A Dawson DC Metro Mystery
Frederick Venable Reed Jr.
Copyright Frederick Venable Reed Jr.
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The Saturday night we found Giarca with his face peeled, I was walking a foot beat with Mulroney in the glitzy section of Georgetown along M Street. It was maybe eleven-thirty. The night was hot with the humid pollution-funk of Washington in June. Car exhaust and general city stink hung in the air like fetid syrup, an olfactory background mixed with pizza smells, wine-soaked breath, frying steaks and occasional sour armpits. Urban plankton thronged the Strip: yups in government jobs they hadn't yet learned to hate, tourists having a Washington Experience, teenagers agog with the sophistication of it all and the absence of their parents.. Black punks from southeast strutted in running shoes and ghetto-bag trousers falling around their ankles in pools of denim. Derelicts worked scams or wrestled with private dementias, Marines from Henderson Hall posed with burr haircuts and triceps flapping like wattles. Traffic was ghastly. Cars ooched along, horns honking. Young male drivers ragged each other, feeling bad-ass with beer and summer, leaning on the horn a bit too long, gauging just how far they wanted to push it.