I stopped at Slim’s, near Colorado Avenue, for a beer, drank it while I listened to some recorded jazz, then hit the Good Times Lunch on Georgia for an early dinner. Kim, my Korean friend who owned the place, put a can of beer on the counter when I walked in, then went off to fix me a platter of fried cod and greens and potatoes. I took the beer to a pay phone near the front register, stood beneath a malt-liquor poster featuring a washed-up black actor embracing a light-skinned woman with Caucasian features, and dialed the number once again to the Lewis residence.
This time, the mother of Roland Lewis answered the phone. She had just gotten in from work and had found my card in the pile of mail inside her door. Her tone was cool, even, and clear. I explained to her that I needed to speak with her son, adding for the third time that day that I was “with” the police on the Calvin Jeter case. I listened to my own voice, caught the slur in it from the alcohol and the pot, wished then that I had waited to straighten up before I called. But after a moment or two, she agreed to meet me, and I set something up for the next day at her place of business, on M Street in the West End.
I returned to my stool at the counter and ate my food. A man came into the restaurant and ordered a beer, talked to himself as he drank it. I pushed the empty plate of food away and smoked a cigarette while I watched rush hour dissipate through the plate-glass window of the Good Times Lunch. I butted the smoke and went to the register to get my check from Kim.
“Any trouble down this way lately?” I asked as he ripped a green sheet of paper off a pad. There had been two gun deaths, merchant robberies on the strip, in the last six months.
Kim produced a snub-nosed .38 from somewhere under the counter. He waved it briefly, then replaced it as quickly as he had drawn it. Kim blinked, wiped a forearm hard as pine across his brow.
“Take care,” I said. I went back down to my spot, left ten on seven, and walked out under the damp veil of dusk.
When I got back to my apartment, I fed the cat and phoned Lyla. Her recorded message told me that she had gone out for happy hour with a friend and that she’d check the machine later that night. I left my own message, asking her to come by, adding, “I could use some company.”
But Lyla did not call back or drop in on me. I ended the night sitting on a bench in the back of my yard, another beer in my hand, listening to the crickets sounding out against the flat whir of air conditioners from the windows of the neighboring houses. My cat slinked out from the darkness and brushed against my ankles. I scratched behind her ears. After awhile, I walked back inside and fell to alcohol sleep.
FIVE
THE POLICE REPORT had the only potential witness to the Jeter murder as a black male, mid-forties, average height and build, with no distinguishing characteristics, a typically blank cross-racial description. It wasn’t much to go on, not anything at all, in fact, but the boatyard worker had mentioned that the man wore a brilliant blue winter coat year round. Everyone concerned had accepted the worker’s opinion that the man who sat singing under the bridge every morning at dawn was crazy. Crazy, maybe, but not necessarily stupid. If he knew that he had witnessed a killing and understood the implications, then he had probably disposed of the coat by now, or, at the very least, quit wearing it. I was reminded of the time when, as kids, my friends and I had stood on a hill and thrown hard-packed snowballs at cars driving south on 16th Street. One of my buddies had winged a smoker that shattered the side window of a green Rambler Ambassador, bloodying the driver’s lip. We all scattered and ran; the cops nailed me at the end of a nearby alley, identified me by my neon orange knit cap, which I had neglected to remove from my head. The hat had been the only thing the driver had remembered from his brief look at us on the hill. I figured that nobody, even a straitjacket candidate, is as mindless as a kid who is running from the cops for the first time. But I hoped that I was wrong.
So the next morning, I woke up in the dark and headed downtown and into Southeast, down M Street to the waterline, in search of the man in the brilliant blue coat. By the time I got there, the sky had lightened and a line of orange had broken the green plane of Anacostia Park across the river. A blue-and-white sat parked beneath the Sousa Bridge, with two uniforms in the front seat. They noted me without incident as I went by. I turned the car around at the end of the road and passed them again on my way back out. No man sat singing or reading on the concrete pilings beneath the bridge, blue coat or otherwise. I moved on.
I drove all the way across town, bought a go-cup of coffee at a market on Wisconsin and P in Georgetown, then went up to R and parked near Dumbarton Oaks. I walked through open grounds, down into the woods of Rock Creek Park, and found my seat on a large gray rock at the crest of a winding bridle trail overlooking the creek and Beach Drive. I watched the cars and their occupants, making their morning rush to wherever it is that people who wear ties and business suits go, and I listened to the serpentine creek running to the Georgetown Channel and the songbirds in the trees above. Everyone has their own spot in their hometown, and this was mine.
Afterward, I walked to the iron fence surrounding Oak Hill, wrapped my hands around the rungs, and admired the most beautiful cemetery grounds in D.C. Privileged people lead privileged lives, and even find privileged places to rest. I wondered idly about the final whereabouts of Calvin Jeter’s body. Then for a while I thought of nothing earthbound at all. I noticed an old man in a physical-plant uniform sitting atop a small tractor in the cemetery, and for a moment our eyes met. Then he looked away, and we both went back to what we had been doing for the last half hour: trying to find a kernel of spirituality before returning to the cold reality of our day.
I spent that morning reading local history in the Washingtoniana room of the Martin Luther King Memorial Library, then walked into Chinatown and met Lyla for lunch at a nondescript restaurant packed with locals at the corner of 7th and H. I crossed the dining room with a bag in my hand and had a seat next to Lyla.
“Hey,” I said, kissing her mouth.
“Hey, you.” She looked me over. “Why so sporty?”
I wore an open-necked denim, sleeves up, and a pair of khakis, with monk-straps on my feet. “You think this is sporty?”
“Well, you ran an iron over the shirt.”
“Just for you, baby. And, I’m meeting a woman this afternoon.”
“What, I’m not a woman?”
“Sweetheart, you’re all woman. But I’m talking about a business appointment. Over at Ardwick, Morris and Baker, in the West End.”
“That’s the firm that defended those S and L boys.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I’m meeting one of their secretaries.”
“Uh-huh.” She smiled maternally. “You’re poking around on the Jeter murder, aren’t you? I can see it on you, Nick. The only time you get wired during the daylight like this is when you’re juiced on some kind of case. Am I right?”
“I’m asking around, that’s all. Maybe I’ll kick something up.”
“Yeah,” she said.
Our waitress, an angular woman with coal black hair and bad teeth, arrived at the table. I ordered steamed dumplings with a main of squid sautéed in garlic, and Lyla ordered the special, asking only if it contained chicken. We avoided anything in the way of chicken here, as several of them hung plucked in the midday heat of the window. Lyla asked for white wine, and I took ice water.
“What do you suppose is in the special?” Lyla said.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But it’s probably better you didn’t ask.”
The waitress came back momentarily with our drinks.
Lyla lifted her wineglass. “Takes the edge off,” she said, and had a sip. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”
“I thought you looked a little thick today,” I said. And I had noticed her hand shaking as she picked up her glass.
She shrugged apologetically. “Happy hour stretched to last call. Sorry I didn’t make it over last night.”
“That’s okay.”
She flicked the brown paper on the table. “So, what’s in the bag?”
“Some stuff I picked up at the Chinese store on H. Something for you.”
I withdrew a small ceramic incense burner, hand-painted lilacs on a black background, and put it in front of her.
“Love it.” She smiled, turned the burner in her hand. “What else?”
“Something for me.” I took a videotape from the bag and waved it in front of her. “A Ringo Lam flick, for the collection.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Something for us.” I pulled out a tub of cream, labeled completely in Mandarin characters. “The lady at the counter said it was ‘very special lotion for lovers.’ ”
“What’s so special about it?”
“I don’t know. But we’ve got a date, tomorrow night, right?”
“Yeah?”
“So I was thinkin’—”
“Oh boy,” she said.
“That, at the end of the night, maybe you’d care to dip your fingers in this jar and give me a back rub. And maybe after that, I could return the favor and give you a front rub.”
“Here it comes.”
“And then we could rub it all over us and get some kind of friction going.”
“You could get a burn like that.”
“And maybe we’d get so much friction going, that, I don’t know, the two of us could just explode.”
“At the same time?”
“Well, we could try.”
“Nick, why are you such a dog?”
“Speaking of dog,” I said, “here comes your food.”
Lyla and I spent a couple of hours in the restaurant, enjoying the food and talking and having a few more laughs. There was a sign over the kitchen door that read MANAGEMENT NOT RESPONSIBLE, and Lyla commented dryly on that. I stuck with water and she had another wine. Lyla paid the check and I left the tip, and we kissed outside on the street. I stood there and watched her walk in the direction of the subway stop, moving in that clipped, confident way of hers in her short peasant dress, her red hair brilliant in the sun and long on her back. You’re a lucky bastard, I thought, and then I added, Nick, just try not to fuck this up.
THE OFFICES OF ARDWICK, Morris and Baker occupied the top floors of an Oliver Carr building on M Street at 24th. I have to laugh now when I hear any law firm’s name; a guy by the name of Rick Bender comes in the Spot for a vodka gimlet once a week—I don’t know what Bender does, but he’s a profoundly silly guy, and I 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 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 you 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 tellin
g 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 today, 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.
Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go Page 5