Back in the depths of the market, looking through the space where the front window had been, Frank Vaughn stroked the wheel of his Zippo, got flame, and lit a cigarette. He snapped the lid shut.
Little black man with light, almost yellow-colored skin. Just as Strange had said, he was wearing a black hat with a gold band. Now all Vaughn had to do was look up at the window of Ronnie Moses’s apartment. Watch for Strange’s sign and wait.
Vaughn hit his L amp;M. Its ember flared, faintly illuminating the ruined market. The only light in there now was the dying light of dusk. There was little inventory remaining on the shelves. Paperback novels, boxes of cake mix and flour strewn about the tiles. Water dripped loudly from a busted pipe. A heap of half-burned newspapers sat piled in the middle of the shop. Someone had set the papers on fire, but the fire had not spread. The smell of carbon was strong in the shell of the store.
Vaughn stepped forward, close to the doorway. From here he could see Ronnie Moses’s apartment on the second floor.
“Make him talk and let him go,” Vaughn had told Strange. “Flash a light in the window if he confesses. I’ll do the rest.”
“Do what?” Strange had said.
Vaughn hadn’t needed to spell it out for the rookie. He would let the young man make the decision himself.
Vaughn dragged deeply on his cigarette.
SOON AS HE had got to the landing, Jones could tell someone had busted through his cousin’s apartment door. It opened, too, with just a little push. Someone had broke into his cousin’s crib, that was plain, ’cause he remembered clearly that he’d locked the door. But Jones reasoned that the break-in was just part of the general mayhem of the day. Kids being kids.
He drew his gun from his slacks just the same. He stepped inside.
Strange came from behind the open door and put his service revolver to the back of Jones’s head.
“Don’t say nothin’,” said Strange. “Let go of that gun and drop it to the floor.”
“Gun could
“Do it,” said Strange.
Jones dropped the old revolver. It hit the hardwood with a hollow thud.
“Now move over there to the center of the room,” said Strange, “and turn around.”
Jones obeyed the command. Strange kept the gun trained on Jones and closed the door with his foot.
Jones smiled a little as he turned around and took in Strange.
“Lawman,” said Jones. “Heard you were lookin’ for me.”
Strange said nothing.
“This about your brother, right?”
Strange did not reply.
“I heard he got hisself dead. My cousin Kenneth told me, man. Damn shame.”
“Yes,” Strange heard himself say, looking into the odd golden eyes of Alvin Jones.
“I don’t know nothin’ about it,” said Jones. “I mean, if that’s why you been huntin’ me down, I’m just sayin’… I was with a woman the night he was killed.” Jones chuckled. “The
“I don’t want any phone numbers,” said Strange.
“
Strange stared at Jones.
“If you think I cut him,” said Jones, “you are wrong. It wasn’t me.”
Strange lowered his gun.
“There you go,” said Jones, smiling. “Now you seein’ things clear. No hard feelings, blood. I can understand you bein’ upset.”
“Get out of here,” said Strange, very softly.
Jones went to the side of the couch, bent down, zipped his duffel bag shut, and snatched it off the floor.
“I’m gone,” said Jones.
He walked toward the front door, eyeing the gun on the floor. Strange shook his head. Jones laughed a little, like a kid, and kept on going, straight out of the apartment. Strange listened to his footsteps on the stairs.
He turned off the main overhead light in the living room. He walked to the window that fronted the street. A naked-bulb lamp sat on a small table near the window. Strange put his finger to the switch on the lamp. He hesitated for a moment; Jones had not confessed, exactly. But he had known that Dennis had been “cut.” Only a few friends, family members, and police had knowledge of that. And the killer. The killer knew.
Strange switched on the lamp, then quickly switched it off.
From the darkness of the apartment, he watched Jones cross the street. He watched Vaughn emerge from the corner market, a small automatic in his hand. He watched him say a few words to Jones in a threatening way, then point him toward the market with the muzzle of the gun. Vaughn stepped aside to let Jones pass inside the market before he followed him in.
Strange heard a popping sound from below, then two more pops right behind it. Light flashed from the market’s depths and briefly illuminated the street.
Strange left the apartment in darkness and walked down the stairs. He exited the row house and headed across the street to an alley entrance beside the market. Vaughn came outside, looked around, and smoothed out his suit jacket. He joined Strange, standing in a patch of black at the edge of the alley. He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and handed it to Strange.
“Take it,” said Vaughn. “I emptied his pockets and his wallet.”
“I don’t want it,” said Strange.
“Take it. Throw it away or give it away, it makes no difference to me. It’s gotta look like a robbery, so there it is.”
Strange put the money in his pocket.
“It gets easier,” said Vaughn, looking into Strange’s hollow eyes. “Let’s go.”
They walked toward 7th Street. The sirens and burglar alarms grew louder, as did the upraised voices of the soldiers, citizens, and police. As they neared the commotion, they came upon a sewer that was taking in a river of water from the curb. Vaughn drew the cheap.32 from his belt line, wiped it off with his cloth handkerchief, and dropped the gun into the sewer along with the wallet he’d taken off Alvin Jones. Vaughn barely broke his stride.
At the intersection of 7th and P, amid the confusion, the strobing lights, the flames, and the noise, he shook Strange’s hand and broke away.
Vaughn disappeared into the smoke. Strange walked north.
THIRTY-FOUR
THE CURFEW, AND the presence of more than six thousand armed soldiers, National Guardsmen, and police, brought the city under control. Prisoners in overflowing precinct jails were transferred to
