“What’d he do?”
“He got himself murdered.”
Ritchie breathed out slowly. “I don’t work every shift, obviously, so I can’t say he’s never come in here. But I know he’s not a regular. And these two look like minors on top of that, and we make a pretty good effort not to serve minors. They are minors, right?”
“Yeah. What else?”
“To tell you the truth, neither of these kids look like my type of clientele.”
“You mean they don’t look gay.”
“Look schmook, Stefanos. I don’t have much of an idea what a gay person ‘looks’ like anymore. Do you?”
“I guess not. But what did you mean? They’re not your clientele-what, because they’re black?”
“No,” he said tiredly, “not because they’re black. Turn your head and take a look around this place.”
I did. I saw some men getting on into their thirties and forties, some wearing ties, most of them with expensive haircuts and fine watches. The racial mix seemed to be about 80 percent white to 20 black; on the social and economic side, though, the group was homogenous. I turned back to Ritchie.
“So you run a nice place.”
“Exactly. These men that come in here, they’re not just well-adjusted; they’re well-connected. That guy’s suit over there-no offense, Stefanos-it’s probably worth more than your whole wardrobe. I know it’s worth more than mine.”
“What about these kids?”
“Straight or gay,” Ritchie said, “it’s irrelevant. These two are street. This isn’t their kind of place.”
“So how do you think this kid came to get a hold of your matchbook?”
Ritchie shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they were working the corner outside, working with all those other hustlers. The ones I’m talking about, they come in here, snag matches, bum smokes, sometimes try to hit on my customers. I’m telling you, my clientele’s not interested. I know a couple of these hustlers, and some of them are all right. Most of them are country kids. You look at ’em, weight lifters, gym rats, with the sideburns and the pompadours, they all look like young Elvises. But usually, if they’re not drinking-and most of the time they’re not-I ask them to leave. There’ve been a couple incidents, and I just don’t want those guys in here.”
“What kind of incidents?”
“Where some people got hurt. See, the way it typically goes down, the way I understand it, these hustlers make the arrangement with the customer, usually some closeted businessman who works up around the Circle, and then they go down to the woods around P Street Beach. The money changes hands, and after that they do whatever it is they do-giving, receiving, whatever. But what happened last month, a couple of kids were leading those businessmen down there to the woods, then taking them for everything they had.”
I dragged on my cigarette. “You know who these guys were?”
“No. ’Course, it never got reported to the cops. But it got around down here fast. What I heard, the other guys out on the street, they took care of the problem themselves. The whole thing was bad for their business.”
“Ooordering,” came the voice from down the bar.
Ritchie rolled his eyes. “Be back in a minute,” he said.
I stood up and finished my beer, slid the photographs back in the folder. I took out my wallet and left money on the bar for the beer, and an extra twenty for Ritchie, with my business card on top of the twenty. Ritchie came back, wiping his hands with a damp rag.
“Thanks for your help,” I said.
“Wish I could have done more.”
“You did plenty. Any chance you could hook me up with one of those hustlers you were talking about? There’s money in it for them-I’d pay for their time.”
“I could give it a try, yeah. I don’t see why not, if you’re talking about money. I don’t know what an hour of their time is worth, though. I’m out of that scene, way out. Not that I didn’t have my day in the sun. But I’ve had the same boyfriend for the last five years. When I’m not in here. I’m sitting at home on the couch, watching sports on the tube, like the old fart that I am.”
“Stella said you used to be pretty good with a bat.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I blew out my fucking knees. Now about the only thing I can do is water sports.”
“Water sports, huh.”
“Don’t be a wise guy, Stefanos. I’m talking about swimming laps, down at the Y.”
“Sorry.” I ran my hand down the lapel of my sport jacket. “So you don’t think too much of my threads, huh?”
A light came on in Ritchie’s eyes. “Hey, look, don’t feel bad. I used to have a jacket just like that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ritchie said. “Then my father got a job.”
“Lucky me. I get to talk to an ex-jock bartender who doesn’t drink. And I get a comedian in the bargain.”
“I’m crackin’ myself up here.”
“Take it easy, Ritchie.”
“Yeah, you, too. I’ll let you know if I can set that thing up.”
“Gimme a call,” I said. “The number’s on the card.”
TEN
I heard from Paul Ritchie, and some others, early on Saturday morning at my apartment. Boyle called first, and he asked about my progress on the case. I told him that up to that point, my few leads had led only to blind alleys. I kept on that tack, and when I was done, I had managed to dig a big hole and fill it to the top with lies. I asked Boyle if the cops had anything new. He told me that an informant in a Southeast project had claimed that Jeter and Lewis were mules for a supplier down that way. I asked them if his people had any details on it and he said, “Nothing yet.” We agreed to keep up with each other if something shook out on either end. I didn’t like lying to him, and I wasn’t exactly sure why I was doing it, but I had the vague feeling that I could see the beginning of some kind of light off in the distance. And it just wasn’t in me to give anything away.
Paul Ritchie called next. I thanked him and promised to buy him a beer the next time he was in my part of town. He reminded me that he didn’t drink, and I suggested that instead I’d buy myself one and dedicate it to him. Ritchie laughed, but he couldn’t help mentioning how good it felt each morning to wake up with a clean head and be able to remember all the details from the night before. I told him I appreciated the testimonial, thanked him once again, and said good-bye.
Later in the morning, the phone rang for the third time that day. I thought it might be Lyla, but instead I heard the excited voice of Jack LaDuke.
“Nick!” he said.
“LaDuke!”
“What do we got?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something, maybe not.”
“I called you yesterday, Nick. Why you didn’t call me back?”
“I was out during the day. And then I had a night shift, got home late.” ^th each o
“Out doing what? Working on the case?”
“Well, yeah. LaDuke, you got to understand, I’ve got to ease into this, man. I’m used to working alone.” He didn’t respond. I crushed the cigarette I had been working on in the ashtray. “Listen, LaDuke, I’ve got an interview with this guy, later today. You want to come along?”
“Damn right I do.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
