My little plum Saturn coupe slowly crawled through the Columbia Heights neighborhood of Washington, D.C. I pulled over and parked. The mansion in front of me had seen better days, but behind the cracked paint of the siding, and the occasionally broken window, lay the Victorian design of a top-flight architect.
In our conversation by phone the week before, my childhood friend Laban had warned me it wasn’t the best neighborhood. That was a kind description. But the street was lined with well-apportioned automobiles, apparently guests to the party.
Making my way up the steps to the grand front door, I could hear the sound of a crowd inside. The door pushed open easily, and I entered.
Before me a crowded hallway stretched, leading to grand, sweeping steps with a battered, red runner leading up to the next floor. On the …
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