Hell To Pay

“Honey,” said Hastings, “give me a moment alone with Derek here, will you?”

Alisha gave Strange a beautiful smile and found a friend to talk to nearby.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” said Hastings.

“Been meaning to get up with you, George,” said Strange.

“You could stop by for the game. You got plans for the day?”

“No, I . . . All right. Maybe I’ll drop by later on.”

Hastings shook Strange’s hand and held the grip. “My sympathies on that boy from your team.”

Strange nodded. He had no idea what he would say to his friend when they next met.

Strange caught up with Janine and Lionel as they walked to her car and asked them if they’d like to have breakfast with him at the diner. It was their Sunday morning ritual. But Janine said she had a busy afternoon planned and that she ought to get a jump on it. Lionel did not protest. Strange told him he’d pick him up for practice Monday night. Lionel only nodded, double-taking Strange with what Strange took to be a look of confusion before dropping into the passenger side of Janine’s car. Strange hated himself then for what he knew he was: another man who was about to drift out of this boy’s life. He wondered what Janine had told Lionel, and what he would tell Lionel himself if he had the chance.

On the way over to the Three-Star Diner, going east on Kennedy, Strange noticed the Mercedes, once again, in his rearview. The tricked-out car was only two lengths back. They’re not even worried about being burned, thought Strange, and for one young moment he considered taking a sudden turn and punching the gas. He could lose them easily; he’d come up around here, and no one knew these streets and alleys like he did. But he let them follow him, all the way down to First, where he parked his Caddy in a space along the curb. The Mercedes pulled up behind him.

Strange locked his Brougham and walked toward the Mercedes, memorizing the car’s license plate and confirming the model as he approached. Strange reached the car as the driver’s-side window slid down. Behind the wheel was a handsome, typically unfriendly looking young man with close-cropped hair. His suit and the knot of his tie were immaculate. Strange recognized him as one of the men who had attended Joe Wilder’s funeral. He had been talking to Joe’s mother, Sandra Wilder, by the grave.

In the passenger bucket was a man of the same age, same unsmiling expression, more flashily dressed. He sat low, with one arm leaning on the sill of his window, talking on his cell.

“What can I do for you fellas?” said Strange.

“A man needs to speak with you,” said the driver.

“Who?”

“Granville Oliver.”

Strange knew the name. The city knew Granville Oliver’s name. But with Strange it was more; he had a history with Oliver’s bloodline.

“And you are?”

“Phillip Wood.”

Wood’s partner lowered the cell and looked across the buckets at Strange. “Granville wants to see you now.”

Strange did not acknowledge this one or give him any kind of eye contact at all. He glanced over his shoulder through the plate glass fronting the diner. He could see Billy Georgelakos coming around the counter, his girth pushing against his stained apron, holding the pine baton that Strange knew had been hollowed out and filled with lead. Strange shook his head slightly at Billy, who stopped his forward path at once. Strange returned his gaze to the driver, Phillip Wood.

“Tell you what,” said Strange. “I’m gonna go on in there and eat my breakfast. When I come out, y’all are still out here? We can talk.”

Strange gave them his back, left the idling Mercedes curbside, and walked into the Three-Star. The sound of gospel music, coming from the house radio, hit him like cool water as he entered the diner.

“Everything all right, Derek?” said Georgelakos, now behind the counter again.

“I think so.”

“The usual?”

“Thanks, friend,” said Strange.

STRANGE ate a feta-cheese-and-onion omelette sprinkled with Texas Pete hot sauce, and a half-smoke side, and washed it down with a couple of cups of coffee. Some after-church types were at the counter and some sat in the old red-cushioned booths. The diner was white tiles and white walls, kept clean by Billy and his longtime employee, Etta.

Billy Georgelakos, his bald head sided by patches of gray, ambled down the rubber mat that ran behind the counter and leaned his forearms on the Formica top.

“Where’s Janine and the boy?”

“Busy,” said Strange, sopping up the juice left on the plate with a triangle of white toast.

“Uh,” grunted Georgelakos. His great eagle nose twitched. His glance moved through the window to the street, then back to Strange. “What about it? They’re waiting for you, right?”

“I told them to wait,” said Strange. He closed his eyes as he swallowed the last of his breakfast. “Billy, you can’t get a better egg and half-smoke combination in all of D.C. than you can right here.”

“The omelette was my father’s recipe, you know that. But your father taught us all how to grill a half- smoke.”