Soul Circus

Chapter 4

“THERE it is right there,” said Quinn, pointing to the in-dash cassette deck in Strange’s Chevy.

“He said ‘hug her.’ ” Strange sang the words: “ ‘Makes you want to love her, you just got to hug her, yeah.’ ”

“ ‘You just got to fuck her,’ ” said Quinn. “That’s what the man’s sayin’. Rewind it and listen to it again.”

They were on eastbound H Street in Northeast, where the sidewalks were live with pedestrian traffic, folks hanging out, and deliverymen moving goods from their curbed trucks to the shops. They passed a Murray’s Steaks, several nail salons and hair galleries, and a place called Father and Son Beer and Wine. Strange turned right on 8th and drove toward Southeast. He rewound the tape and the two of them listened again to the line in question.

“There it is, man,” said Strange. “He said ‘hug her.’ ”

“He said ‘fuck her,’ Dad.”

“See, you’re focusing on the wrong thing, Terry. What you ought to be doing, on a beautiful day like this, is groovin’ to the song. This here is the Spinners’ debut on Atlantic. Some people call this the most beautiful Philly soul album ever recorded.”

“Yeah, I know. Produced by Taco Bell.”

“Thom Bell.”

“What about those guys Procter and Gamble you’re always goin’ on about?”

“Gamble and Huff. Point is, this is pretty nice, isn’t it? Shoot, Terry, you had to have -”

“Been there; I know.”

“That’s right. You take all those slow-jam groups from that period, the Chi-Lites, the Sylistics, Harold Melvin, the ballad stuff that EWF was doin’, and what you got is the most beautiful period of pop music in history. It’s like America got their own… they finally got their own opera, man.”

Quinn turned up the volume on the deck. He chuckled, listening to the words. “Derek, is that what you mean by opera, right there?”

“What?”

“ ‘Makes a lame man walk… makes blind men talk about seein’ again.’ ”

“Look, the song’s called ‘One of a Kind (Love Affair).’ Ain’t you never had the kind of love that could rock your world like that?”

“When I was bustin’ a nut, maybe.”

“That’s what I can’t understand about you young folks, Generation XYZ, or whatever you’re calling yourselves this week. Y’all ain’t got no romance in you, man.”

“I had plenty in me last night.”

“Oh, yeah?” Strange looked across the bench. “How’s Sue doin’, anyway?”

“She’s fine.”

“Yeah, and she’s fine, too.”

On M Street, Strange cut east. They took the 11th Street Bridge over the river and into Anacostia, bringing them straight onto Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue.

The welcoming strip in this historic part of town was clean and carefully tended. Merchants swept the sidewalks outside their businesses, and the cars along the curb were late model and waxed. Commercial thinned out to residential as the Chevy began to climb the hill in the direction of St. E’s. Strange and Quinn drove by the Big Chair without remark. Farther up, on the left, Strange mentally noted the nice lines on a pretty red El Dorado parked along the curb. He loved the beauty of big American cars.

“ ‘I Could Never Repay Your Love,’ ” said Strange, upping the volume on the deck.

“Thank you, Derek,” said Quinn.

Strange ignored him, settling low on the bench. He smiled as the vocals kicked in. “Just listen to this, man. Philippe Wynne really testifies on this one here.”

STRANGE found Devra Stokes on their third stop. He had first gone to the Paramount Beauty Salon on Good Hope Road, where no one claimed to remember the girl. Strange checked his files, located in the trunk of his car: Janine had located Devra’s mother, Mattie Stokes, using the People Finder program on her computer. Strange found her, a tired-looking woman in her late thirties, at her place in the Ashford Manor apartments, down by the Walter E. Washington Estates off Southern Avenue. She informed Strange that her daughter was working in another beauty parlor on Good Hope Road, a block east of the Paramount.

Quinn stayed in the car while Strange entered the salon. He went directly to an oldish woman, small as a child, whom he figured to be the owner or the manager. He told the hard-faced woman that he was looking for Devra Stokes and was pointed to a young lady braiding another woman’s hair. A little boy, no older than four, sat at the foot of the chair, playing with action figures and making flying noises as he moved the figures through the air. When the older woman told Devra that a man was here to see her, she glanced at him with nothing telling in her eyes and returned to her task at hand. Strange had a seat by the shop-front window and flipped through a copy of Essence magazine. The miniature woman he had spoken to was looking him over as if he had just come calling on her granddaughter with flowers, chocolates, and a packet of Trojan Magnums. He tried to ignore her and studied the photos of the models in the magazine.

Ten minutes later Devra Stokes walked over to Strange and sat down beside him. Time and her environment had not yet bested her. She had almond-shaped, dark brown eyes and a wide, sensuous mouth.

“You lookin’ to talk to me?”

“Derek Strange.” He flashed her his license. “Investigator, D.C.”

“This about Phillip and them?”

“Yes.”

“Knew y’all would be along.”

“Will you speak with me?”

“I can’t today. I got appointments.”

“But you will?” Devra looked away. Strange gently touched her arm to bring her back. “You filed a brutality complaint against Wood.”

“That was a while back.”

“When the time came to take the stand, you changed your mind.”

Devra shrugged and looked in the direction of the little boy, still playing beside the chair. Strange was certain that Phillip Wood had paid her to stay away from court. It was possible, also, that Wood had fathered her child. Wood would be put away forever, and with him any money he could provide to Stokes and her son. Strange was counting on her awareness that she’d been permanently dogged out. He hoped it burned her deep.

“I just need some background information,” said Strange. “Chances are you won’t have to testify.”

“Like I say, I can’t talk now.”

“Can I get up with you here?”

“Where else I’m gonna be?” said Devra, looking down at her shoes.

“What time you get off today?”

“About five, unless my clients run over.”

“Your little boy likes ice cream, right?”

“He likes it.”

“How about I see you around five? We’ll find him some, and we’ll talk.”

Devra’s eyes caught light and her mouth turned up at the sides. She was downright pretty when she smiled. “I like ice cream, too.”