Farrow pulled the lighter from the dash and lit his cigarette. The menthol felt good hitting his lungs.
Christopher Jonas walked through the front door of the house on Hamlin, saw his father sitting in the living room with tears in his eyes. Christopher had only seen his father cry once, on the day his mother, Christopher’s grandmother, had passed away.
“What’s wrong?” said Christopher, dropping his day pack by the door.
“You all right, son?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Come here.”
Christopher went up the foyer steps to the living room and hugged his father. It was awkward, bending down like that, but he didn’t break away. His father held him tight and didn’t seem to want to let go. He finally did release him and Christopher stood.
“Everything okay, Dad?”
“Yes.” William Jonas wiped tears from his face. “Go on back to your mother’s bedroom, now. Your brother’s back there with her. She wants to talk to the both of you, hear?”
“Sure you don’t want me to stay with you for a while?”
“Go on, boy. Do as I say.”
Jonas watched his son, tall as a weed, disappear into the hall. He turned the chair and wheeled himself to the couch, where he found the phone and dialed the police. He considered the man’s threats as he listened to the phone ring on the other end. He cut the connection before the call was answered and tossed the phone back on the couch.
TWENTY-NINE
Thomas Wilson took Route 4 east of the Beltway, through the old town of Upper Marlboro and onto a long asphalt road that dipped down and ended at a small industrial park set back along a creek that drained into the Patuxant River. He drove his Intrepid past squat, one-story garages and storage facilities, and then past a large green Dumpster, turning into a very narrow alley set between two sets of warehouses. The alley ran for a hundred yards and opened to a deep parking area and another set of warehouses that bordered the wooded area fronting the creek. Wilson parked beside his uncle Lindo’s flat-bed, wood-railed truck. He used his key and entered an unmarked warehouse set in the middle of the strip.
Lindo was heavy in the middle and wore red suspenders over a navy blue shirt. He had a neat gray mustache and kept his gray hair closely trimmed. Lindo looked up from the paperwork he was doing at his particleboard desk as Wilson entered. The room was bright with dozens of fluorescent lights mounted in its drop ceiling.
“Been waitin’ on you,” said Lindo. “You asked for two hours today, and I agreed. But what you took was more like three.”
“I apologize, Uncle L. Somethin’ came up.”
“Well, we best get goin’ before we get behind. Got to make the park run before we do our run in the District.”
Lindo got free rent in the warehouse in exchange for once-a-week hauls for the industrial park’s tenants. Wilson didn’t know for sure why his uncle needed the warehouse – three thousand square feet of space, housing a bathroom and an old, beat-up desk – but he suspected that having it made Lindo feel like a businessman rather than just the junkman that he was.
“The tenants been complainin’?”
Lindo reached behind him and lowered the volume on his box. Lindo liked that old-time, street corner- harmony jive from when he was comin’ up in the fifties and early sixties.
“Naw, the tenants are all right. That fellow owns that carpet warehouse, down past the alleyway? He came over earlier, asked when we was gonna haul those remnants of his. But I expect he was havin’ a slow day and really only came up here for some company. He had a look at all this empty space and told me we ought to hold a card game here on Friday nights. Said we’d never get caught, as nary a soul comes into this industrial park weekend nights. Said we could do it right, too. Have a bar, music, a couple of good-lookin’ women to dress it all up. A real after-hours thing. I didn’t know if he was serious or not, so I had to tell him that I gave up gambling, liquor, and women over twenty years ago.”
“You did?” said Wilson.
“Well, I gave up gambling, anyway.”
“Excuse me, Uncle L.,” said Wilson. “I better change into my work clothes so we can get it on.”
Wilson walked back to the bathroom, where his coveralls were hung behind the door.
He chuckled under his breath, thinking of that fool rug man. Imagine, a high-stakes, after-hours card game, back in this industrial park, on a dead-ass Friday night. And then he thought, maybe it wasn’t so foolish after all.
You planned it right, it could work.
Dimitri Karras sat the bar of the Spot, eating Darnell’s special, a tomato-based cod stew with onions, garlic, oregano, and potatoes. Anna Wang sat beside him, smoking one of Mai’s cigarettes. Mai stood behind the bar, her arms crossed, a smoke dangling between her chubby fingers.
“The special didn’t go so well today,” said Anna.
“It should have,” said Karras, scooping up the juices with a heel of French bread.
“A little too esoteric for this place,” said Anna, loud enough for Happy, seated two stools to her left, to hear. But Happy just brought his cigarette slowly to his lips and gave it a loving drag.
“The man can cook,” said Karras. “He needs the right vehicle, is what it is.”
Maria Juarez came from the kitchen, went behind the bar, grabbed a can of pineapple juice from the shelf, and shook the can. A welt had risen on her cheek, and her eyes were red from crying. She managed to smile at the group before returning to the kitchen.
“Fucking bastard,” said Anna.
Karras saw James Posten give Maria a hug at the entrance to the kitchen, and then James came out and headed for the basement steps. He stopped to say a few words to Ramon, who cradled a full bus tray. Ramon set the bus tray down and followed James down to the basement.
“Where’s Nick today?” said Karras.
“He gave me his shift again,” said Mai. “Must be busy with one of those cases. I like when he’s busy. I need the work.”
“Yeah, but no time for sergeants,” said Anna.
“Andy Griffith,” said Karras.
“Huh?”
“You’re too young.”
“I have plenty of time for my Sergeant DeLaughter,” said Mai coyly. “You have to make the time, and honey, the night time is the right time.” She wiggled her eyebrows at Anna.
A drunk on the end of the bar began to sing loudly to the song coming from the house stereo.
“‘Gypsies, tramps, and thieves,’” sang the drunk, “‘we’d hear it from the people of the town, they’d call us…’”
Karras winced.
Mai laughed and said, “What, Dimitri? You don’t like my music?”
“Put it this way,” said Karras. “If I was Phil and I walked in right now, I’d have to let you go.”
“Just for playing this song?”
“If there was any justice,” said Karras, “it would be a firing offense.”
Nick Stefanos picked up the developed photographs he had taken of Erika Mitchell and her boyfriend and drove south on Blair Road. Night had fallen, and the streets were slick with a brief shower of cold rain.
Stefanos pulled into the Blair Liquors lot and went to the outdoor pay phone. He phoned Ronald Weston, Randy Weston’s brother. He described Erika Mitchell’s new boyfriend to Weston, asked him a question, and got a quick response.
