Blue Plains wasn’t the prettiest place in the world. Not far to the west, the Potomac flowed fresh and clean, but you’d never know it looking at the eight-foot cyclone fence and razor wire that guarded the city’s approximately eleven zillion impounded cars. Somewhere along the fence, I’d heard, was the site of one of the original District boundary stones, placed there two hundred years ago by L’Enfant himself. The stone was moved during construction in the fifties and stolen or lost. In typical DC fashion, there’d been a replacement, but it had been buried under eight feet of fill when Blue Plains was graded to create the impound lot. The only way you could see it now was by peering down a concrete pipe. I was pondering our region’s on-again, off-again love of history when Bloch pulled up in a blue Elantra. I got out and walked over. He motioned for me to get in the passenger’s seat. “This where you bring all your dates?” I asked. “Only the ones that want to get their car back,”
