THE CRIME scene at Soul House had been secured by the time Vaughn arrived. Uniformed officers kept witnesses calm and on premises while the lab technicians worked around the body of Roland Williams. Several patrons and the bartender described the killer in detail and the doorman, Antoine Evans, identified him by name.
“You certain it was Jones?” said Vaughn.
“Course I am. Red robbed a card game I was in couple a weeks back.”
“Poker?”
“Tonk. But there was real money on the table.”
“Where was that?”
“Bottle club, ’round the corner.”
“Will you take the stand, Antoine?”
Antoine Evans nodded. “Red ain’t had to do Roland like that.”
Vaughn found the man with the gray beard, still sitting in his chair on the sidewalk outside the club, and asked him what he’d observed.
“After the gunshots, tall light-skinned dude came out the House and got back into the Fury he’d come in.”
“What was the color of the car?”
“Red-over-white coupe,” said the man, pronouncing it “koo-pay.” “Way those pipes sounded, had to be the GT.”
“Can you describe the driver?”
“Shoot, I can tell you her name. Says it right on the Fury’s plates. She goes by Coco. Runs a house right here on Fourteenth.”
Vaughn had his package for the prosecutors: confirmable details and eyewitnesses who were willing to talk and even testify. Now he needed to make the arrest.
A patrolman approached Vaughn. “Message came over the radio for you, Detective. A citizen spotted Robert Lee Jones at the Carter Barron. We’ve got units headed over there…”
Vaughn was already moving toward his Monaco, double-parked on the street.
STRANGE GUESSED that Jones and Watkins had left their Fury in the neighborhood of Crestwood, adjacent to Rock Creek Park, surmising correctly that the Plymouth was too radioactive to be parked in the main lot. Their walk in the woods would put them on Colorado Avenue, which branched out to other residential streets. Somewhere on those streets was their car.
Strange got into his Monte Carlo and fired it up. Driving through the lot, he saw two squad cars down by the tennis courts parked nose to ass, the conversation arrangement for uniformed police, but he did not go there for help because he felt there was no time.
He exited the lot and drove west on Colorado. He knew it dead-ended eventually, and it was a bet that Red Jones knew it, too. He would never allow himself to be trapped, so Jones and Watkins had to have left their ride deeper south into Crestwood. He made a left on 17th Street and went down a slope, and as he approached the Blagden Avenue intersection he saw the red Plymouth, doing the limit and heading east on Blagden. Strange hit the left turn signal and fell in behind them.
He stayed as far back as he could without bringing the Chevy to a crawl. Strange thinking, They don’t know my car. But there was no one between them, and as the Fury neared the red light at 16th and came to a stop, Strange had little choice but to pull up behind them.
He saw Red Jones eye him in the sideview mirror. He saw Red turn his head and say something to his woman, and then he heard the rev of the Plymouth’s V-8. Strange brought his seat belt across his lap and clicked in the buckle.
The Fury screamed into the intersection against the red light. It fishtailed and corrected. Strange looked both ways and saw cars approaching from the south.
“Fuck it,” said Strange.
They’ve got brakes, too.
He floored the gas pedal, and the Monte Carlo lifted, leaving twin patches of rubber on the asphalt as it went across 16th to the sounds of angry horns and skidding tires. Strange saw metal in his side vision but felt no impact, and he thought, I made it; I am on them now.
The Fury made distance on the straightaway. They had more horses than he did, a four-barrel carb, and that Mopar edge, and the woman knew how to drive her car. Strange punched it and felt the wind rushing through the open windows as he gained ground. The Fury dropped down an incline by upper 14th Street, and as he neared the crest, it skidded into a left and he followed. In his rearview he saw a car suddenly coming up from the south at a high rate of speed and he recognized it as a patrol car. Watkins blew the red light at Kennedy and made a soft right back onto Colorado, and Strange followed, going through the stoplight himself, and the cop behind him activated his cherry-top and siren, accelerated sharply, and came up very close to Strange’s bumper. When Strange’s eyes moved forward, he saw the Fury execute a crazy right, east on Madison, and then the siren whooped behind him. Strange pulled over to the side of the road.
Strange threw the horseshoe shifter into park and got out of the Chevy, his hands raised. The uniformed police officer was now out of his patrol car, moving toward him, his hand on his sidearm, and Strange shouted, “I’m in pursuit of a wanted man,” and “I’m MPD!”
“Let’s see your badge,” said the cop, a young black officer, couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one. He drew his .38 and pointed it at Strange.
“I used to be a police officer,” said Strange, correcting his false claim, the adrenaline gone out of him.
“Used to don’t mean shit to me,” said the cop. “Now turn your ass around. You know what to do.”
His father had always told him to answer “Yes, sir” to police, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it right about now. Strange placed his hands on the trunk of his car.
“Call Frank Vaughn in Three-D,” said Strange. “He’ll tell you who I am. Or Lydell Blue. He’s a sergeant over in the Fourth.”
The cop said nothing as he patted Strange down.
LOU FANELLA had told Gino Gregorio he had to get his own spot for him and his skinny whore, so Gino went down to the desk of the motor lodge and rented another room. When he returned, Cindy and April were snorting lines off a mirror they had taken down from the wall. Gregorio gathered liquor, wine, two plastic cups, and Cindy, and went out the door.
“You wanna be alone with me,” said April to Fanella, after Gino and Cindy had gone. She smiled and he saw that one of her front teeth was chipped. “That’s sweet.”
Fanella knew he’d never relax with Gregorio pounding his pork into some trick in the same room. This wasn’t a stud contest. He didn’t mind seeing Gino’s meat, but not while he was using it.
“Take your shirt off,” said Fanella.
Fanella watched April pull her shirt over her head and toss it onto the bed. She had big melons held up in a cream-colored bra and a little roll of baby fat hanging over the waistband of her shorts. Her orange hair was mussed and she hand-brushed it back in place.
April sipped pink wine from a cup and looked around the room. Two double beds, suitcases on the floor, one zipped open showing clothing that had been shoved in haphazardly. A television set was mounted on a metal rack up on the wall, and a clock radio sat on the stand between the beds. Wasn’t much here in the way of entertainment.
“Ain’t no party without music,” said April.
“Put some on, then.” Fanella, seated uncomfortably in the room’s sole chair, waved a beefy hand toward the clock radio. Bourbon sloshed out of his cup.
April found a Top 40 station and turned up the new Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose, which had just hit the charts.
“ ‘Too late to turn back now,’ ” sang April, “ ‘I believe I believe I believe I’m falling in loooooove.’ ”
“Yeah!” said Fanella tiredly.
“Let’s get our heads up, big man.”
April went to the wood-framed mirror, now laid flat on the dresser, on which she had cut out four more thick rails of coke. She used the clear shell of a Bic pen to hoover up two lines, threw her head back, dipped her fingers in a cup of water, and pinched her nose. The stuff had been heavily stepped on with mannitol, but at seventeen she was a veteran, and it no longer upset her insides.
“Whooo.” April held up the pen. “Now you.”
Fanella go
t up out of his seat. His shirt was damp with perspiration, but he did not worry about his heart. At forty he was still strong. He’d heard about coke from the younger guys, how it made your pole like a scratching post for half the night. He thought he’d give it a try.
Fanella snorted a line. As he bent forward to do the second one, he felt April rubbing her boulders on his back.
“Cut it out,” he said, but he was grinning. In about a minute he was gonna give her what every girl dreamed of.
“Where you from, Lou?”
“Jersey.”
“You down here on vacation?”
“More like a working vacation, honey.”
Fanella drew the other line up his nostril. Did that thumb-and-forefinger thing to his nose, like he’d seen the girl do. Immediately, he was in a good mood. Happy. There was a medicine-tasting drip in the back of his throat. He wanted a cigarette and he found one and lit it. He was already thinking about the next one.
Fanella got his drink. He gulped down bourbon and went to the ice bucket and filled his cup and poured another Ten High from the bottle.
A new song had come on the station. April was singing it and strumming an imaginary guitar. “ ‘Sunshine go away today. Don’t feel much like daaancin.’ ”
“Say,” said Fanella.
“What?” said April.
“You ever hear of a guy name of Red Jones? Black guy.” He was normally careful, didn’t run his mouth to whores, but the words were coming fast from his mouth. “I figure, you bein on the street and all…”
“Sure,” said April, swaying to the music. She removed her bra and dropped it on the floor. “Everybody’s heard of Red.”
April pushed her breasts together and winked clumsily at Fanella. Walking toward him in her bare feet, she caught a toe on the carpet, stumbled, and giggled. She leaned in to kiss him, and Fanella put a dry one on her cheek. He wasn’t about to kiss her on the mouth.
“You don’t know where I can find this Red, do you?” said Fanella.
“Why?”
“I owe him some money.”
“I don’t have any idea,” said April. “But if you give me the money, I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“You’re cute,” said Fanella.
April reached out and grabbed his rod through the crotch of his slacks. There was little physical response, and she stepped back and examined his face.
“You all right, good lookin?”
Bullets of sweat had formed on Fanella’s forehead, and he’d gone pale. “I don’t feel so hot.”
“You gotta go to the toilet, right? Number two?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the baby laxative in the coke,” said April. “Go do your business and feel better, sugar. I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done.”
Fanella crushed out his cigarette, went into the bathroom, and shut the door. She heard air leave his behind, and she heard him say, “Ahhhh,” and then groan, “God.”
April moved over to the open suitcase and hand-searched it thoroughly. She found a switchblade knife and a revolver underneath some sport shirts. The guy was some kind of hood, so that wasn’t a surprise. Two packs of cigarettes in one of the side pockets. And in another compartment, a pretty ring. She put it on her finger and it fit. Probably costume, but that didn’t bother her. She loved the way the ring looked on her hand. It was a keeper. He sure wasn’t gonna miss it. Leastways not tonight.
April slipped the ring into her shorts pocket, then stripped the shorts off and placed them on the bed under her favorite T-shirt, the one had the glitter star across the front. She stood in the middle of the room in her panties, drinking wine and waiting. Her plan was to get the old man off quick, soon as he came out the head. She knew how, and he would only be good for one. After, she’d wait for Cindy, take a taxi back to Shaw, and get out there and retail her ass like her boyfriend, Romario, expected her to do. There was still plenty of night left.
HAVING COME up empty on Red Jones at the Carter Barron, Vaughn went back to the stationhouse and saw Charles Davis seated at his desk.
“What are you doin here, Charles? I thought you had eyes on Monique Lattimer.”
“I did. I was in the playground across from her house for hours. Girl musta slipped out the back of her crib, somethin. I had a patrol cop knock on her door, but there wasn’t no one there.” Davis shrugged his bearlike shoulders. “Sorry, Hound Dog. She beat me, man.”
Muttering under his breath, Vaughn went to the holding cells to take the temperature of Clarence Bowman. He was hoping to put him in the box and see if he could convince him to talk. But Bowman was gone.
Vaughn found Sergeant Bill Herbst out in the office area.
“What the hell happened, Billy?”
“I had to wagon Bowman over to St. Elizabeth’s. The guy was eating his own shit, Frank. The rest of ’em were goin nuts back there.”
“Bowman’s not mental.”
“Maybe not. But I didn’t know what he was gonna do next. Lieutenant Harp told me to get rid of him. Crazy or not, Bowman’s gonna be arraigned. Just ’cause he’s at St. E’s don’t mean he’s getting off or nothin…”
“I’m not worried about that. I wanted another shot at him, is all.” Vaughn rubbed his jaw as he considered the situation. “Let’s go back to the jail. I wanna see where you had him.”
Vaughn returned to the holding cells with Herbst, who pointed out Bowman’s former cage. Vaughn studied the men who had been locked in with him.
They walked back to the office and Vaughn said to Herbst, “Who was the weak tit with the Little Bo-Peep eyes?”
“Henry Arrington.”
“Doper?”
“No, Henry takes the Night Train. We bring him in to protect him and let him out in the morning.”
“Have someone call me before he gets tossed. All right?”
“Sure thing, Frank.”
Vaughn had marked Arrington as prey as soon as he laid eyes on him. He was pretty certain that Bowman had done the same thing.
STRANGE KNOCKED on Carmen’s door, a narrow row home off Barry Place that had been cut into two apartments. Hers was on the ground floor.
The house was a wood-shingled affair, fronted by a small stoop more common to Baltimore than D.C.
A cone of yellow light hit the stoop. Carmen opened the door but did not come through the frame. She was still in her dress. A bit of mascara had run down her face.
Strange began to go up the steps. She held up her palm and said, “No.”
“Look, I apologize.”
“For what?”
“Leaving you like that at the show. Did you have trouble getting home?”
“They had plenty of taxicabs in the lot.”
“Bet you had an easier time than I did,” said Strange, trying out a smile. He told her about his pursuit of Jones, leaving out the high-speed chase and the chances he took. Said he got pulled over for “barely” running a red and that Lydell had to come to the scene and convince the young police officer not to arrest him.
“You made a mistake,” she said.
“Yes,” said Strange, knowing they had moved on to something else. He could control some of the damage right now by admitting to his indiscretion. But all he did was lower his eyes.
“Look at me, Derek.” He raised his head. Carmen had folded her arms across her chest, and her jaw was set. “You got the smell of a woman on you. Don’t you know by now that you can’t get that off you? And you have that young-boy’s face you get when you know you been wrong.”
Strange said nothing.
“Why’d you do it?” said Carmen. “Am I not giving you something you need?”
Strange spread his hands. “Look, I didn’t… I’m sayin, it didn’t go to where you think it did.”
“You mean you didn’t fuck her. And I’m supposed to, what, give you credit for that?”
“I’m sorry,” said Strange.
“Too many times, Derek.”
“Let me come
in out this night and talk to you.”
“You gonna tell me you learned, right?”
“Please.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, and stepped back into her apartment. The door closed and the light went off. Strange stood in the darkened street.
A HALF hour later, Strange was in his apartment, sitting in his living room with no lights on, drinking scotch on ice, when the phone rang. Vaughn was on the other end of the line.
They filled each other in on the details of their day. Vaughn told Strange about the beating and robbery of Sylvester Ward, the shooting death of Roland Williams at Soul House, the arrest of the would-be assassin Clarence Bowman. Strange told Vaughn what he had learned about his client, Maybelline Walker, his sighting of the bold Red Jones and his tall, striking woman at the Carter Barron amphitheater, the subsequent chase, and his near arrest.
“That officer did you a favor by pulling you over,” said Vaughn. “If you had caught up with Jones, no telling what he might have done. He never even gave Roland Williams a chance.”
“Man needs to be got.”
“I’m about to take care of that.”
“You are, huh?”
“I could use your help.”
“I was you, I’d take a whole lot of backup instead. Besides, I don’t even have a gun.”
“I’ll give you one.”
“I don’t use ’em anymore. Don’t even want to touch one.”
“You want that ring, though, don’t you?”
“Look, I checked out Coco at the concert. If she had it, she would have been wearing it. I reckon it was stolen by those guys who tossed her place.”
“Maybe. But there’s something else. Four years ago, I walked the extra mile when you needed me. You know what I’m talking about.”
Vaughn was speaking of their shared secret. April 1968. Strange sipped his drink and looked through his open French doors to the lights of the city spread out below. “Is there a plan?”
“I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
“You sayin you know where Red’s at.”
“Not yet,” said Vaughn. “But I will.”
LOU FANELLA and Gino Gregorio sat in their black Continental, the morning sun beating down on the roof and heating its leather interior. On 14th, telephone company employees walked in and out of a nondescript building and folks in need of breakfast stood in a line outside a nearby mission. Fanella was smoking a cigarette and sweating into his shirt.
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