know he’s not an attorney-and always leaves a business card on the bar with his tab: “Rick Bender, Esquire.” Printed below his name is the name of his “firm”: “Bender, Over, and Doer.”
I passed through the marble-floored lobby and made an elevator where a couple of secretaries stood huddled in the back. I was of the tieless variety, and after a quick appraisal, the two of them went right on complaining about their respective attorneys. A few floors up, a paralegal joined us, a guy in his twenties who was struggling mightily in his attire and haircut to look fifteen years older. Then on the next floor, we picked up a real attorney, wearing a real charcoal suit with chalk stripes and a really powerful tie. I said hello to him and he looked both confused and scared to death. Finally, we made it to the top floor of the building, where I put my back to the door to let the ladies out first, which seemed to perplex everyone further. My grandfather taught me to do that, and it isn’t done much in D.C. anymore. I’m almost never thanked for it, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop.
I announced myself to the receptionist, had a seat in a very comfortable chair, and leafed through a Regardie’s magazine set on a round glass table. I wasn’t far into it when Mrs. Lewis walked into the lobby on two nice cocoa-colored legs and stood over my chair. I got up and shook her hand.
She wore a tan business suit and a brown blouse with an apricot scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her face was long and faintly elastic, with large brown eyes and a large mouth lipsticked apricot like the scarf. She was younger than the voice on the phone, and I bet she had a good smile, but she wasn’t using those muscles just yet. I looked at the fingernails on the spidery fingers that rested in my hand; the polish on the nails was apricot, too. Neat.
“Nick Stefanos. Thanks for seeing me.”
“Shareen Lewis. We can use one of the conference rooms. Follow me.”
I did it, walked behind her, passing open-doored offices where men stood reading briefs or sat talking on telephones. They wore British-cut suits with suspenders beneath the jackets and orderly geometric-patterned ties. I thought, Why the suspenders? Did these guys collectively buy their pants in the wrong size?
Shareen Lewis directed me into a conference room whose center held a long, shiny table with gray high- backed swivel chairs grouped around it. The shades had been drawn, and when she closed the door the room became cool and quiet as a tomb. We sat next to each other by the windows. She turned her chair in my direction, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and faced me.
“Are we being recorded?” I said, kidding only by half, trying to break things down.
“Should we be? You look a little uncomfortable.”
“Well, I’m playing an away game here. This isn’t my usual arena.”
“That much I can see.” Her enunciation was careful, slightly forced.
“So I’ll be brief. I’ve got to get to work nd; get to myself.”
“What do you do, Mr. Stefanos? Besides… this.”
“I work in a bar, a place called the Spot. Over on 8th in Southeast.”
“I don’t know it.”
“You wouldn’t,” I said, intending it as a compliment. But she didn’t know what I meant by the remark, and the muscles of her jaw ratcheted up a notch.
“What can I do for you?” she said.
“Like I told you on the phone, I’d like to have the opportunity to speak with your son, Roland. Everything I’ve been able to uncover tells me that he was the closest friend that Calvin Jeter had. I’m assisting the police on the Jeter murder.”
“I don’t believe that I can help you.”
“Maybe Roland might like to help.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could you tell me where to contact him?”
“No.”
“Is that because you don’t know where he is?”
“Roland is seventeen years old. Almost a man. He comes and goes as he pleases.”
“So he’s not missing.”
“No.”
“But he didn’t attend Calvin’s funeral, did he?”
“How do you know that?”
“The police haven’t talked with Roland since the murder. Don’t you think it’s odd that Roland didn’t attend Calvin’s funeral, seeing that the two of them were best friends?”
She spoke quietly, but for the first time her voice registered emotion. “I would hardly say, Mr. Stefanos, that Roland and Calvin were best friends. Roland might have felt sorry for that boy, but nothing in the way of real friendship. After all, the Jeter boy lived in a welfare setup, down in those… apartments.”
So she was about that. I didn’t like it, and stupidly, I’ve never been one to hide it. I leaned forward. “I’ve been to your house, remember? And those apartments are just a few blocks away from you. The people who live in them are your neighbors. And I’ve got to tell you, Calvin’s mother-that welfare mother you’re talking about-treated me with more dignity and grace than you’re showing me here.” I relaxed in my chair, then tried to throw some water on the fire. “I’m only trying to help.”
But it didn’t move her. If anything, she sat up straighter, eyeing me coldly. She tapped her fingernail on the lacquered table-the only sound in the room.
“All right,” she said. “Let me tell you why I agreed to see you today. It’s not to talk about my son, I can assure you of that. You just told me that y='3ld me tou were ‘assisting’ the police on the Jeter case. It’s the second time you’ve told me that. And not only is what you’re telling me a straight-up lie; it happens to be a criminal offense. I work in a law firm, Mr. Stefanos. I’m not an attorney, but I’m not just a message-taker, either, and I’ve had this checked out. I could turn your ass in to day, my friend, bust you right out of your license. I don’t know what your business is with this, but I’m telling you, I don’t want to know. I don’t ever want to see you or hear from you or have you around my house or near my children again. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“This conversation is over.” She stood from her chair and left the room.
I waited a couple of minutes to let the heat dissipate. I found my way out.
I first noticed the white sedan as I drove east on Constitution toward the Spot. The driver had tried to catch up by running a red, and the horns from the cars starting through the cross street caught my attention. It wasn’t until I got stuck in a bus lane and saw the white sedan deliberately pull into that same stalled lane that I knew I was being tailed. I made a couple of false turn signals after that, saw the tail make the amateur’s mistake and do the same. I hit the gas at the next intersection and hooked a wild right into the 9th Street tunnel. I lost him in the Southwest traffic and went on my way.
The Spot was empty of customers when I arrived. Mai untied her change apron as I entered and tossed it behind the cooler. She wore her angry face, splotched pink, and she left without a word. An argument with Jeremy, most likely-or had she said Jerome? Anna Wang had hung out past her shift and now stood in the kitchen, talking with Darnell, showing him some crystals she had bought in Georgetown. The week my son was born, when I flew out to San Francisco to visit Jackie and her lover, Sherron, Anna had given me four crystals wrapped and tied in a square of yellow cloth, crystals specifically selected to protect me on my journey. The crystals hung now in their cloth sack from the rearview of my Dodge, along with a string of worry beads given to me by my uncle Costa, the two elements forming some hoodoo version, I suppose, of a St. Christopher’s medal.
I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, poured myself a mug of coffee, put some music on the deck, and began to slice fruit for the tray. After that, I washed the dirty glasses from lunch, soaked the ashtrays, and wiped down the bar. Mai should have prepped all that, but I didn’t mind. The dead time between lunch and happy hour, standing idly in front of the sexy, backlit pyramid of liquor with nothing much to do, was just plain dangerous for a guy like me.
Mel came through the door as I finished the prep. He found his stool, ordered a gin martini, and requested “a little Black Moses.” I managed to find our sole Isaac Hayes tape buried in a pile of seventies disco and funk and slipped it into the stereo. Mel closed his eyes soulfully, began to sing off-key: “You’re my joy; you’re everything to me-ee-eee.” Happy entered at about that time, sat at the other end of the bar, complained about the speed of my service as I placed his manhattan down in front of him, stopped complaining as he hurriedly tipped the up glass to
