“You get the one who killed him?” “I did him like he did your friend.” The faint wail of sirens reached Vaughn’s ears. “We gonna have to do this some other time, big man,” said Jones. “Don’t try it,” said Vaughn. But he heard movement up on the second floor, and then the familiar but heavier sound of Jones landing in the yard at the back of the house. Vaughn walked unsteadily to the kitchen. Through the open door, he saw Red Jones, a gun in each of his hands, clear the chicken wire fence without touching it, cross the alley, and cleanly leap over a chain-link fence into another backyard. Coco Watkins, holding a red suitcase and a cosmetic case, was waiting for him there. The two of them began to run.
Vaughn went outside, straightened his gun arm, led his target, and aimed. But something was wrong with his sight; the landscape before him was blurred. He put his hand up to his right eye and covered it. He thought this would correct his vision, but it didn’t. When he drew his hand back, he saw that it was covered with blood. Vaughn lowered his gun. “Next time,” he said. Later, an elderly resident of Burrville claimed to have seen a tall young couple running through the backyards of her neighborhood. She said they were moving very quickly and taking long strides. Galloping, almost, and laughing.
Vaughn walked around the house to its front yard. Strange was seated on the government strip, his back against a black Lincoln. He was rubbing his hands together, and his eyes were unfocused. On the ground, several yards away, a young blond man lay on his back, his swollen tongue protruding from his mouth. His face was scarred and gray. Strange looked up at Vaughn. “You’ve been shot.” “I’m doin better than those guys in the house.” Vaughn pointed his chin at the body. “What happened to him?” “I didn’t mean to do it,” said Strange. “I told him to stop struggling… I
TWENTY-TWO
A week after the violence in Burrville, Vaughn walked east down U Street in the middle of June. He was on leave with pay until the matter could be resolved to the satisfaction of the brass, various city councilmen, and the press.
This is what Vaughn told investigators: he had followed a lead to a Northeast residence where he believed he could obtain information as to the whereabouts of Red Jones and his partner, Alfonzo Jefferson. He did not know that Jones or Jefferson would be in the house. Had he known, he would have gone there with backup. Upon arrival, he found himself in the midst of an armed conflict between Jones and Jefferson and two out-of-town criminals, later identified as contract men employed by the Syndicate. In the violence that ensued, Jefferson was killed and Vaughn was compelled to use lethal force against the hitters from up north. Jones and his lady friend, a notorious madam named Coco Watkins, had escaped. Luckily, a passerby, a former D.C. patrol cop n thenhat ensuedamed Derek Strange, heard the gun battle and used a police radio in Vaughn’s car to call in an Officer Needs Assistance. Strange, who had taken a bus to Northeast to visit a girl, was walking through the neighborhood at the time and happened to see the two-way mounted under the dash of Vaughn’s open-windowed Dodge.
Vaughn’s story had holes, and many felt it was bullshit, particularly the bit about the good Samaritan passerby. But Vaughn stuck to it, not wavering in the details, even while he was high on painkillers in the hospital, where he had been operated on for his wound. Vaughn was a former marine who had fought in the Pacific. He was a longtime uniformed officer and Homicide detective with an outstanding record in the MPD. Among the rank and file, he was considered to be somewhat of a folk hero. His injury and his advancing years lent him sympathy. There was little doubt that Vaughn would be absolved of any wrongdoing.
An oppressive heat had descended upon Washington and would remain, with little relief, until the arrival of the first blessedly cool nights of September. Vaughn walked through the sauna, seemingly without care. He wore a new lightweight gray Robert Hall suit and a hat. If he was hot, his discomfort didn’t show on his face.
At the Lincoln Theatre box office he bought a ticket. The lady behind the window did a quick double take when she handed him his change. Vaughn had a perforated patch the size of an athletic-supporter cup taped over his right eye.
“Enjoy the show,” she said.
“Ma’am,” said Vaughn.
He found Martina Lewis in his usual spot, in one of the middle rows of the ice-cool auditorium.
Vaughn dropped down into a seat beside Martina and removed his hat. He glanced up at the screen out of habit.
Martina and Vaughn put their heads close so they would not disturb the others in the audience.
“How’s it goin, doll?”
“Frank.” Martina’s voice was husky. Though he was in drag, he didn’t feel the need to female-front to the detective. He looked Vaughn over as the film cut to a daytime Western landscape scene and the light from the screen hit the auditorium. “Nice suit.”
“It’s new.” He had thrown his old gray suit in the trash, as his dry-cleaning man, Billy Caludis at the Arrow on Georgia, had been unable to remove the blood.
“Glad you came by. I was worried about you, honey. Is your eye…”
“It’s fine,” said Vaughn.
The shotgun blast had stripped a sliver of metal off the Frigidaire and sent it deep into his right cornea. The surgeons had removed the invasive projectile and saved his eye, but the retinal damage had been extensive. In the coming years he would be prescribed glasses, and later a special contact lens, but he would deny the severity of his condition and decline to wear them. For the remainder of his life, Vaughn’s right eye could only register shapes and light. liny
“I called you that day,” said Martina.
“I got the message later on.”
“Wanted you to know that there was some hitters in town who were lookin for Red. I was afraid y’all would cross paths.”
“That’s exactly what happened,” said Vaughn. “How’d you get the word?”
“White girl name of April had partied with the one named Lou the night before. Lou was asking after Red.”
“His name was Lou Fanella.”
“Matter of fact, she boosted a ring off him. I saw it myself.”
“What did the ring look like?” said Vaughn.
Martina described it. He added, “Costume shit.”
“Tell me about April.”
“She’s trash.”
“Know where I can find her?” said Vaughn.
Martina told him that most days April could be seen in the diner next door to the Lincoln, having coffee and smokes before she got out on the stroll. Vaughn thanked him, reached into his jacket, and produced an envelope that was thick with cash. Martina took the envelope, looked inside it, and ran his fingers through the green.
“What’s this for?”
“There’s a little less than nine hundred dollars in there. It’s damn near all I’ve got in my savings account. It’ll get you started, at least. I want you to leave town.”
“Why?”
“Clarence Bowman knows you snitched him out. He’s in lockup, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get to you.
