What It Was

It was an old vulgar joke about a colored girl. Vaughn was indelicate. Vaughn’s kind were about to be extinct. He was the type of man Strange’s mother would charitably call “a product of his time.” Strange knew that Vaughn was that way. He was also good police.

“What I got for you is real,” said Strange. “That’s a promise.”

“Now you’re gonna bargain.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You always were smart. It’s a damn shame you left the force.”

“I had to,” said Strange.

Vaughn tapped ash off his cigarette. “I like a guy named Robert Lee Jones for this one. Goes by Red.”

“Red Jones.”

“You heard of him?”

“Sure.”

“Got a nice long rap sheet. Relatively small stuff up till now. Agg assaults and shit like that.”

“You have a description?”

“Tall, light-skinned black. Reddish hair.”

Strange took this in. “That would explain his street name.”

“You’d think. Wears an Afro like you, but his is all fucked up. I’ve seen his latest mug shot. Looks like Stymie gone wrong.”

“What’s the motive?”

“Contract hit. Odum was one of my informants; he tipped me on a homicide I’d been working. The guy we arrested and charged probably arranged the murder-for-hire from inside the jail.”

“I know Odum washed dishes up at Cobb’s. What’s that pay, dollar sixty-two car p han hour? You say he was your CI, but even with that, how did he afford that apartment and his heroin habit?”

“He was a tester, so the jolts were free. Could be he was living off his old B-Ones. Bobby always found a way to make it. Career criminal, but no violence.” Vaughn dragged on his L amp;M and let the smoke out slow. “He was a good egg.”

“How’d you come to all this knowledge?”

“Red Jones robbed and shot a small-time heroin dealer by the name of Roland Williams. Williams lived to finger Jones and describe an unidentified accomplice: a little man with gold teeth. Odum was a tester for Williams. Odum must have put Jones onto Williams before he got done. I think it connects.”

“You think.”

“Yeah.”

“So pick up Jones.”

“We would if we could find him. His photo’s been passed out at roll call in every district. He’s on parole, but his PO says he hasn’t reported to her in months. The Absconding Unit’s been looking for him, but so far they’ve come up with bupkes. His last known address is bullshit. My informants don’t know anything, either, or they’re too afraid to talk. If he’s driving a car it’s not registered.”

“That’s where I might be able to help you.”

“Hold up a second.” Vaughn stubbed out his cigarette and signaled the owner of the diner. “Hey, Nick, gimme a Hershey bar, will you? I need somethin sweet to go with this coffee.”

“Male or female?” said Nick.

“With nuts,” said Vaughn. As Nick went down to the register, where the candy was racked in a display, Vaughn returned his attention to Strange. “Go ahead.”

“A source of mine saw a man, matches your description of Red Jones, on Thirteenth at the time of the murder. My source heard a small-caliber gunshot right before the man exited the Odum building.”

“Will your source testify?”

“Hell, no,” said Strange. “He won’t talk to the law, on or off the record. And I’m not about to give him up.”

“I’m still listening,” said Vaughn. He unwrapped the Hershey bar Nick had dropped before him, broke off a piece, and popped it into his mouth.

“Jones, if it was Jones, got into a red late-model Plymouth, white interior.”

“A Plymouth what?”

“Fury, had fold-in headlamps.”

“That would make it a seventy-one.” Vaughn nodded, thinking of Martina Lewis, seated beside him in the auditorium of the Lincoln Theatre. I heard him called Red Fury, too. I don’t know why. “Sonofabitch.”

“What?”‹ c0emnt›p height='0em' width='27'›“I think my dick’s gettin hard.”

“Wait’ll you hear the rest.”

“Tell me.”

“There was a woman driving the Fury. Tall, from what my source could make out. Had dark skin and big hair.”

“Your source didn’t happen to get the numbers on the plates?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“ ’Cause there weren’t any numbers,” said Strange with a small smile. “They were vanity plates.”

“You don’t say.”

“Plates read ‘Coco.’ C-O, C-O.”

Vaughn slid off his stool and stood. “D.C. tags, right?”

“Correct.”

Vaughn put another cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and went to the house pay phone, where he made a call. Strange got up, walked down to the end of the counter, and got the attention of the grill woman, who said her name was Ida. Strange complimented her on her cooking, thanked her for her kindness in making his eggs southern, and slipped her a couple of dollar bills. He met Vaughn at the register, where he was hurriedly settling up with Nick.

“I got this,” said Vaughn.

“Did you see me reach?” said Strange.

“Thanks, Marine,” said Nick, closing the register drawer.

Vaughn and Strange walked toward their cars, parked together on Vermont.

“Your mom doing all right?” said Vaughn.

“She’s fine,” said Strange. “Working for an eye doctor downtown.”

“I’ve been by the Three-Star. Heard your dad passed. My sympathies.”

“Thank you.”

Vaughn stopped walking, hit his cigarette, hot-boxed it with one last drag, and flicked the butt out to the street.

“If you happen to come up on that ring…” said Strange.

“Right,” said Vaughn. “Watch yourself out there.”

“I plan to.”

They shook hands.

NINE

Lou Fanella stood beside the bed of Roland Williams in D.C. General Hospital. Gino Gregorio leaned against a wall.

There had been a nurse taking Williams’s vitals when they’d arrived, and Fanella had asked her to give them some privacy. He’d smiled at her in a way that implied no kindness and said, “Don’t go telling anyone we’re in here, sweetheart. I might take that to mean we’re not friends.” She left them with her eyes downcast and closed the door behind her. Outside the hospital, dusk had come, throwing long shadows on the stadium-armory complex