirt, Duncan said, "I've always believed that one can augur the course of a civilization through observation of its indigenous cuisine, don't you agree? " The flannel shirt said, "What? " ' Exactly." Then it was Duncan's turn to pay.
"Anything else? " said the Middle Eastern gentleman behind the counter.
"Sorry, no, " Duncan said. "My doctor won't allow me more than one medium-size kerosene a day."
"Yes, sir, " the man said and took his money. "Have a nice . . , day.
Outside he walked south, crossed Constitution and strolled up the Mall, gingerly sipping the coffeelike substance as he approached the Capitol.
Here it was Wednesday, a nosurgery day. He should have been relaxed, but a fine tremor from his hand rippled the surface of the liquid in the cup. He knew it wasn't the caffeine.
Admit it, he told himself. If you were wound any tighter you'd implode.
But why shouldn't you be? This is an important day. Even more important for a certain congressman.
He distracted himself by admiring the scenery.
He rarely got downtown anymore. Too bad. It had rained last night, and now a fine mist hazed the air and the grass coruscated in the early morning sunlight. Starlings managed to make themselves heard over the growing thunder of the stampeding herd of arriving federal workers.
He'd forgotten how beautiful the Mall could be before the tourists arrived.
The last time he'd ventured this way had been a big mistake. He'd come down in May during the annual invasion by busloads of eighth graders from everywhere east of the Rockies. The National Gallery had been crawling with roving, cachinnating packs of barely bridled hormones wrapped in scabrous, whelk-laden skin to whom the epitome of true art and intimate self-expression was spray painting the name of their favorite heavy metal group on a wall.
But then, one of the central pieces on exhibit at the National Gallery at the time had been a huge mural, ten feet high, twenty long, all stark white except for a beige vertical stripe two feet from the left edge.
Maybe the kids were onto something after all, Megadeth Rules indeed.
Duncan hadn't been back since.
Further on, a dirty, unshaven man approached him, wearing a black trash bag, he had the drawstring around his waist, his head and arms poking through appropriately placed slits.
"Got some spare change for an old soldier? " the tatterdemalion said.
Duncan stopped and reached into his pocket. "Which war was that? " "Which one were you in? " the man said.
'"The Korean Conflict, as it is now known." Not true. He'd been in college then, premed. But he wanted to see what this "old soldier" would say.
"Me too." Duncan had to smile. "What if I'd said Vietnam? " '"Was in that one too. I'm the Unknown Soldier." Duncan figured he probably meant Universal Soldier but then again, it was very likely that he couldn't remember his name.
'"Clever rain gear you've got there, soldier. The latest from the House of Hefty, if I'm not mistaken." '"Does the job." Duncan handed him a twenty-dollar bill. The man glanced at it, then did a double take.
"God, man! Thanks! Thanks a million! " "Why not? I expect this to be a good day for me. Might as well be a good one for you too." The fellow began backing away, most likely trying to put some distance between them before Duncan changed his mind. "I'll spend this wisely, I assure you, sir." Duncan laughed. "I'm sure you will."
"And you have a good day."
"I assure you I will. A very good day." It all goes according to plan this time
Anxiety nibbled at his stomach lining like hungry fish. Timing was everything here, but with so many variables beyond his control, luck was a considerable factor as well. And Duncan hated to depend on luck.
He walked on until he spotted the camera crew setting up on the House side at the base of the steps leading up to the west portico of the Capitol.
"Something big happening? " Duncan asked.
"Just an interview, " the bearded cameraman said. "Congressman . " "Which one? " "Allard." '"Not Kenneth Allard! The Kenneth Allard?
Here? Right here? " Duncan clapped his hands. "He's one of my favorites! " The cameraman grinned at the soundman. "First time I ever heard anyone say that. ' "Oh, he's a great statesman. A wonderful intellect. An isle of probity in a sea of venality."
"If you say so." Obviously the cameraman had lost what little interest he'd had in talking to Duncan. Not that Duncan could blame him.
Make sure that camera's working, Duncan thought. You're going to see the end of someone's career.