(A freshly shorn Vic listens in amazement to Danny’s tale while Jon-Without talks to Australia. Photo Old Jim).

Sequestration has not been implemented yet, and the system is already dysfunctional in anticipation of possible pain. Heck, I will give it real pain, since the inability to make any decisions actually is a decision of a sort, and I was telling that to Jon-Without at the lower section of the Amen Corner at Willow yesterday.

“Nice haircut,” he said. “I thought you had given up on that.”

“Might be the last one,” I said. “We are going to wear uniforms to Mac’s funeral next week and I couldn’t get all that hair under my combination cover. I think it might be the last time to be in uniform, too. And second-to-last Arlington funeral. I am getting tired of covering them for the Quarterly.”

“Why second-to last?” asked Jon-without.

“Well, I suppose I ought to be at mine,” I said.

The Fish and Wildlife Service had the cocktail nook in the front of the bar crammed full, and some other government group had the stand-alone cocktail tables all jammed together and the noise was at a level merrier than normal for a Tuesday. Plus, Old Jim had his usual place, but there was a guy about my age next to him in the place where I normally sit.

I wasn’t miffed, exactly, but being a creature of habit I took the seat next to them, and Jon-without slide in next to me as Sabrina poured me a glass of Happy Hour White. She didn’t ask me, but she looked inquiringly at Jon-no-H.

He thought about his order. “I think I will have the older beer in the world.”

“That is what I like about you, Jon, you always mix it up. I can never tell what you are going to order. One night it is raspberry vodka and iced tea, then something right out of left field,” said Sabrina. She positively glowed with energy, having risen at five to attend a power yoga class before her first job of the day. “But it is not the oldest beer, it is the oldest Brewery, right?” She produced a bottle from the Weihenstephan state-owned brewery in the city of Freising in Bavaria.

The three of us examined it from both sides of the bar. The label claimed their could trace their lineage to a date just after the change of the millennium before this one. That was the one where noted ecclesiastic experts had advised that the Messiah would be returning and the farmers had no need to plant that season and could take a break to prepare for the arrival of the rapture.

Jon-without turned the bottle over in his hands, looking at the cloudy brew within.

“Don’t shake that thing up until I get my raincoat,” said the man between me and Old Jim.

Sabrina missed the exchange as she turned to get an opener, and when she applied it to the metal cap there was no spurt of release, but a certain exuberance in the foam that got away from her a bit, the suds spilling down the side of the glass. She frowned at the unexpected development, but Jon-without assured her that everything was fine, just fine.

“Well, it is not fine at the office. The longer this Sequestration thing goes on, the worse it is going to get for the contractor class,” I said. “Maybe it is time for us to see some pain, but it is driving business crazy not being able to plan for anything.”

Jon adjusted his bow tie. “I understand,” he said. “But there are still opportunities out there. I have a job interview at six.” He gestured at a brown legal folder in front of him on the bar, then slipped a couple of pages out of it and pushed them over. “The recruiter is in Sydney,” he said. “I am supposed to call in at six, which is nine in the morning local time.”

“I remember. It is just coming on Fall there. Our day is their night. Everything is on its head in the Antipodes.”

“The Antipodes?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s Greek for anyplace that is a point on the earth’s surface that is diametrically opposed to it by a line running right through the center of the earth, instead of just going west and south. Australia or New Zealand are straight down from the bar.” I pointed toward my brown boat shoes below me.

“That seems to be true on a couple levels.” He picked up the papers he had removed from the brown folder. “this company specializes in Carbon Capture.”

“Oh, cripes. The Aussies are quite mad about that. They have imposed a huge carbon tax in the interest of saving the planet.”

“Do you think they would mind if I thought the theory was completely bogus?”

“Hell, no. It is a racket. You may as well get some money out of it. There is never going to be a carbon tax here. They could address climate change better by adjusting the earth’s orbit, since it is a solar cycle that influences change.”

“I don’t know,” said Jon. “There is a lot of confusion out there. Has the temperature gone up any in the last decade?”

“No, not in fourteen years,” I said. “But the level of carbon dioxide has risen dramatically with no apparent effect. It means the theory needs to be looked at again.”

“I will look at anything if there is a decent salary,” Said Jon.

Old Jim growled that we should meet Danny, who he had known for 40 years. “We were bartenders in the District,” he said. “He went on to own his own bar and I went into politics.”

“Hello, Danny,” we said in unison. I pulled out my wallet and handed him a business card. “My name is Vic. All the contact info on the card is good at the moment, though that could change. What do you do?”

“Commercial real estate,” said Danny. “Government contracting, mostly.”

“Me too,” I said grimly. “Interesting times.”

Jon-without glanced at his watch, adjusted his bow-tie and stood up. “I have to call Sydney,” he said. “I will make the call from the patio.”

“Say hello to him from us,” said Jim, as Jon gathered his papers and walked out through the double doors. Chanteuse Mary was coming in as he was going out, and she took up a seat on the other side of her husband. She knew Danny well, and started off with a story about how they met when Jim brought her to the District from the Motor City long ago.

“Danny locked the door to the bar and started a private party that went on and on. I think I threw up on Jim.” He grimaced at the memory, and she laughed.

“Commercial real estate?” I asked. “How do you peddle that to the Government? Don’t they normally build their own?”

“Not so much any more. It is much more efficient on the private side. But I used to specialize on a niche market.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“Well, certain government agencies that don’t want to look like what they are.”

“Wait a minute. Do you know Tom “Big Smoke” Duval and Edmond Wilson and those guys from Task Force 157?”

Danny smiled. “I was no spook,” he said. “I just did real estate.”

That is when the conversation started to get interesting, since I had never considered just how necessary it was to have experts in the private sector to support the crazier aspects of the government’s intelligence operations. I wanted to take notes but it didn’t seem appropriate.

Jon-Without returned after not too many minutes, as Danny was describing the Mafia don’s daughter he had married, and the Irish mob that funneled money into the Bobby Van’s restaurant we used to frequent when we worked down on New York Avenue. They wore a lot of gold jewelry, back in the days before the air came out of the Celtic tiger.

“How did the interview go?” I asked. “Didn’t take long enough. Did you tell him your thought the carbon thing was a fraud.”

“No, it was simpler than that. He wanted me to take half of what I make now. I can’t do that. It was a non-starter. Too much of a haircut.”

I brushed my hand over what was left of the glorious mane I had been growing. “I know just what you mean,” I said.

I will have to see if I can remember the details of Danny’s wild ride through provisional IRA, Sein Fein, and the Irish mob here in town, along with Richard Secord, Edmond Wilson and John Poindexter. Not to mention a president or two. Maybe tomorrow, if I can remember. It was quite an eye-opener.

You never know who you are going to run into at Willow’s Amen Corner, you know?

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com