“Derek, how’s it going?”
“It’s good. You’re lookin’ healthy, Elaine.”
“I’m doing my best.”
She was doing better than that. Elaine Clay was around his age, tall, lean, with strong legs and a finely boned face. She had most definitely kept herself up. Elaine had always commanded respect from all sides of the street, a trial lawyer with a rep for intelligence and a commitment to her clients.
“Marcus okay?”
“Consulting still, for small businesses opening in the city. Complaining about his middle spreading out and the new Redskins stadium. Wondering why he still watches the Wizards. But he’s fine.”
“Y’all have a son, right?”
“Marcus Jr. He’s college bound.”
“Congratulations. I got a stepson starting next fall my own self.”
“Heard you finally pulled the trigger and settled down.”
“Yeah, you know. It was time. Glad I did, too.”
She looked him over. “You all right?”
“Just a little perturbed, is all. I been working the Granville Oliver thing for Ives and Colby, and I was just up at his trial. Some bullshit went down in there that, I don’t know, got to me.”
“You got to roll with it,” said Elaine.
“I’m trying to.”
“So that means you been prowlin’ around Southeast?”
“That’s where the history is,” said Strange.
“You need any kind of insight to what’s going on down there, give my office a call. I’ve got an investigator I use, he’s been on the Corey Graves Mob thing for me down there for a long time.”
“Corey Graves? I was down in Leavenworth a couple of weeks ago, interviewing an enforcer for Graves, used to be with Granville. Boy named Kevin Willis.”
“I know Willis. You get anything out of him?”
“He talked plenty. But I got nothin’ I could use.”
“Call me if you want to speak to my guy.”
“He got a name?”
“Nick Stefanos.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He knows the players, and he does good work.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Feel better, hear?”
“Give love to your family, Elaine.”
“You, too.”
Strange watched her backside move in her skirt without guilt as she walked away. He had to. Didn’t matter if she was a friend or that he was married and in love. He was just a man.
Outside the courthouse, Strange phoned Quinn at the bookstore as he walked to his Chevy. When he was done making arrangements, he placed the cell back in its holster, hooked onto his side.
Strange’s temper had cooled somewhat talking to Elaine Clay. But it hadn’t disappeared. By showing that video, the prosecution was presenting Granville Oliver as a scowling young black man with riches, cars, and women, everything the squares on that jury feared. The Feds wanted the death penalty, and clearly they were going to get it in any way they could. Their strategy, essentially, was to sell Granville Oliver to the jury as a nigger. No matter what Oliver had done, and he had done plenty, Strange knew in his heart that this was wrong.
IN Anacostia, Ulysses Foreman’s El Dorado idled on MLK Jr. Avenue, a half block up from the Big Chair. Foreman wheeled the thermostat down on the climate control and let the air conditioner ride. It was a hot morning for spring.
Mario Durham sat in the passenger seat beside him, fidgeting, using his hands to punctuate his speech when he talked. Foreman noticed that Durham still wore that same tired-ass outfit he’d had on the day before. And those shoes, too, one of them had the
Had to be Mario Durham’s own blood, ’cause he couldn’t have drawn no blood from anyone else. Somebody must have given the little motherfucker a beat-down, and he went and bled all over his own shoes. Foreman didn’t ask about it, though. Far as he cared, Durham could just go ahead and bleed hisself to death.
“Wanted to turn this in,” said Durham, patting the pocket of his Tommys, where it looked like he held the gun.
“What you said on the phone.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why would I mind?” Foreman chin-nodded at a brand-new Lexus rolling up the hill of the avenue in their direction. “You see that pretty Lex right there?”
“Sure.”
“I been seein’ that Lex all over Southeast these last few weeks. And every time I do see it – same car, same plates – a different motherfucker is under the wheel, drivin’ it.”
“So?”
“It’s a hack. Someone done bought that car just to rent it out. For drugs, money, a gun, whatever. This rental business is the business of the future in D.C. Shit, white people been doin’ it to us with furniture and televisions and shit forever. We’re just now gettin’ behind it our own selves.”
“What’s your point?”
“Why would I mind if you give me back my merchandise early? I’ll just go ahead and turn it over to someone else, ’cause I got the market locked up. The question is, though, why would you give it up so early? You had five days on it, man.”
“I was done with it. Thought I’d get some kind of credit on the time I
“Yeah, well, you were wrong about that. You want to turn that gun in early, that’s your business, but we don’t do no store credits up in here. Anyway, I done smoked up all that herb you gave me for it.”
“Damn, boy.”
Foreman’s eyes went to Durham’s pocket. “Let me have a look at the gun.”
Durham passed it low, under the sight line of the windows, to Foreman. Foreman looked in the rearview and glanced though the windshield, then turned his attention to the Taurus. He broke the cylinder and saw that it had been emptied. He smelled the muzzle and knew that the gun had been fired.
“You shot some off, huh?”
“A few.”
“To make that impression you were talkin’ about?”
“Nah, I didn’t need it for that, turns out. I just shot off the gun in the air a few times, late last night, like it was New Year’s or the Fourth of July. I was high and I wanted my money’s worth, is all it was.”
“Okay, then.” Foreman slipped the Taurus under the seat. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, Twigs.”
Foreman watched with amusement as Durham’s eyes flared and his bird chest filled with air.
“I don’t like that name,” said Durham, his voice rising some. “I don’t want you callin’ me that anymore.”
“You don’t want me to, I won’t.” Foreman looked him over. “You need a ride
