Right as Rain

by George Pelecanos

  Strange ran his thumb along his jawline. “You’re so sure … and that’s what’s botherin’ me, Eugene. See, I was at MLK, pulling up all the newspaper stories, the ones they did at the time and the follow—ups, too, and there was this one thing I read that I just can’t reconcile.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “After your partner left the force, you joined that group of cops, called itself the Concerned Black Officers. Y’all had flyers put up tellin’ the brothers in uniform to stage a protest. I believe you signed the petition your own self, too.”

  Franklin’s eyes flickered past Quinn’s. “I did.”

  “If Quinn was so right —”

  “Look here,” said Franklin. “Terry was right, in that particular case. But since ninety—five, we’ve had three off—duty African American police officers shot by white cops. It’s bad enough, the danger I put myself in every day, without having to be a target for the guys on my own team. So yeah, I was concerned. And anyway, Strange, that’s internal police business, understand? It is not any business of yours. It’s between me and my fellow cops, and my partner.”

  “Your ex—partner, you mean.”

  Something passed between Franklin and Quinn. Strange could see that their bond was strong. Maybe it even bordered on affection. But however strong it had been, it was tainted by the shooting, and what had been ruined was most likely beyond repair.

  Franklin shook his head and looked down at the table. “You’re somethin’, Strange.”

  “Just doin’ my job.”

  “Punch out your time card, then. ’Cause I am done talkin’ for today.”

  “Yeah, I guess we covered it for now.” Strange stood from his chair. “I’ll leave the two of you alone for a few minutes. This beer goes through me quick.”

  As Strange went along the bar toward the head, Franklin watched his walk, the hint of swagger in it, the straight shoulders and back.

  “Man walks like a cop,” said Franklin.

  “He was one,” said Quinn, “a long time ago.”

  “Wasn’t till I saw him move,” said Franklin, “that it showed.”

  STRANGE stopped at the bar to talk to a cop he knew, now retired, named Al Smith. Smith had been partnered up for years with a guy named Larry Michaels. Smith had gone gray, and his paunch told Strange that this was where he spent his days.

  “I buy you one?” said Smith.

  “One’s my limit in the daytime, Al, and I already had it.”

  “Next time. And if I don’t see you here, I’ll see you, hear?”

  Strange chuckled. Al Smith had been using the same cornball expressions for the past thirty years.

  Strange nodded to a big man with a high forehead and a flat—bridged, upturned nose, sitting at the bar and smoking a thick cigar, who looked at him dead—eyed as he passed. The man didn’t nod back. He moved his gaze into his beer mug, raised it, and took a deep drink. Strange noticed that the MPD T—shirt fit tightly on the man’s broad chest, his bulked—up arms stretching the fabric of the sleeves.

  In the bathroom, he took a leak into a stand—up urinal, singing along to “Joy and Pain” as it came trebly through small wall—mounted speakers. He zipped up and turned around as the man in the MPD T—shirt entered, tall and looking like a bear on two feet, pushing the bathroom door so hard it hit the wall.

  All right, you’re drunk, thought Strange. Tell the world.

  “Excuse me, brother,” said Strange, in a friendly way, because the man was blocking his path. “Can I get by?”

  But the man didn’t move or react in any way. His expression was dull, and his face was shiny with sweat. Strange was going to ask him again but decided against it. He moved around the man, his back brushing the wall in the cramped space, and went out the door.

  Strange had known plenty of uniforms like this one. Guy had a day off from all the bad shit out there, and instead of relaxing, he was in a bar, wearing his MPD shirt, getting meaner with every beer and looking to start a fight. One of those cops who was carrying serious insecurities, always trying to test himself. Well, if he was wantin’ to try someone, he’d have to find someone else. Strange had left all that bullshit behind a long time ago.

  “HOW you been makin’ out?” said Franklin.

  “I’m doin’ okay,” said Quinn. “Working in a used book store over the District line. It’s real… quiet.”

  “Gives you time to read those cowboys—and—Indians books you like.”

  “I do have time.”

  “Seein’ anyone?”

  “I have a girl. You’d like her. She’s nice.”

  “She fine, too?”

  “Uh—huh.”

  “Dog like you. Never known you to be with an ugly one.”

  “No one could say the same about you.”

  “Go ahead and crack on me. But it’s one of the reasons I stopped drinkin’. Got tired of waking up next to those fugly—ass girls I was meetin’ in the clubs.”

  “Wonder how many of them stopped drinkin’ when they got a look at you.”

  “I guess I did send a few off to church.”

  Franklin and Quinn shared a laugh. Franklin’s odd looks had always bothered him, along with his inability to make time with attractive women. Quinn had been one of the few who could broach the subject, and joke about it, with Eugene.

  Quinn looked around Erika’s. He recognized Al Smith, sitting on his usual stool, and a patrolman named Effers he’d played cards with once, and an ugly, friendless cop he knew by sight only, Adonis Delgado, who was pushing away from the bar.

  “You miss it,” said Franklin, “don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Listen, Terry …”

  “What?”

  “That thing Strange was talking about, the group I joined — Concerned Black Officers, I mean.”

  “I knew about it already.”

  “Didn’t have anything to do with how I felt about you, or whether you were right or wrong on the Wilson thing. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’d been asking for radios for off—duty officers for years, so that if you did get into a situation when you were in street clothes, you could call it in, let the dispatcher know that you were a cop and you were on the scene.”

  “I know it.”

  “If Chris Wilson had had that radio that night, and we had known who he was when we pulled up on him, he’d be alive today.”

  “Y’all got your radios now. I read about it, that the issue finally went through.”

  “It took that last shooting, and the threat of a protest, to get it done. And Chief Ramsey, he’s toughened the firearms instruction requirements, instituted retraining. Got a whole lot of new initiatives drafted, with new hiring standards on the way, too.”

  “You tryin’ to tell me it was a good thing that Wilson died? Don’t go blowin’ smoke up my ass, man, ’cause I’ve known you too long.”

  “I’m tellin’ you that some good came out of it. Whatever I thought about what happened that night, it was on me to get involved, make sure that somethin’ like that couldn’t happen again.”

  “I bet it was good for your conscience, too.”

  “There was that.”

  “Don’t worry, Gene. I don’t blame you for anything. I would have liked to hear from you once in a while, but I don’t blame you for a thing.”

  “I thought about calling you,” said Franklin. “And then I thought, Outside of our shift, me and Terry never hung out, anyway. I don’t recall us speaking on the phone more than once or twice when we were riding together, do you?”

  “You’re right. We never hung out.”

  “We got different things. Different kinds of lives, interests, different friends. You and me used to talk about it, remember? Ain’t no kind of crime for people to want to hang with their own kind.”

  “It’s a shame,” said Quinn. “But it’s no crime.”

  “Anyway,” said Franklin, “I got
ta bounce.”

  “Go ahead. Nice seeing you, Gene. Stay away from the fuglies, hear?”

  Franklin blushed. “I’m gonna try.”

  They stood, hugged again, and broke apart awkwardly. Franklin did not meet Quinn’s eyes before walking away. Franklin passed Strange on his way back from the head but did not acknowledge him at all.

  “Friendly place they got here,” said Strange as he arrived at the table. “Your boy Eugene is a card—carrying member of my fan club, and some Carl Eller-lookin’ sucker back in the bathroom was wantin’ to take my head off.”

  “You know cops,” said Quinn. “They like to stick to their own kind.”

  “I’VE got a couple more stops today,” said Strange. “I’d take you home, but it’s not on my way.”

  “Drop me at the Union Station Metro,” said Quinn. “I’ll catch the Red Line uptown.”

  Strange pulled the Caprice away from the curb. “Nevada Smith is on TNT tonight. You know that one?”

  “Uh—huh. That’s a good one. McQueen was the real thing.”

  “That’s the one ends with that old guy from Streets of San Francisco, with the nose —”

  “Karl Malden.”

  “Yeah, him. McQueen shoots him a couple of times, but he doesn’t kill him. Gets off of that revenge trip he’s been on right there, finds his humanity, and leaves Malden in the river. McQueen’s riding away on his horse, and Malden’s yellin’ at him to finish him off, screaming, over and over, 'You’re yella… . you haven’t got the guts!’ I get the chills thinkin’ about it, man.”

  “You gonna watch it?”

  “I’m takin’ a woman to the fights.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “More like a friend kind of thing, the woman who runs my office, Janine Baker. I been knowin’ her for a long time. Nothin’ all that serious.”

  “Friend kind of thing’s the best kind, you ask me.”

  “Yeah, I believe you’re right. What about you?”

  “I got a date myself. Girl named Juana I been seeing.”

  Strange looked across the bench. “Y’all got specific plans?”

  “We were just going to go out, figure it out then.”

  “Why don’t the two of you come with me and Janine? I got extra tickets, man.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. But I have to see if Juana’s into it.” “Check it out with her and give me a call. My beeper number’s on that card I gave you.” “I will.” Strange turned onto North Capitol. Quinn said, “Here’s good,” and opened the door as Strange slowed the car to a stop. “Hey, Terry. Thanks again for the record, man.” “My pleasure,” said Quinn. They shook hands. Quinn walked toward Union Station.

  Strange drove north.

  Chapter 18

  STRANGE stood in chris wilson’s bedroom, examining the objects on his dresser. There was a cigar box holding cuff links, a crucifix on a chain, a Mason’s ring with a black onyx stone, ticket stubs from the MCI Center and RFK, and a pickup stub from Safeway. There were shoehorns and pens in a ceramic police—union mug. A small color photograph of Wilson’s sister, pretty and sharply dressed, had been slipped beneath the mug. A nail clipper, a long—lensed camera, a pearl—handled knife, a bottle of CK cologne, and a crystal bowl holding matches from various bars and restaurants sat atop the dresser, as did a well—used, autographed hardball, scuffed and stained by grass and mud.

  Beside the dresser mirror, hung on the wall, was a framed photograph of Chris Wilson as a boy, standing under the arm of Larry Brown, with a message from Brown and his signature scrawled across the print. Team photographs of the Redskins going back fifteen years and posters, mounted and framed cheaply, of college and professional basketball players, local boxers, and other athletes and sporting events were hung on the walls as well. The room reflected an unsurprising blend of boy and man.

  “I’ve left it exactly as it was,” said Leona Wilson, standing behind Strange. “He was so proud of that picture we took with Larry Brown.”

  “I’ve got a signed photo of Larry myself,” said Strange. “Proud to have mine, too.”

  “I remember one time I was straightening the picture, and Chris walked in and just got so upset, told me to leave it alone. Of course, he hardly ever raised his voice to me.”

  “Some things special to a man might seem trivial to others. I got this Redskins figure on my desk, got a spring for a neck —”

  “Chris grew up in this room. He never lived anywhere else. I suppose if he had moved out and gotten his own place, his new room wouldn’t have looked like this. He kept it much the same way as he did when he was a boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I never asked him to stay, Mr. Strange. After his father died, he took it upon himself to become the man of the house. He felt it was his role, to take care of me and his sister. I never asked him to do that. He took it upon himself.”

  Strange looked around the room. “Chris keep any kind of journals? He keep a diary, anything like that?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “You don’t mind, I’d like to take these matchbooks from this bowl here. I’ll return them, and anything else I take.”

  Leona Wilson nodded and wrung her hands.

  “Chris had a girlfriend at the time of his death, didn’t he?” said Strange. “I’m talking about the one gave the statement to the newspapers.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Think it would be possible to talk to her?”

  “She’s been wonderful. She has dinner with me once or twice a month. She and her little girl, a lovely child she had before she met Chris. I’ll call her if you’d like.”

  “I would. Like to meet with her as soon as possible, matter of fact. And I’d like to speak to your daughter, too.”

  Leona lowered her eyes.

  “Mrs. Wilson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how I can get ahold of your daughter?”

  “I don’t.” Leona shook her head. “We lost her to drugs, Mr. Strange.”

  “What happened?”

  “How can anyone know? She was in college out at Bowie State and working as a hostess in a restaurant downtown. She was a beautiful girl. She was doing so well.”

  “She was living here then?”

  “Sondra had gotten her own place, and that’s when we began to lose touch. Chris and I saw her less and less frequently, and when we did see her … she had changed, physically, I mean, but also her attitude. I didn’t recognize her, couldn’t confide in her the way I always could before. It was Chris who finally sat me down and told me what was wrong. I didn’t believe it at first. We were so watchful of her during her high school years, and she had gotten through them fine. After she got in trouble, it was as if she had forgotten everything she had learned, here at home and in church. I didn’t understand. I still don’t understand.

  “The day of the funeral, she showed up at the cemetery. I hadn’t seen her for a month or so. Her phone had been disconnected, and she had been fired from herjob. She had dropped out of college, too.”

  “If you hadn’t seen her, then how did you know all of those events had taken place?”

  “Chris knew.”

  “He was in contact with her?”

  “I don’t know how he knew. He was close to her… . He was very upset, Mr. Strange. But in the end, even he had lost track of her. We didn’t know if she had a roof over her head, if she was eating, where she lived, where she slept. We didn’t know if she was living or dead.”

  “So she was at the funeral.”

  “She looked barely alive that day. Her eyes, even her steps were without life. I hadn’t seen her for so long. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “If Chris were here, he’d find her.” Tears broke and ran down Leona’s sunken cheeks. “Excuse me, Mr. Strange.”

  She turned and walked quickly from the room.

  Strange did not follow. After a while he heard her talking on the
living room phone. He went to the dresser and emptied the crystal bowl of matchbooks, transferring them into the pockets of his leather. He slid the photograph of Sondra Wilson out from beneath the mug and placed it in his wallet. He paced the room. He sat on Chris Wilson’s bed and looked out the window.

  Strange could imagine Wilson as a boy, waking up in this room, hearing the songbirds, recognizing the bark of the same dogs every morning. Looking out that same window and dreaming about catching the winning pass, knocking one out of the ballpark with the bases full, a pretty girl he sat near in class. Smelling breakfast cooking, maybe hearing his mother humming a tune in the kitchen as she prepared it, waiting for her to poke her head through the door, tell him it was time to get up and off to school.

  Strange heard Leona Wilson’s sobs from out in the living room. Trying to stifle it, then crying full on.

  “You all right, Derek,” said Strange under his breath, feeling useless and angry at himself for having given the Wilson woman false hope.

  He walked out to the living room and stood beside her where she sat on the couch, clutching a cloth handkerchief. Strange put a hand on her bony shoulder.

  “It’s so hard,” she said, almost a whisper. “So hard.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Strange.

  She wiped her face and looked up at him with red—rimmed eyes. “Have you made any progress?”

  “I’ll have a report for you very soon.”

  Leona handed Strange a slip of paper off the coffee table. “Here’s Renee’s address. She’s going to pick her daughter up at day care, but she’ll be home soon. She’ll see you if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” said Strange.

  He patted her shoulder impotently again and walked away.

  “Will I see you in church this Sunday, Mr. Strange?”

  “I hope to be there,” said Strange, keeping his pace.

  He couldn’t get through the door fast enough. Out on the sidewalk, he stood for a moment and breathed fresh air.

  RENEE Austin lived in a garden apartment complex set behind a shopping center in the Maryland suburbs, out Route 29 and off Cherry Hill Road. Strange waited in the parking lot, listening to an old Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, as Renee had not yet returned from picking up her daughter. Strange was singing along to “Pretty Flower,” closing his eyes and trying to mimic Teddy’s growl, when Renee’s red Civic pulled into the lot.