Read Online The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description by Dale Wiley - Free Book Online
Authors: Dale Wiley
Ads: Link
Island. The operator obliged, and in a minute, I was greeted by a young,
perky voice. I asked for the Senator and was told that he was on vacation in
Bermuda during the Senate’s recess. I said I was sorry to hear this, and told
her I would call back when he returned. She asked my name, and I lamely
whispered, “Rick Danko” before hanging up. I was far from sad that Stanky was
gone; I had banked on it.
It didn’t take long to find a taxi, and I told the driver
that I wanted to go to the Hart Senate Office Building. He barely let me close
the door before he was halfway across town, and I noticed as we hit
Constitution Avenue that he was more interested in maintaining eye contact with
me and telling his story than he was with watching the road. I dug my nails
into the upholstery. He was from Nairobi, had been here ten years, and had
invited his brother, who was now using drugs. I don’t remember in what context
all of this was because I was trying to steel myself for my next few criminal
acts. I had a plan, which was far from foolproof, and if I screwed up, I’d end
up in some dark interrogation room in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. I nodded at
the cabby and tried to find new and inventive ways of obscuring my face. He was
talking about his brother stealing a TV set when I had to look at him
apologetically and pay my fare.
I got out of the taxi and walked toward the building. I
found a small bush, which looked like it was about to die, among all the
concrete. I looked over both shoulders and put on the Fire Inspector cap while
among what little greenery remained in the dying shrub, then straightened up,
walked toward the building, checked myself in a window, noting that I looked
presentable, and walked in.
It was different than most of the House and Senate office
buildings, still marble but modern. It had an impressive, foliage-filled entry,
and I tried to avoid everyone’s eyes while I made my way through it. I stared
at the floor—shiny and clean—admired the tapestries—very seventies—and took
several looks at my watch. It was ten o’clock. I finally found a small hallway,
and, a good distance down the hall, I saw a red switch about halfway up the
wall.
I checked twice to my left, three times to my right, and,
seeing no one, I pulled the fire alarm and ran out the side exit. There was a
noticeable murmur immediately, and, as I walked back around to the front, I
could see people begin streaming out the double doors. I ran back by the bush,
grabbed the hat, and continued walking until I was half a block away. I watched
from that distance for precisely two minutes, then crammed the cap over my
head, and walked briskly toward the building.
“Fire Inspector. Please step back,” I said, repeating myself
three times with the self-importance of those who hold such jobs. I saw a
security guard just ahead and walked toward him.
“Gram Parsons,” I said to him gravely, tapping my cap. “I
need to run up and see if everyone’s out of Senator Stanky’s office.” The man
nodded, and I trotted on by, taking the stairs and going very much in the wrong
direction. A dorky-looking page ran into my sore shoulder, and I barely avoided
screaming something obscene. Instead, I began my fire inspector spiel again and
got a wider berth to continue.
The second floor held my target. I knew this because I had
interviewed for a job in this very office and had not received it. I wasn’t
doing this for revenge; I was doing it because I had a pretty good feeling that
I could get away with it. But the revenge angle didn’t hurt anything at all …
The office door read, “Lon Stanky—Rhode Island.” Lon may
have been from the tiniest state, but he was no tiny senator. He had been in
the same job for thirty years and was legendary for his family money, his
liberal politics, and, mostly, for his incessant womanizing. I opened the door
and saw that a very pretty receptionist was still at her desk talking on the
phone.
“Get
perky voice. I asked for the Senator and was told that he was on vacation in
Bermuda during the Senate’s recess. I said I was sorry to hear this, and told
her I would call back when he returned. She asked my name, and I lamely
whispered, “Rick Danko” before hanging up. I was far from sad that Stanky was
gone; I had banked on it.
It didn’t take long to find a taxi, and I told the driver
that I wanted to go to the Hart Senate Office Building. He barely let me close
the door before he was halfway across town, and I noticed as we hit
Constitution Avenue that he was more interested in maintaining eye contact with
me and telling his story than he was with watching the road. I dug my nails
into the upholstery. He was from Nairobi, had been here ten years, and had
invited his brother, who was now using drugs. I don’t remember in what context
all of this was because I was trying to steel myself for my next few criminal
acts. I had a plan, which was far from foolproof, and if I screwed up, I’d end
up in some dark interrogation room in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. I nodded at
the cabby and tried to find new and inventive ways of obscuring my face. He was
talking about his brother stealing a TV set when I had to look at him
apologetically and pay my fare.
I got out of the taxi and walked toward the building. I
found a small bush, which looked like it was about to die, among all the
concrete. I looked over both shoulders and put on the Fire Inspector cap while
among what little greenery remained in the dying shrub, then straightened up,
walked toward the building, checked myself in a window, noting that I looked
presentable, and walked in.
It was different than most of the House and Senate office
buildings, still marble but modern. It had an impressive, foliage-filled entry,
and I tried to avoid everyone’s eyes while I made my way through it. I stared
at the floor—shiny and clean—admired the tapestries—very seventies—and took
several looks at my watch. It was ten o’clock. I finally found a small hallway,
and, a good distance down the hall, I saw a red switch about halfway up the
wall.
I checked twice to my left, three times to my right, and,
seeing no one, I pulled the fire alarm and ran out the side exit. There was a
noticeable murmur immediately, and, as I walked back around to the front, I
could see people begin streaming out the double doors. I ran back by the bush,
grabbed the hat, and continued walking until I was half a block away. I watched
from that distance for precisely two minutes, then crammed the cap over my
head, and walked briskly toward the building.
“Fire Inspector. Please step back,” I said, repeating myself
three times with the self-importance of those who hold such jobs. I saw a
security guard just ahead and walked toward him.
“Gram Parsons,” I said to him gravely, tapping my cap. “I
need to run up and see if everyone’s out of Senator Stanky’s office.” The man
nodded, and I trotted on by, taking the stairs and going very much in the wrong
direction. A dorky-looking page ran into my sore shoulder, and I barely avoided
screaming something obscene. Instead, I began my fire inspector spiel again and
got a wider berth to continue.
The second floor held my target. I knew this because I had
interviewed for a job in this very office and had not received it. I wasn’t
doing this for revenge; I was doing it because I had a pretty good feeling that
I could get away with it. But the revenge angle didn’t hurt anything at all …
The office door read, “Lon Stanky—Rhode Island.” Lon may
have been from the tiniest state, but he was no tiny senator. He had been in
the same job for thirty years and was legendary for his family money, his
liberal politics, and, mostly, for his incessant womanizing. I opened the door
and saw that a very pretty receptionist was still at her desk talking on the
phone.
“Get
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
