The Debt
“Who likes Change? We all like Change! Ya’ll elected him again! Anybody got some more change?” The old homeless man sang tunelessly as he got on the redline.
Raymond Hamlin went to the sandwich of dollars he kept in his inside coat pocket. They were crisp, fresh from a newly minted stack of 50, soaked in rose water and dusted with saffron. A kind of blessing on them. He counted three without being able to see them and pressed them into the guy’s cupped hands.
“Thank you, sir!” He said. He quickly moved on to ask more people for money, probably unaware of the how good Hamlin’s money smelled.
You had to pay your debts in Washington, D.C. If you had no debts to anyone, as Hamlin did not through dogged pursuit of being in no one’s debt, you still had to pay someone. It wasn’t just not being in debt, it was keeping people in your debt. And sometimes, it wasn’t people. Sometimes it was those strange old things. . .
Hamlin got off the train the stop after the homeless man left, and walked up into the thick August on Constitution Ave. The sun was just peaking over the horizon and it was already ninety degrees. August was a quiet time in the District. Most of the government workers were gone on their two week vacations. There were no students at the colleges of Southern Maryland, DC or Northern Virginia to crowd the streets of Georgetown. Congress was a ghost town.
Now was the planning season for men like him.
He came up to his office to find Charlie, his former Marine assistant, already on the phone, half dressed in a white sleavless t-shirt. On Charlie’s shoulder there was a picture of a duck flapping it’s feathers off with circle slash over it.
“Morning, Charlie.” said Hamlin.
Charlie waved, then pointed to the phone, then rubbed his index finger and thumb together in small circles then gave a thumbs up.
The every day sign language told Hamlin “Morning, client on the phone, big contract and he’s ready to talk.”
Hamlin admired Charlie on a number of levels. The former Marine, true to his tattoo, was “Unflappable. Can NOT be flapped.” as a retired General had once said of him. Hamlin signed “Cool. Put him on my phone, five minutes?” with his fingers.
“No need, sending intern soon.” Charlie signed.
Hamlin blinked, gave the thumbs up and disappeared into his office. He wasn’t sure how 8 combat tours in a decade turned Charlie into such a salesmen, but it surely had.
“What’s with the flute?” asked the intern who had arrived about an hour after Charlie hung up the phone.
“Family tradition.” said Hamlin. “That one’s been in the family since 1200 or so.”
“Wow,” said the intern in genuine wonder. Then again, a car from the 70’s would probably seem impossibly ancient to her.
“Thing of beauty, really.” said Hamlin as looked at the polls the intern had brought him. Democrats were always most concerned with “minorities” and women and the Senator from Florida was no different. The thing that Charlie told him about “minorities” is that all knew they weren’t white, but generally voted as one. Thinking otherwise had lost Romney the election, among other things.
Still, who runs under Democrat from Florida? Hamlin thought. He shook his head. It didn’t matter, as long as they paid, right? Make some calls, set up some grip and grins, meetings, townhalls. And in Florida in November he'd get to hide from the bitter DC cold to boot. What’s not to love? Maybe get the democractic senator to read a children’s book at one of those “troubled child” schools in Tampa. Everyone had forgot how bad that went for Quayle and Bush, Jr. by now.
Hamlin clicked a document to the printer, “Go ahead and grab that document. . . um.
your name?”
“Denise!” the intern said, startled after being so enthralled by the flute. She must have been quite young to be so entranced by it.
“Well, Denise!, go grab that document from my assistant. It’s a basic initial plan for Senator Santiago to get him on the media radars. Be sure to grab a water on your way out, it’s hot out there.”
“Thank you and thanks!” Denise said. She turned on her heel and exited Hamlin’s office. She seemed surprised Hamlin had been kind to her. These poor kids.
Hamlin relaxed. That was the easy one. The hard sell, the one Charlie had masterfully reeled in, was a Republican from New York. While is was a little shady to run both sides trying to get to the primaries, he did contract non-payment if they didn’t make it. It was a risky way to do business in such a fickle town, but it also commanded the highest fees that Hamlin would split fifty fifty with Charlie.
And this was DC! There was no rule that said you had to pick a party, but there were all kinds of rules about paying debts. The national debt you just dodge, but you paid everyone who got you in a position to ignore that debt. And after having a very real but invisible hand in the last two men to ignore that debt, Hamlin was keen to collect again, and this time? Retire.
Now for the gentlemen from New York. Who runs as a Republican out of New York? Hamlin thought.
. .
Six months of working both sides paid off absurdly well because Democratic Sen. Thomas Santiago of Florida and Republican Sen. Walter Chambers both made their primaries. Hamline nearly fell out of his chair when Charlie told him.
He shot back up to his feet and pulled a bottle of whiskey from his desk with two glasses, pouring a substantial amount for Charlie who, being a former grunt, made most liquor run away in terror.
“What happens when Chambers wants us to drop Santiago?” Charlie asked as a downed two of the four fingers.
“You don’t think he would, do you?” Hamlin asked.
“Sir, Chambers money may be green, but he is a complete asshole who can’t stand brown people. I think he’d do it just out of spite.” One of Charlie’s many skills was assessing if someone was truly an asshole. In D.C., so many people acted like assholes to blend in it was hard to tell who was following a trend and who, upon taking office, say, would cut food stamps to blind orphaned refugees from WarTorn-istan and call it “compassionate conservatism.”
“Yeah, but what are his chances without my magic and your Oo-Rah?” Hamlin quipped, pantomiming “magic” by waving his fingers and “Oo-rah.” by making a fist.
“Not great, but we’re going to feel pretty shitty if he gets elected and goes to war with the Phillipines because he heard there were ‘mooz-lems’ there.”
“Jesus,” said Hamlin. “That’s right. I forgot about that. We’ve been so busy on the ‘boost the economy’ angle I forgot he said that. Tell you what, if he asks us to do that, I’ll just double it and he’ll say no.”
“I hope so,” said Charlie. “I’ll see you Monday, boss.”
...
Hamlin didn’t stay in the office much longer, but decided to walk down Constitution Ave and cut over to his house on H street, forgoing the red line entirely. It was sixty degrees in January and good walking weather. Usually this time of year the cold would be murdering the homeless people faster than people like Chambers secretly wished they could.
Mustn’t think like that, Hamlin chided himself. The whole idea of making enough money off these fools so that the laws they made didn’t affect him was the point. Hell, thought Hamlin, if this goes right, a veteran won’t be subject to bullshit laws either.
“‘Scuse me, sir, got any change?” asked a homeless woman, holding out cupped hands with bedraggled dignity. The unspoken motto of the homeless was “Yeah, I may be a bum, but I’m a bum in Washington, D.C.”
Hamlin, barely breaking stride, pulled from the special money, in winter it was scented and pressed with bees wax and daffodil, a blessing of spring in the lacerating cold. He pressed a ten dollar bill into her hands. The genuine and profuse thanks faded behind as he pressed on. He wanted to get home.
His phone buzzed.
Hamlin kept walking without answering. He had a bad feeling that if he didn’t get home that his phone would. . . ring with the emergency chime. Dammit.
“Hamlin.” he answered.
“Sir, Chambers is blowing up my phone, he wants you to meet him at the Thunder Grill.” said Charlie in his "this mother fucker here" tone.
Goddammit. It was bad enough Hamlin was caught before he could beg off with “I just got in the door.” but the Thunder Grill was the ugliest combination of tourist trap, bourgeois fusion cuisine and DC resident who should goddamned well know better.
Fine. Hamlin sighed and turned towards Union Station.
....
Union Station is often crowded and at 5 pm on a Thursday it’s a zoo of suits, students, early weekend tourists and people who are going to take Friday off because they’d had too much at one of the four overpriced bars.
Hamlin slid through the crowd expertly. Crowded as it was, it was nothing compared to the primaries. He found Chambers, all gelled grey hair and standard issue navy blue suit, white shirt and read tie in the booth in the back. The senator was tucking into a steak you could tell was rare at 100-yards.
Hamlin slid into the booth and Chambers nodded at him, then continued to eat for what felt like ten minutes. Charlie was right. Asshole.
“Mr. Hamlin,” Chambers said, mouth mostly full, glaring at his steak like it asked for more funding for schools. “My people tell me you got Santiago on the Dem’s ticket.”
Hamlin nodded. Chambers was so focusing on punishing his Pittsburgh rare New York strip, he didn’t notice and asked “Is that true?”
“Yes, sir, it actually is.” Hamlin said flatly.
“He’s the only one that can oppose me.” Chambers jammed more flesh into his face. “You worked for my opponent when you worked for me.” He said with his mouth full of bloody meat. He said it with a disdain usually reserved for royalty chiding their court. Hamlin had not seen this side of Chambers until now, though it had been hinted at. He didn’t care for it.
“There was nothing in the contract that you signed that said I couldn’t do that.” Hamlin said cooly. That was how you dealt with these wanna-be kings. Play it cool.
“I didn’t pay you so my opponent could make his primary.” Chambers sneered, bloody spit dripping out of the corner of his mouth.
“No, sir, you paid me to get you onto the GOP ticket, which I clearly did, so. . .”
“I haven’t paid you yet.” Chambers said with a “fuck you, though” smile. “And I’m not going to now.”
“You sure about that?” Hamlin asked, with eyebrow raised.
“What? What are you going to do? You are not shit to me, Hamlin. You and your n**er Marine are not shit to me. I’m New York politics. I’m the real deal. We didn’t need you and I should have told my people to not even bother.”
“Well, they did bother and the work is done, so if you want to reneg on the contract, that’s up to you, but I promise no one in this town will touch your campaign. You’ll have to contact outsiders, amateurs.” Hamlin said smoothly. He said “amateurs” the way most people would say “second hand,” like he would be getting help from a Goodwill in a Maryland suburb.
“I said you are not shit. I have lawyers. I’m not paying you.” Chambers said.
“Then we’re done here.” Hamlin said and he began to leave.
“And Hamlin, no more political tricks. My people will destroy you.” Chambers said with a confidence that was the last straw.
Everything else up until this point, well, Hamlin could have dealt with. Somebody doesn’t want to pay? Whatever. The contract was the contract. Hamlin kept enough pitbull lawyers in his corner to wrench the money form Chambers. But the arrogant trash talk that Chambers probably learned from TV? That was the the last straw.
“Oh, don’t worry. No more political tricks.” Hamlin said and excused himself.
No. Not political tricks. There were older tricks and politics. And the things that made those tricks happen? Hamlin had dutifully kept them in his debt. But, why be rash? Run it past Charlie first before tapping into the old stuff.
....
“Well, he’s not even going to pay us now.” Hamlin told Charlie.
“So? He can’t just decide to not do that. Work is done, sir.” Charlie shrugged.
“He also called you the n-word.” Hamlin said.
“So?” Charlie said.
“Well, isn’t that. . . bad?” Hamlin asked, bewildered.
“Oh, my heavens,” Charlie said, with a thick southern accent, “a white man done called me a nigra?! What shall I do? My poor wife, she’ll faint! Faint I say, Mista Hamlin!” Charlie dropped back into his normal, Bronx accent, “I’ve been black my whole life, Ray, a white man calling me a nigger isn’t news. A white politician using the word nigger, while galvanizing to a voter base, would probably back-fire if we try to fourth-estate him.”
“How do you figure?” Hamlin asked.
“Well, think about it. We got a bunch of people who LOVE saying that word anonymously online or making up a code for it. White dude from New York uses it? Everyone who never considered voting is probably going to show up to high five his closet Klan-ass.” Charlie said. “And it’s not like you recorded it, which means it would be your word against his and. . .”
“And no one knows who I am by design.” Hamlin said.
“Yeah, so quietly settle out of court, call it day, sir.” Charlie said.
“Quietly is key.” Hamlin said.
The night of the election, the streets were deserted. Everyone was glued to televisions across the nation as the tally counted up. Red state and blue states all vying for their respective heroes.
Charlie was home with his wife and sons, pointedly not watching the elections and playing the Wii.
Santiago and Chambers were in their respective election headquarters. Chambers children were not with him.
Hamlin would have let nearly anything slide, if not for the debt. Still not settled, lawyers fighting tooth and nail over a not insubstantial sum. While Santiago’s campaign paid handsomely and would have to pay again if the numbers continued the way they went, the debt was still there.
Every so often, somebody doesn’t take someone from the Hamlin family seriously. The first time, they took the town’s name after taking much more. The second time, a whole American colony vanished.
This time? The music Hamlin played on that ancient fife wafted into the windows of DC’s elite private schools, stirring certain children, getting them out of bed and onto the street. The followed Hamlin somewhere. Some place. A secret. A place good parents have nightmares about and band parents make threats about. A place they won’t come back from.
The Metro police were baffled by the case. Nearly four hundred children just vanished from four schools. Curiously, the sweet smell of rose water and saffron filled the dorms. More curiously? All of the children’s parents were on the campaign to elect Walter Chambers, the defeated New York senator.
CNN would call it terrorism. Fox would call it a liberal conspiracy. But one man, tanned and supple and living in Belize? He would call it “paid in full.”
Raymond Hamlin went to the sandwich of dollars he kept in his inside coat pocket. They were crisp, fresh from a newly minted stack of 50, soaked in rose water and dusted with saffron. A kind of blessing on them. He counted three without being able to see them and pressed them into the guy’s cupped hands.
“Thank you, sir!” He said. He quickly moved on to ask more people for money, probably unaware of the how good Hamlin’s money smelled.
You had to pay your debts in Washington, D.C. If you had no debts to anyone, as Hamlin did not through dogged pursuit of being in no one’s debt, you still had to pay someone. It wasn’t just not being in debt, it was keeping people in your debt. And sometimes, it wasn’t people. Sometimes it was those strange old things. . .
Hamlin got off the train the stop after the homeless man left, and walked up into the thick August on Constitution Ave. The sun was just peaking over the horizon and it was already ninety degrees. August was a quiet time in the District. Most of the government workers were gone on their two week vacations. There were no students at the colleges of Southern Maryland, DC or Northern Virginia to crowd the streets of Georgetown. Congress was a ghost town.
Now was the planning season for men like him.
He came up to his office to find Charlie, his former Marine assistant, already on the phone, half dressed in a white sleavless t-shirt. On Charlie’s shoulder there was a picture of a duck flapping it’s feathers off with circle slash over it.
“Morning, Charlie.” said Hamlin.
Charlie waved, then pointed to the phone, then rubbed his index finger and thumb together in small circles then gave a thumbs up.
The every day sign language told Hamlin “Morning, client on the phone, big contract and he’s ready to talk.”
Hamlin admired Charlie on a number of levels. The former Marine, true to his tattoo, was “Unflappable. Can NOT be flapped.” as a retired General had once said of him. Hamlin signed “Cool. Put him on my phone, five minutes?” with his fingers.
“No need, sending intern soon.” Charlie signed.
Hamlin blinked, gave the thumbs up and disappeared into his office. He wasn’t sure how 8 combat tours in a decade turned Charlie into such a salesmen, but it surely had.
“What’s with the flute?” asked the intern who had arrived about an hour after Charlie hung up the phone.
“Family tradition.” said Hamlin. “That one’s been in the family since 1200 or so.”
“Wow,” said the intern in genuine wonder. Then again, a car from the 70’s would probably seem impossibly ancient to her.
“Thing of beauty, really.” said Hamlin as looked at the polls the intern had brought him. Democrats were always most concerned with “minorities” and women and the Senator from Florida was no different. The thing that Charlie told him about “minorities” is that all knew they weren’t white, but generally voted as one. Thinking otherwise had lost Romney the election, among other things.
Still, who runs under Democrat from Florida? Hamlin thought. He shook his head. It didn’t matter, as long as they paid, right? Make some calls, set up some grip and grins, meetings, townhalls. And in Florida in November he'd get to hide from the bitter DC cold to boot. What’s not to love? Maybe get the democractic senator to read a children’s book at one of those “troubled child” schools in Tampa. Everyone had forgot how bad that went for Quayle and Bush, Jr. by now.
Hamlin clicked a document to the printer, “Go ahead and grab that document. . . um.
your name?”
“Denise!” the intern said, startled after being so enthralled by the flute. She must have been quite young to be so entranced by it.
“Well, Denise!, go grab that document from my assistant. It’s a basic initial plan for Senator Santiago to get him on the media radars. Be sure to grab a water on your way out, it’s hot out there.”
“Thank you and thanks!” Denise said. She turned on her heel and exited Hamlin’s office. She seemed surprised Hamlin had been kind to her. These poor kids.
Hamlin relaxed. That was the easy one. The hard sell, the one Charlie had masterfully reeled in, was a Republican from New York. While is was a little shady to run both sides trying to get to the primaries, he did contract non-payment if they didn’t make it. It was a risky way to do business in such a fickle town, but it also commanded the highest fees that Hamlin would split fifty fifty with Charlie.
And this was DC! There was no rule that said you had to pick a party, but there were all kinds of rules about paying debts. The national debt you just dodge, but you paid everyone who got you in a position to ignore that debt. And after having a very real but invisible hand in the last two men to ignore that debt, Hamlin was keen to collect again, and this time? Retire.
Now for the gentlemen from New York. Who runs as a Republican out of New York? Hamlin thought.
. .
Six months of working both sides paid off absurdly well because Democratic Sen. Thomas Santiago of Florida and Republican Sen. Walter Chambers both made their primaries. Hamline nearly fell out of his chair when Charlie told him.
He shot back up to his feet and pulled a bottle of whiskey from his desk with two glasses, pouring a substantial amount for Charlie who, being a former grunt, made most liquor run away in terror.
“What happens when Chambers wants us to drop Santiago?” Charlie asked as a downed two of the four fingers.
“You don’t think he would, do you?” Hamlin asked.
“Sir, Chambers money may be green, but he is a complete asshole who can’t stand brown people. I think he’d do it just out of spite.” One of Charlie’s many skills was assessing if someone was truly an asshole. In D.C., so many people acted like assholes to blend in it was hard to tell who was following a trend and who, upon taking office, say, would cut food stamps to blind orphaned refugees from WarTorn-istan and call it “compassionate conservatism.”
“Yeah, but what are his chances without my magic and your Oo-Rah?” Hamlin quipped, pantomiming “magic” by waving his fingers and “Oo-rah.” by making a fist.
“Not great, but we’re going to feel pretty shitty if he gets elected and goes to war with the Phillipines because he heard there were ‘mooz-lems’ there.”
“Jesus,” said Hamlin. “That’s right. I forgot about that. We’ve been so busy on the ‘boost the economy’ angle I forgot he said that. Tell you what, if he asks us to do that, I’ll just double it and he’ll say no.”
“I hope so,” said Charlie. “I’ll see you Monday, boss.”
...
Hamlin didn’t stay in the office much longer, but decided to walk down Constitution Ave and cut over to his house on H street, forgoing the red line entirely. It was sixty degrees in January and good walking weather. Usually this time of year the cold would be murdering the homeless people faster than people like Chambers secretly wished they could.
Mustn’t think like that, Hamlin chided himself. The whole idea of making enough money off these fools so that the laws they made didn’t affect him was the point. Hell, thought Hamlin, if this goes right, a veteran won’t be subject to bullshit laws either.
“‘Scuse me, sir, got any change?” asked a homeless woman, holding out cupped hands with bedraggled dignity. The unspoken motto of the homeless was “Yeah, I may be a bum, but I’m a bum in Washington, D.C.”
Hamlin, barely breaking stride, pulled from the special money, in winter it was scented and pressed with bees wax and daffodil, a blessing of spring in the lacerating cold. He pressed a ten dollar bill into her hands. The genuine and profuse thanks faded behind as he pressed on. He wanted to get home.
His phone buzzed.
Hamlin kept walking without answering. He had a bad feeling that if he didn’t get home that his phone would. . . ring with the emergency chime. Dammit.
“Hamlin.” he answered.
“Sir, Chambers is blowing up my phone, he wants you to meet him at the Thunder Grill.” said Charlie in his "this mother fucker here" tone.
Goddammit. It was bad enough Hamlin was caught before he could beg off with “I just got in the door.” but the Thunder Grill was the ugliest combination of tourist trap, bourgeois fusion cuisine and DC resident who should goddamned well know better.
Fine. Hamlin sighed and turned towards Union Station.
....
Union Station is often crowded and at 5 pm on a Thursday it’s a zoo of suits, students, early weekend tourists and people who are going to take Friday off because they’d had too much at one of the four overpriced bars.
Hamlin slid through the crowd expertly. Crowded as it was, it was nothing compared to the primaries. He found Chambers, all gelled grey hair and standard issue navy blue suit, white shirt and read tie in the booth in the back. The senator was tucking into a steak you could tell was rare at 100-yards.
Hamlin slid into the booth and Chambers nodded at him, then continued to eat for what felt like ten minutes. Charlie was right. Asshole.
“Mr. Hamlin,” Chambers said, mouth mostly full, glaring at his steak like it asked for more funding for schools. “My people tell me you got Santiago on the Dem’s ticket.”
Hamlin nodded. Chambers was so focusing on punishing his Pittsburgh rare New York strip, he didn’t notice and asked “Is that true?”
“Yes, sir, it actually is.” Hamlin said flatly.
“He’s the only one that can oppose me.” Chambers jammed more flesh into his face. “You worked for my opponent when you worked for me.” He said with his mouth full of bloody meat. He said it with a disdain usually reserved for royalty chiding their court. Hamlin had not seen this side of Chambers until now, though it had been hinted at. He didn’t care for it.
“There was nothing in the contract that you signed that said I couldn’t do that.” Hamlin said cooly. That was how you dealt with these wanna-be kings. Play it cool.
“I didn’t pay you so my opponent could make his primary.” Chambers sneered, bloody spit dripping out of the corner of his mouth.
“No, sir, you paid me to get you onto the GOP ticket, which I clearly did, so. . .”
“I haven’t paid you yet.” Chambers said with a “fuck you, though” smile. “And I’m not going to now.”
“You sure about that?” Hamlin asked, with eyebrow raised.
“What? What are you going to do? You are not shit to me, Hamlin. You and your n**er Marine are not shit to me. I’m New York politics. I’m the real deal. We didn’t need you and I should have told my people to not even bother.”
“Well, they did bother and the work is done, so if you want to reneg on the contract, that’s up to you, but I promise no one in this town will touch your campaign. You’ll have to contact outsiders, amateurs.” Hamlin said smoothly. He said “amateurs” the way most people would say “second hand,” like he would be getting help from a Goodwill in a Maryland suburb.
“I said you are not shit. I have lawyers. I’m not paying you.” Chambers said.
“Then we’re done here.” Hamlin said and he began to leave.
“And Hamlin, no more political tricks. My people will destroy you.” Chambers said with a confidence that was the last straw.
Everything else up until this point, well, Hamlin could have dealt with. Somebody doesn’t want to pay? Whatever. The contract was the contract. Hamlin kept enough pitbull lawyers in his corner to wrench the money form Chambers. But the arrogant trash talk that Chambers probably learned from TV? That was the the last straw.
“Oh, don’t worry. No more political tricks.” Hamlin said and excused himself.
No. Not political tricks. There were older tricks and politics. And the things that made those tricks happen? Hamlin had dutifully kept them in his debt. But, why be rash? Run it past Charlie first before tapping into the old stuff.
....
“Well, he’s not even going to pay us now.” Hamlin told Charlie.
“So? He can’t just decide to not do that. Work is done, sir.” Charlie shrugged.
“He also called you the n-word.” Hamlin said.
“So?” Charlie said.
“Well, isn’t that. . . bad?” Hamlin asked, bewildered.
“Oh, my heavens,” Charlie said, with a thick southern accent, “a white man done called me a nigra?! What shall I do? My poor wife, she’ll faint! Faint I say, Mista Hamlin!” Charlie dropped back into his normal, Bronx accent, “I’ve been black my whole life, Ray, a white man calling me a nigger isn’t news. A white politician using the word nigger, while galvanizing to a voter base, would probably back-fire if we try to fourth-estate him.”
“How do you figure?” Hamlin asked.
“Well, think about it. We got a bunch of people who LOVE saying that word anonymously online or making up a code for it. White dude from New York uses it? Everyone who never considered voting is probably going to show up to high five his closet Klan-ass.” Charlie said. “And it’s not like you recorded it, which means it would be your word against his and. . .”
“And no one knows who I am by design.” Hamlin said.
“Yeah, so quietly settle out of court, call it day, sir.” Charlie said.
“Quietly is key.” Hamlin said.
The night of the election, the streets were deserted. Everyone was glued to televisions across the nation as the tally counted up. Red state and blue states all vying for their respective heroes.
Charlie was home with his wife and sons, pointedly not watching the elections and playing the Wii.
Santiago and Chambers were in their respective election headquarters. Chambers children were not with him.
Hamlin would have let nearly anything slide, if not for the debt. Still not settled, lawyers fighting tooth and nail over a not insubstantial sum. While Santiago’s campaign paid handsomely and would have to pay again if the numbers continued the way they went, the debt was still there.
Every so often, somebody doesn’t take someone from the Hamlin family seriously. The first time, they took the town’s name after taking much more. The second time, a whole American colony vanished.
This time? The music Hamlin played on that ancient fife wafted into the windows of DC’s elite private schools, stirring certain children, getting them out of bed and onto the street. The followed Hamlin somewhere. Some place. A secret. A place good parents have nightmares about and band parents make threats about. A place they won’t come back from.
The Metro police were baffled by the case. Nearly four hundred children just vanished from four schools. Curiously, the sweet smell of rose water and saffron filled the dorms. More curiously? All of the children’s parents were on the campaign to elect Walter Chambers, the defeated New York senator.
CNN would call it terrorism. Fox would call it a liberal conspiracy. But one man, tanned and supple and living in Belize? He would call it “paid in full.”
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