What It Was

“Please.”

“You a churchgoin man?”

“I try to be.”

“All that bullshit the preacher been tellin you? About that better world you gonna find on the other side?”

“Red.”

“You about to see if it’s true.”

Jones drew a.22 Colt from beneath the tails of his rayon, put the barrel behind Odum’s ear, and squeezed the trigger. Odum said, “Huh,” and as he lurched forward, blood flowed from his mouth and splashed onto the coffee table, and Jones put another round into the back of his head. Odum voided his bowels, and the smell of his evacuation and the one-cent smell of blood were fast in the room.

Jones reholstered the.22 in the dip of his bells. He found the concert tickets in Odum’s leather and slipped them into one of his patch pockets. Then he recalled Bobby Odum directing him, almost desperately, to a particular place in the jacket, and his suspicious nature told him to search the jacket further.

He put his hand into the left side pocket of the leather and retrieved a woman’s ring the color of gold. Its mount carried a large center stone, clear and bright, surrounded by eight smaller stones orbiting around it. To the untrained eye it could have been a cluster of diamonds, but Jones was certain that he was looking at rhinestones or plain old glass. Long as Jones had known him, Odum had been ass broke.

It was a fake piece, for sure. But it was pretty, and Coco would like the way it looked on her hand. Jones slipped the ring into his patch pocket, too.

He took the glass he had been drinking from and carried it with him, wiping the doorknob off with his sleeve as he exited, listenievated, ling to the guitarist going off from the stereo. The little man had been right. That cat Hazel could play.

Out on 13th, Jones crossed the street. A man named Milton Wallace sat on the concrete edging of a row house lawn, smoking down a cigarette he had resurrected from a nearby gutter. Wallace watched Jones pass.

Jones got into the Fury’s passenger bucket. He handed the tickets to Coco and said, “These for you, baby.”

Coco’s eyes came alive as she studied one of the tickets. “Donny and Roberta at the Carter Barron? Thank you, Red.”

“Ain’t no thing.”

“Bobby give these to you?”

“He can’t use ’em no more.” Jones placed the scotch glass on the mat between his feet. “I got somethin else for you, too.”

“Show me, baby.”

“When we get to your crib. We need to leave outta here now.” Jones pointed to the keys hanging in the ignition. “Cook it, Coco.”

She turned the key, engaged the transmission, and pulled away from the curb.

Milton Wallace eyed the Fury as it traveled south on 13th. Wallace recorded the image of the car, and the license plate, in his head.

TWO

She was stepping out of a Warwick-blue Firebird convertible, sitting on redline tires, when Strange first saw her. She had parked the Pontiac on 9th, near the Upshur Street cross. She was young, had prominent cheekbones and clean beige skin, wore her hair in a big natural, and was unrestrained in a print halter dress. The girl was fine. Purse in hand, her hips moving with a feline sway.

Looked to Strange that she was headed toward his spot. He could see her clearly through the wide plate glass window fronting his business. One of the reasons he liked this place: the open view.

He got up out of the swivel chair behind his metal desk. A hard desk-style chair, like the kind he’d had in high school, sat before it. He looked around with an eye to straightening up, but there wasn’t much to put in place. He had one of those new machines, recorded the phone calls when they came in, but he had not yet figured out how to use it. He’d been here for just four months or so, and he had only acquired the bare bones that a person needed to replicate the look of an office. Everything seemed temporary. Even the sign out front was a bullshit sign, done by a dude around the corner who called himself an artist but claimed he was a lot of things when he was high.

A radial GE clock radio sat on his desk, plugged into a floor socket. Its AM dial was set on WOL. The sound was all treble, no bass. Amid the static, “Family Affair” was playing low, Sly and his drugged-out drawl.

A little bell mounted overrseb the door chimed as the woman entered the shop. Strange, tall and broad shouldered, wearing low-rise bells, a wide black belt, brass-eye stacks, a rayon shirt stretched out across his chest, and a thick Roundtree mustache, stepped up to greet her.

“Are you Mr. Strange?”

“I am. But call me Derek, or Strange. Either way’s fine with me. No need to call me mister.”

“My name is Maybelline Walker.”

“Pleasure.”

“Can I take some of your time? I’ll be brief.”

Strange shook her hand and took in her smell, the faint sweetness of strawberries. “Let’s sit.”

They crossed the cool linoleum floor. Strange allowed her to go ahead so he could check out her behind, as a man will tend to do. He made a maitre d’s hand motion, pointing her to the client chair. She fitted herself into it, glanced at its attached desktop with puzzlement, and rested her forearm atop its face as she crossed one bare leg over the other. Strange noticed the ripple of muscle in her thigh as he took a seat behind his desk.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I’ve been seeing your sign out front for months now.”

“I’m fixin to get a new one.”

“Strange Investigations. Do you have many?”

“A few.”

Background checks, mainly, thought Strange. Case-builds for divorce lawyers. Infidelity tails. Nothing of any weight.

“Are you busy with one now?”

“I’m in a slow period.”

“Hmm.”

Strange looked her over. Straight backed and poised. Had some nice titties on her, too. High and tight, big old erasers about to bust through the fabric of her dress. A redbone with light-brown eyes. One of those brown-paper- bag gals, the kind he’d rarely gone after, as dark-skinned women were more to his liking. Not that he wouldn’t straighten out Miss Maybelline Walker if she’d give him a go-sign. God, he would hit the hell out of it if he had the chance.

“Is there something?”

“What?” said Strange.

“You’re looking at me… well.” Maybelline blushed, a little.

“I’m just waitin on you to tell me what this is about, Miss Walker.”

“Make it Maybelline.”

“Go ahead.”

Maybelline took a deep, theatrical breath. “I lost a piece of jewelry. A ring. I’d like you to find it and bring it back w?ing it to me. I’ll pay you for your time, of course, and a bonus if you succeed.”

“How do you mean lost, exactly?”

“I loaned the ring to an acquaintance of mine. He said that he had an associate who could appraise it. You know, to see if it had any real value.”

Strange knew the meaning of the word appraise, but he did not make an issue of her condescension. If she was one of these uppity, educated girls, if she thought she was better than him because