Baltimore Blues

plaster dust caked every surface. There was no kitchen as far as Tess could see, and a glimpse of the doorless bathroom convinced her to control her bladder by whatever means necessary.

Once in his bedroom, Joey sat on a bare mattress, too big for the fitted sheet someone had tried to stretch across it. It appeared to be the only piece of furniture in the room, but Tess couldn't be sure. A chair, a sofa, even a breakfront could have been hidden beneath the mounds of dirty clothes scattered across every square foot of floor space. She was ankle deep in underwear.

'Siddown,' said Joey the affable host, patting a spot of mattress next to him. He was a pale, colorless man. Only a hint of yellow touched his hair, lashes, and skin; his eyes were flat gray. Tess preferred to stand, but mindful of Tyner's admonition to ingratiate herself, she perched on the corner of the bed, tensing her leg muscles so she didn't make contact with the bare mattress. The gray skirt of her new suit, a consignment find that didn't quite fit, slid halfway up her thighs.

'As I told you on the phone last night, I need to ask a few questions about Michael Abramowitz's murder,' she began. 'This is just an interview, sort of a predeposition if you will. No big deal.'

'You know, murder is really a legal term,' Joey said. 'You should say homicide. Or slaying, maybe. That's a word the newspaper really likes-slaying.'

Great, Joey the security guard was going to instruct her in legal nuance. 'Are you studying to be a lawyer?'

'Naw, but I was an extra on ‘Homicide' last season. And I watch those real cop shows. You know, those shows where they arrest people on camera? They're very educational.'

'Yeah, they're really good.' Tess had never seen the kind of show he described, but she had an idea of how they worked. She leaned toward him, trying to yank down her skirt as she did. 'If you were on one of those shows, what would they want to know from Joey Dumbarton, perhaps the key witness in the murder-the slaying-of Michael Abramowitz?'

'OK, right, I know this,' Joey said, as if surprised by a pop quiz. He liked the idea of himself as the star witness. Tess thought he might.

'I would say'-he looked past her left shoulder, as if staring into a camera, as if he had been waiting much of his young life to look into a camera-'I would say, ‘I'll never forget that night. The O's were whompin' on the A's. I had my little radio on, listening to the game, and I could hear the fans yelling over at Camden Yards. Then, at ten o'clock-and I know it was ten 'cause I marked it on my sheet-a white male, about thirty years old, six feet tall, and maybe two hundred pounds, came in, looking anxious and disdrawed.'

'Disdrawed?'

'Dis-strawed. You know, all upset. The white male was known to me as one Darryl Paxton, the boyfriend of one Ava Hill, also known to me, as she works in my building, often stays late, and is very good-looking. I let him upstairs without calling up, as he frequently came by for Miss Hill. About ten-fifteen, he ran out. I noticed 'cause I had to mark it on the sheet. I started to yell after him, but I figured he had a fight with his girlfriend, so I just wrote it in for him.' He dropped his television face and voice. 'How's that?'

'Great,' Tess said, giving him her warmest smile. 'I just want to go over a few things.'

'Have at me.'

'You were very specific about the time. Do you wear a watch? Or is there a clock you can see from the desk?'

'I wear four watches, two on each wrist. Eastern, central, mountain, and western.'

'Pacific.'

'No, ma'am. Just the four. I don't have Tokyo time. I like things nice and even, you know, two on each wrist.'

She let that pass. 'So you checked eastern time, and it was ten exactly when Rock arrived. Did you check your watch the second he left, or did you get distracted? Maybe the game got exciting and you didn't write it down for a few minutes.'

'Uh-huh. I'm very attentive. I take my job seriously. A lot of guys, they become security guards 'cause they can't find no other kind of work. I'm proud to be one of Miltie's Minutemen.' Tess gave him a blank look. 'That's who staffs the Lambrecht Building. Miltie's Minutemen. Best security force in town. No felons on our staff.'

Tess was tempted to ask if this was Miltie's motto, but she didn't want Joey tearing off on another tangent. 'So you're sure of the time. What about after Rock-Mr. Paxton-left? Did anyone else come in?'

'There's no one on the sheet.'

'Does that mean no one else came in?'

'There's no one on the sheet,' he repeated. Tess had a feeling one of Uncle Miltie's knights had a little chink in his armor. She stared into his colorless eyes, trying to muster the authority of a video camera.

'What about someone who worked there? Or someone who didn't follow the rules, who just ran by you?'

'People who work there can come in the back way with a key, go straight to the elevators. I don't even see them. But there's no one else-'

'On the sheet. I know. Look, Joey, I'm sure you're a good Minuteman. I don't want to get you in trouble with Miltie. But if someone ran by you-didn't listen to you, sneaked by when you were listening to the game-I need to know. Maybe that's the person who killed Michael Abramowitz.'

He shook his head. 'I do my job right.'

'Could someone get by you?' she pressed. 'Maybe if you walked away from the desk to see what was going on in the street? Don't you stretch out or sneak a bathroom break without anyone there to spell you?'

'I told' ja. No one got in. Everyone signs the sheet.'

She sighed and gave him one of the business cards Tyner had gotten for her, a rush job from a printer who owed him a favor. The card simply said: Tess Monaghan and listed her number at the bookstore and her home number. Plain and stark, the cards had a certain dignity. They made Tess feel downright legitimate.

'Which of these is a home number?' Joey asked with great interest. Wonderful-the only thing Tess was going to get out of this was unwanted calls from a horny security guard.

'Both are business numbers. Call if you mean business.' She left Joey on his unmade bed, his red robe the only color in the dim room. She hoped one of those reality shows came calling one day. He was a natural.

It was about eight miles from Joey's rundown row house to the West Baltimore home of Frank Miles, the custodian who had discovered Abramowitz's body. Statistically it was a more dangerous place-a once-middle-class neighborhood, undone by white flight, further undone by black flight. But Tess felt comfortable here. She had grown up not far away, a straight shot down Edmondson Avenue. If a place had been safe in her lifetime, she had trouble thinking of it as dangerous.

By the look of things Frank Miles was the only nonrenter left on his block. His house had metal awnings and freshly painted trim. The tiny lawn was a thick green mat, bordered with pink and white impatiens, showing surprising staying power for September. A pedestal with a shiny green gazing globe sat in the exact center of the emerald lawn. It reminded Tess of the glass globe the witch consulted in The Wizard of Oz, but all she could see in it was her own distorted face.

When she rang the bell Mr. Miles yanked the door open as if wild with impatience to see her, grabbed her arm, and hustled her past the storm door and heavy wooden door, putting the chain on behind her.

'Not a good idea to linger in open doors on this block,' he said. 'You don't want to be a mushroom. Would you like a glass of lemonade?'

A little dazed, she accepted it gratefully, sure she need not fear the bathroom here. The house, like the yard, was neat and orderly, although it bore the traces of a man on his own. The screen on the old television was streaky, and a fine coating of dust settled over everything, the kind of dust most men can't see. The framed photographs on the wall had been hung meticulously but were smeary with fingerprints. Mr. Miles and a woman on their wedding day, lots of children, a girl in a graduation gown. Widower, she guessed. And probably the most eligible man in his church, judging by his casserole-laden girth.

'I like my cookies,' he said, and Tess jumped, wondering if he had caught her staring at his waistline. Then she realized he was carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of Hydroxes. Her favorite. There were mint leaves swirling in the lemonade pitcher and she knew from the taste of it-tart, perfect-that he had made it himself, probably just for her.

'I don't get much company,' he said. 'It's nice to fuss over someone.'