he thought he saw a red car, vaguely familiar, staying with him but keeping back a full block at all times. The next time he checked on the car, up around Morris Miller’s liquor store, it was gone, and Strange relaxed in his seat.
The events of the past week had elevated his sense of street paranoia. People living in certain sections of the city, Strange knew, felt the fear of walking under this kind of emotional sword every day. But he didn’t like to succumb to it himself.
Strange parked on Sligo Avenue. As he was crossing the street, the beeper on his hip sounded, and he checked the numbered readout: Janine. He clipped the beeper back onto his belt.
Strange walked into Renzo’s, an unbeautiful neighborhood beer garden in downtown Silver Spring. Renzo’s housed a straight-line bar, stools along a mirrored wall, a pool table, and keno monitors. Bars like this one were common in Baltimore, Philly, and Pittsburgh, but rare around D.C. Quinn sat on a bar stool, reading a paperback and nursing a bottle of Bud in the low light. A heavyset guy in a flannel shirt, a guy in camouflage pants, and several keno players, huffing cigarettes, sat with him along the stick. The bartender was a woman, nearly featureless in the low light, wearing a Nighthawks T-shirt and jeans. Smoke hung heavy in the air.
Strange got up on a stool next to Quinn. He ordered a Heineken from the tender.
“From a bottle,” said Strange. “And I don’t need a glass.”
“This is you,” said Quinn, producing a record album he had propped up at his feet.
Strange took it and studied the cover. He smiled at the photograph of Al Green decked out in a white suit, white turtleneck, and white stacks, sitting in a white cane chair against a white background. A green hanging plant and a green potted plant, along with the singer’s rich chocolate skin, gave the cover its color. It looked like Al was wearing dark green socks, too, though some argued that the socks were black.
“You don’t have to say it,” said Quinn. “It’s understood.”
“Al freaks called this ‘The White Album,’” said Strange, ignoring Quinn. “Has ‘Simply Beautiful’ on it, too.”
“You don’t have it, do you? I thought it might be one of those you lost in that house flood you had.”
“I did lose the vinyl, you’re right. I own the CD, but the CD’s got no bottom.”
“Funny thing is, it came in with this carton of seventies rock, a lot of hard blues-metal and also weird stuff some pot smoker had to be listening to. I found Al Green filed alphabetically, after Gentle Giant and Gong.”
“Herb smokers used to listen to Al, too. People used to listen to all sorts of music then, wasn’t no barriers set up like it is now. Young man like you, you missed it. Was a real good time.”
“I think you might have mentioned that to me before. Anyway, I’m glad you like it.”
“Thank you, buddy.”
“It’s all right.”
Strange and Quinn tapped bottles. Strange then filled Quinn in on the ongoing investigation. He told him about the Caprice in the parking lot and the white car and its occupants that had rolled up on Lamar Williams. He told him about Lydell Blue’s list.
“You get up with Joe’s mother,” said Quinn, “she might be able to narrow down the number of names for us.”
“I called Sandra a couple of times and left messages,” said Strange. “She hasn’t got back to me yet.”
They discussed the case further. Strange drank two beers to Quinn’s one. Quinn watched Strange close his eyes as he took a deep pull from the bottle.
“Janine’s been trying to get up with you,” said Quinn.
“Yeah?”
“She called me at the bookstore, said she’s been beeping you. Something about finding the last piece of the puzzle on Calhoun Tucker.”
Strange drank off some of his beer. “I’ll have to see what that’s about.”
“What’s goin’ on between you two?”
“Why, she say somethin’ was?”
“Only that you’ve been avoiding her this week. Outside of work stuff, she hasn’t been able to get through to you at all.”
“I’m not sure I’m right for her right now, you want the truth. Her
“You’re not done with that one yet,” said Quinn, nodding to the bottle in front of Strange.
“I will be soon. But thanks for pointing it out.” Strange’s elbow slipped off the bar. “At least you’re doin’ all right with Sue. Seems like a good woman. Looks good, too.”
“Yeah, she’s cool. I’m lucky I found her. But Derek, I’m talkin’ about you.”
“Look, man, everything’s been boiling up inside me, with Joe’s death and all. I know I haven’t been dealing with it right.”
“Nobody knows how to deal with it. When a kid dies like that, you look around you and the things you thought were in order, your beliefs, God, whatever . . . nothing makes sense. I’ve been fucked up about it myself. We all have.”
Strange didn’t say anything for a while. And then he said, “I should’ve let him run that play.”
“What?”
