“What about the other thing?” said Tracy. “The flyer we gave you.”
“I’ve got a guy I use named Terry Quinn. Former D.C. cop. He’s a licensed investigator in the District now. I’m gonna give it to him.”
“Why not you?” said Bagley.
“Too busy.”
“How can we reach him?” said Tracy.
“He’s not in the office much. He works part-time in a used-book store in downtown Silver Spring. He can take calls there, and he’s got a cell. I’m gonna see him this evening; I’ll make sure he gets the flyer.”
Strange gave them both numbers.
“Thank you, Derek.”
“You’ll get my bill straightaway.” Strange hung up the phone and looked over at Lamar. “You ready, boy?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s roll.”
STRANGE retrieved the videotape of the cop and the hooker, wedged in the football file box, and shut the trunk’s lid.
“This here is you,” said Strange, handing the tape over to Lydell Blue.
“The thing you called me about?”
“Yeah. I wrote up a little background on it, what I was told by the investigators who put me on it, what I heard at the scene, like that. I signed my name to it, Internal wants to get in touch with me.”
Blue stroked his thick gray mustache. “I’ll take care of it.”
They walked across the parking lot toward the fence that surrounded the stadium, passing Quinn’s hopped-up blue Chevelle and Dennis Arrington’s black Infiniti I30 along the way.
Strange knew Roosevelt’s football coach — he had done a simple background check for him once and he had not charged him a dime — and they had worked it out so that Strange’s team could practice on Roosevelt’s field when the high school team wasn’t using it. In return, Strange turned the coach on to some up-and-coming players and tried to keep those kids who were headed for Roosevelt in a straight line as well.
“You and Dennis want the Midgets tonight?”
“Tonight? Yeah, okay.”
“Me and Terry’ll work with the Pee Wees, then.”
“Derek, that’s the way you got it set up damn near every night.”
“I like the young kids, is what it is,” said Strange. “Me and Terry will just stick with them, you don’t mind.”
“Fine.”
Midgets in this league — a loosely connected set of neighborhood teams throughout the area — went ten to twelve years old and between eighty-five and one hundred and five pounds. Pee Wees were ages eight to eleven, with a minimum of sixty pounds and a max of eighty-five. There was also an intermediate and junior division in the league, but the Petworth club could not attract enough boys in those age groups, the early-to-mid-teen years, to form a squad. Many of these boys had by then become too distracted by other interests, like girls, or necessities, like part-time jobs. Others had already been lost to the streets.
Strange followed Blue through a break in the fence and down to the field. About fifty boys were down there in uniforms and full pads, tackling one another, cracking wise, kicking footballs, and horsing around. Lamar Williams was with them, giving them some tips, also acting the clown. A few mothers were down there, and a couple of fathers, too, talking among themselves.
The field was surrounded by a lined track painted a nice sky blue. A set of aluminum bleachers on concrete steps faced the field. Weed trees grew up through the concrete.
Dennis Arrington, a computer programmer and deacon, was throwing the ball back and forth with the Midgets’ quarterback in one of the end zones. Nearby, Terry Quinn showed Joe Wilder, a Pee Wee, the ideal place on the body to make a hit. Quinn had to get down low to do it. Wilder was the runt of the litter, short but with defined muscles and a six-pack of abs, though he had only just turned eight years old. At sixty-two pounds, Wilder was also the lightest member of the squad.
Strange blew a whistle that hung on a cord around his neck. “Everybody line up over there.” He motioned to a line that had been painted across the track. They knew where it was.
“Hustle,” said Blue.
“Four times around,” said Strange, “and don’t be complaining, either; that ain’t nothin’ but a mile.” He blew the whistle again over the boys’ inevitable moans and protests.
“Any one of you walks,” yelled Arrington, as they jogged off the line, “and you
The men stood together in the end zone and watched the sea of faded green uniforms move slowly around the track.
“Got a call from Jerome Moore’s mother today,” said Blue. “Jerome got suspended from Clark today for pulling a knife on a teacher.”
“Clark
“Uh-huh. His mother said we won’t be seein’ him at practice for the next week or so.”
“Call her back,” said Strange, “and tell her he’s not welcome back. He’s off the team. Didn’t like him around the rest of the kids anyway. Doggin’ it, trash-talking, always starting fights.”
