= PURPLE POLITICS
  A Frisco Foil bar tale
  By Hugh Lessig


She introduces herself as Monica, and considering this is D.C., I figure she's heard all the jokes, so I just shut up and bless my good fortune.

"You mind if I sit here?" She has expensive whiskey breath.

"It's a public bar."

She doesn't look like a Monica. She has spiked blonde hair cut close to her head and the face of someone who works 12-hour days and enjoys it too much. Tight skin. Hard blue eyes. A Monique, maybe. Not a Monica.

"What newspaper do you write for?" She sees the press badge around my neck.

I have noticed this about Washington types. They ask who you "write" for, like everyone who ever pounded out five column inches on a freeway wreck is a Tolstoy about to break out.

"I work at The Frisco Foil," I say. "I'm covering the National Gay Rights Conference.  It contains a number of prominent San Franciscans, so I've got a local angle -- with nipple rings, I'll wager."

Monica looked around. "But this isn't a gay bar."

"I'm aware of this. See, my boss wants a feature story on life in Georgetown -- straight life in Georgetown. So I came here to pick up some string. My editor disappoints me, to be honest. I had a decent 20-incher on these lesbian bodybuilders who built speakers' platforms for the Official Protest Area. Ripsaws and such. I liked them for reasons that -- well, I liked them."

"The Foil?" She wrinkles her noise "You've got that funny motto."

"Boldly seeking the Truth and Mayhem. Yes, ma'am. We're regular comedians."

She lights a cigarette and lets the smoke escape through her nose. "Are you interested in writing about something besides lesbians with power tools?" She refuses to look me in the eye, which is normally a sign of trouble. But on her, at this moment, I find it enjoyable. Here in Washington, maintaining eye contact is something of a religion. Everyone has to do it, the politicians, the bureaucrats, the valets, the bellboys. After three days it's gotten under my skin.

"Listen, Mr. Reporter, I..."

The beep of her pager jangles the connection between us. She checks the number and says she must get the call. She walks toward the sound of a jukebox playing Tony Bennett and disappears into the gathering gloom. I watch her go and return to my beer.

This is a basement bar. It has nearly every type of beer known to man. Lots of dark, sweet stuff from Belgium and Holland with a good hang time on the froth. I could never figure the Lowlanders. Done in by the Nazis with their stiff pilsners and stiffer tanks. For a moment I imagine myself as a Dutch spy in a 1930s Berlin biergarten, where the waitresses are big-boned blondes with braids coiled like climbing rope, and someone is hiding the microfilm in her cleavage.

Her scream comes from the hallway.

I am off the stool and into the hall.

Monica is on the floor.

I lean down next to her ear. Whoever held the knife began the cut just behind the earlobe and dragged it neatly across her throat. A  dark pool spreads toward me.

"Look it up." Her voice is a strangled whisper. It sets my teeth on edge.

"Look up what, sweetheart? Tell me where to look."

Her hand emerges from her blouse. It holds a purple flower. Then she says, "HJR 2225."  Her body shudders once and goes limp, and her eyes fall dead open.

I stuff the purple flower in my breast pocket and rummage through her purse. I come up with a business card. It says her full name is Monica Birdsong and that she works for some place called EDK Consultants Ltd. I stand up. People are starting to gather.

"Pardon me," I say. "I need to go outside and wait for the police." I find the nearest Metro stop and head back to Arlington and my hotel. Chances are no one will be able to describe me. Washingtonians are too busy looking you in the eye.

* * *

Once in the hotel room, I fire up my laptop and get on-line. In 15 minutes, I know that HJR 2225 stands for House Joint Resolution 2225 introduced in the House of Representatives just eight weeks ago.

The bill is stuck in an Appropriations subcommittee, which means they're trying to find money for it. I read the text of the bill and my short hairs stand on end.

The bill would require that something called the Purple Looseleaf be declared "a noxious weed." It would allow it to be cleaned up on public property, and it would "encourage" private property owners to do the same. The resolution is only three paragraphs - something about the Purple Looseleaf clogging up sidewalks and choking off other plants.

The web page includes a photo of the Purple Looseleaf, It looks like the flower Monica handed me.

Just a goofy bill.

A goofy bill in a city where goofy bills are made law all the time and no one cares.

I look up EDK Consultants on the web. They are an environmental-rights group. They've got links to the Sierra Club and Greenpeace, and their slogan says something about saving the future.

You meet a woman in a bar. The woman wants to give you a tip. The woman is stabbed within shouting distance of you. The woman gives you a flower and points you toward a resolution that declares Official War on said flower.

None of this makes sense.

Except you like the dead woman.

You always do.

I turn off my computer and pull a Michelob from the honor bar that sits next to my bed. I finish that and pull out a Heineken. The tiny bottle of Absolut Citron talks me into introducing it to an orange juice. Then I order something called a southwestern pizza from room service with two more Heinekens.

Before I know it, I am toasting the Belgian resistance and some chippy is on The Weather Channel talking about a tropical depression down by the Gulf. I think she looks like Monica - or more precisely, what Monica should have turned out to be - a perky and joyful thing with stiff hair and milk-fed skin. Someone who will never worry about saving their own future.

I fall asleep to dream about anchorwomen with nipple rings.

* * *

The next morning, I am jacked on caffeine and positioned in downtown for the beginning of rush hour.

EDK Consultants is on G Street several blocks from the White House. I enter to find a 20ish receptionist looking over a computer screen. The place is done in sea greens and blues. The receptionist does not wear makeup, but she doesn't need it.

"Excuse me," I say. "I'm inquiring about Monica Birdsong."

She does not look up. I count to 15 and ask again. She favors me with a slight glance and asks if I have an appointment.

"An appointment with Monica?"

"No. With Winston Churchill."

Everyone is a pundit in this town. "No. I don't have an appointment."

She heaves an audible sigh.

"Look, I met Monica last night. I'm a reporter with The Frisco Foil."

Her eyebrows raise. "Are you in town for the Gay Rights Conference?"

"Do I look like I should be? Look miss, Monica Birdsong is dead. Someone cut her throat last night. My face was the final thing God allowed her to see. I'm going to write a story about her murder. The Post had three paragraphs next to the grocery ads. I think it's worth more. I want to talk to someone about her. The boss, maybe."

That stops her, but only for a moment. She pages through a looseleaf binder and purses her lips. "Ms. Birdsong started here two weeks ago. Worked for a pharmaceutical firm before that, if I recall her resume. You say she's been killed?"

This woman clearly thinks I am off my nut. I'm about to start waving the First Amendment when someone comes up behind me and rests a hand  on my shoulder. It is a bony, nervous hand. A rent-a-cop, maybe.

I turn to see a skinny fellow wearing the latest in Trailer Trash Chic -- powder blue suit, white bucks, white belt, silk shirt, no tie. He needed a caterpillar mustache to go with his overbite.

He looks a little sick.

"You need to talk to me," he says. "I knew Monica Birdsong. We were ... partners."

The guy is maybe 50, maybe 30. It's that kind of face. I look at the receptionist. I get the impression that this guy doesn't work for EDK Consultants, that he just walked in here, or that he hangs out here. The man smiles, but rivulets of sweat are running down his face. His eyes are shiny with fever.

I pull out the purple flower.

"Look mister, I have nothing to hide here - from you or this lady. Monica Birdsong got killed last night, like I said. She gave me this flower. You either know something about it or you don't."

The man takes one look at the flower. Before I can react, he pries it from my fingers and starts to run out the door.

The receptionist turns away from me, shaking her head, and pretends to file something.

Oh hell. I run after the guy.

* * *

I am hurrying out the door with my brain on rewind, trying to frame questions.

You meet a girl in a bar. She gets killed. She gives you a purple flower before she dies. Congress is considering declaring war on the flower. Somehow, this was enough to get her throat slit. You meet a sick-looking guy who acts like the purple flower is the Hope Diamond. The man stops at the curb after one block. He can't get across traffic. I come up and grab him in a friendly headlock. We walk away like two senators discussing a matter of grave legislative importance. I force a smile in case anyone is watching.

"Look, mister," I say. "I don't know your name, but..."

"My name is Web. Web Slaughter. Legislative lee-a-zon for National Association of Real Estate Developers."

"Uh-huh."

"Ouch! Quit it with the headlock, mister."

Web swallows hard. The color has drained from his face, and now I know where I've seen that look before. It's familiar to any reporter who has covered the cop beat on a weekend, who has spent time just outside the lockup, or who has covered a perp walk right after the arrest.

Web Slaughter is strung out. Heroin. Crack. Something.

All of a sudden, one piece of the puzzle falls into place.

His reaction to the flower. Something the receptionist said. Ah yes. Monica. Worked for a pharmaceutical firm before she came here.

I strengthen my headlock.

"I'm thinking aloud here, Web. You're sick and you need something real bad..."

Web shakes his head, wants me to shut up.

"Now stay with me on this. You're strung out on something, and you've got a nasty look when it comes to this purple flower. Is this a drug? Can it be made into a drug? Is that it?'

Web is shushing me.

"And someone wants Congress to declare it a noxious weed, which encourages people to ... clean it up. Collect it. Oh, this is good. Maybe a company could start doing this as a public service. Real estate developers could do this! They have a legitimate interest in land-clearing activities. Web, you legislative rapscallion!"

Web breaks out of my headlock, but he doesn't run away. He moves down the block, out of the foot traffic, and leans against the side of an office building. He is breathing heavily, although he's only walked about 12 feet. He pulls the flower out of his pocket.

"Monica gave you this?"

"Right before she died."

He shakes his head. "Good Christ on a stick. She was smart and stupid at the same time. She had figured out how to turn the Purple Looseleaf into a drug. A poor man's hallucinogen. You can cure these leaves, combine then with some cheap chemicals and smoke them, Mr. Barnes. It's a stronger high than marijuana, it holds you a little longer."

"And it lets you down a lot harder."

Web smiles. "Monica, she figured this out when she worked for the drug lobby. Then she switched to the environmental lobby and convinced a group of lawmakers to put in the house resolution you're talking about. It's genius, really. The stuff grows all over certain parts of the South. Clogs up sidewalks and such. If we could get a Congressional mandate to clean it up, no one would suspect why we want to clean it up. "

"It's not law yet," I say.

"It will be, Mr. Barnes. Here. For your file."

Web smiles and hands me one of his business cards. I take it without thinking -- without realizing until too late that I never told him my name, nor did I tell the secretary.

I stick the card in my pocket, and the tips of my fingers begin to burn. Web smiles with sad beagle eyes.

"You just took a nasty little hallucinogen, Mr. Barnes. Artificial stuff. Very new. It's absorbed through the skin like PCP. You'll need to walk with me to my car before you.... Oh, I guess not."

* * *

A long time passes.

Or maybe a few minutes.

I wake up to gray walls and hard light, and I peel back wet sheets.

Some kind of nightmare jarred me awake. I have forgotten it, but I am still scared. I try to swing my legs onto the floor and a wave of nausea overcomes me. I lean over the bed and vomit. Strangely enough, a clean bucket is there to catch it. Then I remember. I have been waking up many times, throwing up many times. Dry heaves now. Web sits in the corner with the same White Trash clothes.

I ask where I am.

"The last place you'll ever be," he says.

A 9mm Glock rests on his lap. I sit up and throw my legs over the side of the bed.

"You going to shoot me, Web? Or do you prefer a knife in the throat?"

His smile is almost tender. "Monica showed good judgment in coming to you. She wanted to tell the world, and she knew the establishment media wouldn't believe her story. If it makes you feel any better, she went to you before some guy from Rolling Stone."

"You and Monica were in this together? A two-person racket to gather a drug flower?"

Web begins to drum his fingers as he talks. "It don't take much to get a resolution passed on the Hill, Mr. Barnes. Not if you know which committees to play. It's just a non-binding resolution anyway. It doesn't require anyone clean up the Purple Looseleaf. It just encourages them to."

The hand with the gun moves lazily across his lap. There is a door to my left.  A small desk next to Web. No windows. If he hustled me into a waiting car, I could be anywhere.

"That little act you pulled in the office, where you grabbed the flower and ran out. Was that just to get me out on the street? Or are you really jacked on this stuff?"

Web giggles. "You sound like Monica, Mr. Barnes. She didn't like what the flower was doing to me. But it hurts less than getting shot. Speaking of which, I see no reason to drag this out..."

His grip tightens on the pistol, and there is a sharp crack. I look down at the folds of my shirt, expecting to see guts, but the next sound comes from Web. He howls at the ceiling and grabs his knee, which has turned into a ball of blood. The smell of cordite wafts in from an open door.

The receptionist from EDK.

The girl with no makeup.

She holds a small pistol with shiny silver plating, and she holds it well. Web is curled up in the fetal position. He appears to be crying. The woman comes over to me and kneels down by the cot. She looks nervous as hell.

"Hey Winston Churchill," I say. "Will you marry me?"

She is about to laugh when Web rolls up on one elbow and starts popping off shots from the Glock. Something tears into my ankle like a Rottweiler. A pretty crimson spray erupts from Winston's shoulder. I fall off the bed and grab my ankle, and Winston's gun goes off next to my ear. I hear something that sounds like Web, or what used to be Web.

It is a strangled, wet sound. It reminds me of Monica lying on the floor.

* * *

Her name is not Winston. It is Alex. We spend a few days in the same hospital, and we get out on the same day.

Now we are standing on Pennsylvania Avenue across from the White House, in the small park where the homeless people sometimes hang out. It is Saturday morning. My last day in D.C.

We are both a little shagged out.

She gives me a quick up-and-down appraisal. "How are the crutches?"

I shift around on my good leg and smile. "How is the sling?"

She pats her right arm. "I can't type for a while. But it won't matter. I'm getting promoted at EDK for busting up the Purple Menace scheme."

"That's what the media is calling it?"

"That's what The Foil editorial called it. It seems a little over-the-top, but then you've got that funny motto. Boldly seeking the -- what is it?"

"Truth and Mayhem."

"Ah. Yes. Well you've found both, I would think."

"Thank God I found you."

"Hey, I'd been watching Monica since she came to EDK. Then that skinny creep kept meeting her in the lobby. It didn't make sense. Real estate lobbyists don't come to environmental firms to discuss legislation. We're like Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. When you showed up and said Monica had been killed, and when I saw Web hovering over your shoulder, I knew something was wrong. I just didn't know what ... Hey, I have to go."

A bus stops at the curb. I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back. I want to give her a hug and a lot more. But all I do is hold her hand. Finally, she disengages herself and steps onto the bus. It rumbles away toward the giant crowd that is gathering on the mall. At the back of the bus, a hand-lettered sheet flaps in the breeze.

GAY RIGHTS MARCH TO FREEDOM -- 2000.

A man comes up running. His face is flushed. He asks: "Is that the only bus going out to march?"

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "But it's a good cause."

The bus turns a corner. We both watch it go.


HUGH LESSIG, 41, is a newspaper reporter for the Daily Press in Newport News, Va. He lives in the state capital of Richmond, with his wife, Ann Marie. He writes about state government, politics and whichever elected official happens to commit news on a given day. Given his life's calling, he is a particular fan of reporter-detectives such as Frederick Nebel's "Kennedy of the Free Press."  More stories are available on his website, Frisco Foil Inc, at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/8002/.

Copyright (c) 2000 Hugh Lessig