Right as Rain

by George Pelecanos

  “Was thinking of you, is all,” said Strange. “And look at you, all clean—cut.”

  “Yeah. Went down to this barbershop on Georgia, Elegant and Proud?”

  “I know that joint.”

  “They didn’t look too happy to see me in there. But all I wanted was a close cut, and they gave it to me. Anyway, it feels good to get rid of all that hair.”

  “You look like a cop again.”

  “I know.” Quinn thumbed his lip. “You said you were thinkin’ of me. Why?”

  “Well, we’re friends, for one.”

  “We’re friends now, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  “What else?”

  “I saw Leona and Sondra Wilson today, at church.”

  Quinn nodded. “How’s the girl doin’?”

  “You know what that road’s like. Once you’re in, you’re in forever. Always gonna be a struggle. But her mother got her into one of the city’s best programs. She’ll make it, I expect.”

  “You did good.”

  “So did you.” Strange looked over at Quinn. “Chris Wilson got a commendation. They did a quiet kind of ceremony, but he got it. And they put his name up on that wall.”

  “I heard about it,” said Quinn. “The department didn’t get the press involved in it, but word reached me from inside.”

  “Yeah, the department’s played the press pretty good on this whole thing. But what else they gonna do? They don’t have all the answers their own selves. They’ve got Franklin’s confession, and the conflicting forensic evidence from the scene, and Kane’s self—serving testimony. They know there’s more, but they can’t seem to get to it.”

  “They didn’t get anything out of you and me.”

  “No.” Strange studied Quinn. “You’re lookin’ better.”

  “I’m doin’ all right.”

  “You out of that funk you were in?”

  “I guess I am,” said Quinn. “You said that someday I’d learn to walk away from a fight. Maybe I’m getting to that place.”

  “I guess, workin’ in that bookstore over there, with Lewis and all them, you have plenty of time for meditation.”

  “Yeah, Derek, I’ve got nothin’ but time.”

  “I was thinkin’, you know, there are special instances when I could use another operative. You did some pretty good work with me, man. I was wonderin’, would you ever consider taking on a case for me, now and again?”

  “While you do the light work?”

  “Funny.”

  “What about Ron Lattimer?”

  “This time of year, Ron’s busy pickin’ out his spring wardrobe and shit. Haven’t seen him much the last week or so.”

  “I don’t have an investigator’s license.”

  “Easy enough to get one.”

  “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  “Sure, do that. With all that time you got… to think.”

  Greco licked Quinn’s neck. Quinn turned in his seat and scratched the boxer behind his ears.

  “You seein’ a woman?” said Strange.

  “Nobody special. How’s Janine?”

  “She’s good. Just left her and Lionel.”

  “Spending a lot of time with her, huh?”

  Strange nodded. “Finally woke up. Was always lookin’ for someone else … chasing after women who didn’t care nothin’ for me, even goin’ after that anonymous kind of sex —”

  “Hookers, you mean.”

  “Yeah. Always lookin’ for somethin’ else, when the best thing was right next to me, staring me right in the face. Just like my mother always said. Not that I’m thinkin’ of getting married or anything like that. But I do plan to be there, for her and the boy.”

  “Tell her I said hey.”

  “I will.”

  Quinn looked at his watch. “I better be goin’.”

  “Me too. Where’s your car at?”

  “I didn’t bring it.”

  “You need a lift back to your place?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll walk.”

  Quinn reached for the door handle. Strange put a hand on Quinn’s arm.

  “Terry.”

  “What?”

  “I just want you to know, in light of how all this ended up, I mean … I wanted you to know that I was wrong about you, man.”

  Quinn smiled sadly. “You were wrong about some things, Derek. But not everything.”

  Quinn stepped out of the car. Strange watched him cross the street in the gathering darkness.

  TERRY Quinn walked up Bonifant and cut left on Georgia Avenue. The street lamps and window lights glowed faintly in the cool dusk. As Quinn went down Georgia, a group of four young black men in baggy clothing approached on the sidewalk from the opposite direction. They split apart, seeing that Quinn was not going to step aside. One of the young men bumped him lightly on the arm, and Quinn gave him an elbow as he went by.

  I lied to Strange, thought Quinn. I’m lying to myself. I am never going to change. I am never going to walk away.

  Quinn heard laughter from the group and he kept walking, past Rosita’s without looking through its window, then left into the breezeway where he patted the head of the bronze Norman Lane bust as he went on into the alley. He took the alley south.

  Quinn crossed Silver Spring Avenue and continued through the alley to Sligo Avenue, then across to Selim and along the Napa auto parts shop and the My—Le pho house and foreign—car garages that faced the railroad and Metro tracks. Then he was on the pedestrian bridge spanning Georgia Avenue, and on the other side of it he jumped the chain—link fence and went past the commuter station and down the steps into the lighted foot tunnel beneath the tracks.

  Quinn walked the wooden platform beside the fence that bordered the Canada Dry bottling plant. He turned, his hands dug in the pockets of his jeans, and watched the close approach of a northbound train.

  This place had always been his. But now he shared it with a woman he’d kissed here on a clear and biting winter night.

  Quinn closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the train, felt the rush of the cars raising wind and dust.

  He didn’t come here for answers. There were no answers. There was only sensation.

  No answers, and there would be no closure. Chris Wilson had been exonerated, but for Quinn nothing had changed. Because Strange had been right all along: Quinn had killed a man because of the color of his skin.

  STRANGE walked down the drab, third—floor hall of the District Convalescent Home, passing a couple of female attendants who were laughing loudly at something one of them had said, ignoring a man in a nearby wheelchair who was repeating the word “nurse” over and over again. A television played at full volume from one of the rooms. The hall was warm and smelled of pureed food and, beneath the mask of disinfectant, urine and excrement.

  Strange entered his mother’s room. She was lying on her side, under the sheets of her bed, awake and staring out the window. He walked around to the side of the bed.

  “Momma,” said Strange, kissing her clammy forehead. “Here I am.”

  His mother made a small wave of her hand and smiled weakly, showing him the gray of her gums. Her body was tiny as a child’s beneath the sheets.

  Strange found a comb in the nightstand and ran it through her sparse white hair, pushing what was left of it back on her moley scalp. When he was finished, she pointed past Strange’s shoulder. He went to the window and looked to the corner of the ledge.

  A house wren had built a nest there and was sitting on her eggs. The small bird flew away at the sight of Strange.

  Strange knew what his mother wanted. He tore off several paper towels from the bathroom roll, found some Scotch tape on a supply cart out in the hall, and taped the squares of paper to the window. His mother had done this every spring in the kitchen window of the house in which he’d been raised. She had explained to him that a mother bird was like any mother, that she deserved to tend to her children privately and in peace.

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nbsp; From her bed, Alethea Strange blinked her eyes with approval at her son, examining the job he’d done.

  Strange brought a cushioned chair over to the side of her bed and had a seat. He sat there for a while, telling her about his day.

  “Janine,” she said, very softly.

  “She’s good, Momma. She sends her love.”

  “Diamonds …”

  “In my backyard. Yes, ma’am.”

  Sitting in the chair, Strange fell asleep. He woke in the middle of the night. His mother was still awake, her beautiful brown eyes staring into his.

  Strange began to talk about his childhood in D.C. He talked about his father, and the mention of her husband brought a smile to Alethea’s lips. He talked about his brother, the trouble he’d had, and how even with the trouble his brother’s heart had been good.

  “I love you, Momma,” said Strange. “I’m so proud to be your son.”

  As he talked, he held her hand and looked into her eyes. He was still holding her hand at dawn, and the birds were singing outside her bedroom window as she passed.