Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [8]
His customer, a tall, slender, light-skinned black man dressed impeccably in a well-tailored tan suit, white shirt, and muted patterned green tie, and carrying a tan trench coat over his arm, had immediately pulled out a pair of half-glasses and opened a newspaper; no historical chitchat with this dude, Jenks knew. The man’s shoes were expensive two-toned leather, pointy and with perforations across the toe. Jenks pegged him as an outlander, a visitor to D.C., his judgment helped by the New York Times in the man’s hands.
The customer looked up occasionally from the newspaper to check the arrivals board.
“Meeting somebody?” Jenks asked as he put the finishing touches on the mirror shine he’d accomplished with his polish and brushes and rags.
“No. What do I owe you?”
Uppity, Jenks thought. Probably owns a couple of slums. “Six dollars, sir,” he said.
The man stood, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. Jenks went to give him change, but he’d already walked away in the direction of gate A-8, where the Metroliner from New York’s Penn Station would be arriving.
“What he give you, man, four bucks?” asked a younger bootblack who’d watched the transaction.
“Yeah. Sometimes you can’t figure a man up front, you know? Sometimes the really talky ones stiff you.”
“I’d like to catch me about ten or twenty a those today,” the younger man said with a laugh.
Jenks ignored him and watched his generous customer saunter toward the arrival gates. What’s he all about? he wondered. Then passersby diverted his attention. That was one of the pleasures of shining in Union Station. Seventy thousand people passed through every day, a fascinating parade of humanity, and Joe Jenks had a front-row seat.
“You available?” a casually dressed white man asked.
“Yes, sir, jump right up in the chair.”
“Been working here long?”
“Three years,” Jenks said, pulling out the appropriate polishes.
“What’s the best restaurant?”
“Oh, now, let me see. Lotsa good ones. Got about fifty casual places, you know, and seven or eight places for finer dining. You know, gourmet-type food. Back when it opened, there was the Savarin Restaurant, where… ”
CHAPTER SIX
As Joe Jenks shined shoes in Union Station, dispensing historical insights to his customers, business as usual was being conducted in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, home to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. President Teddy Roosevelt created the FBI in 1908 to fight political corruption. Fortunately, the federal law enforcement agency eventually went on to focus on more manageable crime.
This day, a meeting took place in a secure room in the rear of the unlovely beige concrete Hoover Building, dedicated in 1975 and immediately branded a prime example of the architectural school known as New Brutalism. Two of the three men in the meeting were FBI special agents. The third, Timothy Stripling, had been a CIA operative, or still was; it was hard to know with such men, who spent their professional lives functioning in the shadows. Chain of command could seldom be applied to people like Stripling. He was one of many who worked for that gray entity known as the government, his various official titles not necessarily indicating his true affiliations.
“Where was he last seen?” Stripling was of medium build, medium height, moderately balding, almost nondescript. He was so average-looking that he didn’t stand out in or out of a crowd.
“Tel Aviv,” an agent answered.
“So much for the world-renowned crack Israeli Mosad,” the other agent said.
“They’re certain he’s left the city?” Stripling asked.
“They are now. A little late at the switch. When we heard he might be coming here—your people told us that—we set up surveillance through the Mosad. But—”
“My people?” Stripling said, smiling.
“Yeah.