“Sounds like too much work to me. It’s not a bad gig, what I do. I work what I want when I want, and I’m not one of those dopey PIs who work for drug-dealing mopes and try to get them out of jail.”
“That’s good to hear. I’d hate having to consider you my enemy.”
I can’t respond to that.
Sixteen
Leslie is an early-morning person. It takes me a couple hours to fall asleep. Even then, I’m in and out of it. My sleep cycle is damaged. We don’t sleep together often enough for me to get used to all the damn noise she makes while getting ready for work. The light seeping through the open master bathroom door is enough to wake me. She uses an electric toothbrush, and the vibrating sound gets into your head like cicadas.
There’s no place for silence anymore. You can stuff your ears with top-of-the-line earplugs, and the noise’ll still find its way in. Or maybe it’s always been there.
I try to avoid using first thing in the morning, especially when I’m with Leslie. I could probably sneak a bump while she’s in the bathroom, but I don’t want to get into that routine. Even home alone, I control the urge until after my morning grapefruit and coffee—sometimes even through lunch.
Leslie walks into the bedroom. She’s wearing black bikini underwear. I pretend to be sleeping, manage to use the covers for concealment. She bends slightly to open a top dresser drawer, finds a bra, and puts it on. Damn. What the hell did I do to deserve someone like her?
I pretend I’m just waking up.
“You can sleep in if you want. Just lock the door from the inside.”
“No. You should always double-lock it.”
“I have an extra key somewhere. The kitchen, I think.”
“Sure we’re ready for that?” I ask with my best smile.
“Not if I come home one evening and find you lounging on my sofa.”
“Uninvited? Don’t you worry. I’m not creepy that way.”
“I know. That’s why I’ll give you a key. And no, it doesn’t mean anything more.”
It’s a step in the right direction is what I want to say. Instead, “There’s still responsibility attached to it.”
“Be responsible, then.”
I slip my underwear on, then my socks, head to the bathroom to take a piss. I close the door, and after I piss I flush the toilet to muffle the sound of blowing my nose. Hard. The usual thick greenish-yellow mucus mixed with a bit of blood plops out and into the tissue. Like expelling a lump of crusty Jell-O. I flush that, too.
“Are you all right?” I hear her ask from behind the door.
“Damn sinus infection again. It comes with the weather.”
“Then you’ll need antibiotics.”
“It’s not that bad yet.”
I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face and in my nostrils.
Back in the bedroom.
She’s fully dressed now.
“You want coffee?” she asks.
“Sure.”
I get dressed, and she offers me a cup. We sit and drink our coffee quietly.
On the way home, she’s heavy on my mind, with some anxiety mixed up and in it. That’s new. I need more coffee, maybe a Klonopin or two.
When I get home I devour a grapefruit and have more coffee. I start thinking about what I can do, and I get nothing. I keep getting flashes of Jeffrey, bloody on my kitchen floor. He had his hand on his gut, I remember now, see his hand clear. All bloody.
Fucking almost noon.
I’m going to need to get some work soon, but I can’t even think about that right now. My finances are okay. My paltry retirement is transferred directly to the police credit union, and I deposit my legit work payments in that account, too. Most of that money takes care of the mortgage, utilities, Internet, and phone. Stash cash for the day-to-day stuff. Yeah, I’m good, but I also need to find a place to hit soon ’cause I gotta stay good with that shit, too. Finding Jeffrey’s coke connection, Dreadlocks, will be a good lead, not only for a good hit but also for Jeffrey’s murder. It’s a slippery slope, ’cause Millhoff’ll be looking for him, too—or, like I’ve said before, maybe he’s already found him. It’s still worth a shot.
Seventeen
The music, if you can call it that; the trendy crowd; the DJ bent over the turntables, his long hair whipping air. Not music. Just noise.
I got here early enough to get a good seat at the bar with a view of the entrance, where a well-dressed, fresh-faced guy, probably rookie, is working the door. Jasper’s on duty working the streets. The bartender remembers me, pours nice. I’m thankful for that right now, having to cope with this shit. Three hours now. Already on my fourth whiskey. Nursing it this time.
There’s a lot of people here, so I keep my focus on the entrance.
I notice a young buck walk in. He’s wearing the typical baggy jeans, an oversize T-shirt, and expensive sneakers. A lot of dudes in here are dressed the same way, but what piques my interest is that he stands on his toes, stretching to look over the crowd near the DJ, where the booths are. He walks through the crowd to the same booth that Jeffrey and Dreadlocks sat in last time I was here.
A couple of girls with a couple of guys. Look like college kids. They scoot together to make room for him. He knocks knuckles with the dudes. One of the girls offers him a sip of her drink. He accepts. They talk for a bit, and I start to lose interest, look back to the front entrance area, then back to them.
Boy with the fancy sneakers stretches over the table, fingers closed over his palm, and he hands it to one of the other guys like a shake. But it’s obvious. The guy across the table checks it out, slips it in his pants pocket, and slides some bills across the table for the young boy. He pockets the cash without counting, takes another sip of the girl’s drink, and stands.
Not even a minute after, he’s approached by someone else. They walk toward the back, where the restrooms are.
For the next half hour or so he stays busy like this. One exchange after the other, but when he’s approached by another young girl he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, then says something to her, and she nods.
He makes his way through the crowd toward the entrance and leaves. I quickly drop a few bills on the counter, much more than I owe, and follow.
By the time I get to the top of the stairs, where the young rookie in a suit is standing, he’s down the stairs and opening the door to walk out.
He’s turning the corner toward the rear of the club.
I get to the corner and see him walk into the small parking lot at the rear of the building. I hustle, just in case he’s gonna hop in a car, but I stop before the entrance to the parking lot and cross the street like I’m walking to my car. I smell weed in the air. When I get to the sidewalk on the other side I gaze across to the parking lot, notice him talking to another guy. Not much light back there, but the guy he’s talking to looks a lot like Dreadlocks.
Eighteen
Dreadlocks opens the passenger-side door of an old-model black two-door coupe. A Mazda, I think. He gets in, closes the door, and hands something to the boy. Fancy Sneakers just re-upped. I walk out of view and cross the street back to the club side, lean against the wall at the corner, and light a smoke.
The kid appears from the parking lot, walks by without giving me a glance, turns, and enters the club. He leaves me the scent of stinky weed.
I walk to the parking lot, where Dreadlocks is leaning against the rear of the coupe, smoking a blunt.
He looks at me, maybe thinking I work at the club, ’cause he doesn’t budge. But when I casually step up to him he straightens.
“Weed be legal in this city now,” he tells me, like he makes me for a cop.
“I’m not the police. I don’t give a shit.”
“Yeah, right, you ain’t the police,” he says with a smirk. He hands the blunt over. I accept. He smiles awkwardly at first, then raises his eyebrows when I take a nice drag, hold for a while, and exhale in his direction.
“Shee-it,
I still think you’re the police.” Smiling.
I hand the blunt back to him. “Naw, not anymore.” I take out my wallet and show him my badge. “Retired.”
“Do I know you or somethin’?”
“No.”
“Well, if you be steppin’ up here expectin’ to get somethin’, then I don’t do that kinda shit. I’m just about ready to go into the club is all.”
“I can get my own weed if I want. Don’t need nothin’ from you.”
“Then what the fuck you steppin’ like you know me?”
“’Cause in a way I do.”
“Fuck off, yo. Don’t know you for shit. You a fag or somethin’?”
That makes me smile.
“No, not that, either. Just want to talk to you about someone we both know.”
He takes a drag, then exhales, blowing the smoke in my face like a challenge. I don’t let it faze me, ’cause I don’t want to go hard on him. I knew the moment I walked up to him that wouldn’t work.
“Would you have been that brave if my badge didn’t say ‘retired’?”
He just huffs.
“Jeffrey. He was a white college kid. You supplied him with blow. In this club here.”
“Step on outta here, fool.”
He steps sideways a bit, like he’s positioning himself ’cause he’s carrying.
I throw the right side of my suit jacket back, sorta like a gunslinger, to let him see what I carry.
He sees and lifts his shirt to expose his belly and the small of his back.
“I ain’t carryin’ nothin’ like that.”
I let the coat slide over my holster again. “I’m gonna be straight up with you ’cause I know nothing else would work. My girl is best friends with Jeffrey’s mom. She got in touch with my girl because she was worried about Jeffrey and knew I used to be a cop and could maybe help.”
“I told you I don’t know who the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”
“I saw you serve Jeffrey in the club last Thursday. Blow. It was so fucking obvious it’s silly.”
“Fuck this shit, man,” he says and sets the remainder of the blunt on the trunk of the car. “Rest is yours if you want it.” He starts to walk away.
“You the one who killed him? Jeffrey?”
He turns back to me. Looks startled. Not the kind of look I thought I’d see.
“The fuck you say?”
“You heard right.”
“He kilt?”
Okay, now.
I grab the blunt and take another drag. It’s good shit. I stretch my hand out to offer it back to him. He steps up and accepts. Takes another quick hit.
“Yeah,” I say. “And judging by the look on your face, I’m guessin’ you didn’t know.”
“For real? You ain’t playin’ me?”
“It’s for real.”
“Fuck” is all he says, then the last hit, and he flicks the blunt to the pavement. A few sparks spring out of it, are lifted, but die out fast. “Naw, I didn’t know. He got robbed or some shit like that?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not the police anymore.”
“You always the police, just without the power.”
“You’re right there. And I did call a couple of friends, but it’s a sensitive case, and they won’t even talk to me about it. I know how he was found, though. Maybe a burglary gone bad. Like I said, I’ve been watching him for his mom. He never knew I was watchin’. And I haven’t given the police anything about you yet.”
“Fuck that! I ain’t have nothin’ do with that shit. I liked Jiffy.”
“Jeff.”
“I know it’s Jeff, but I call him Jiffy.”
Says that like he’s still alive.
“Why?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. It just come out that way one day, and I liked it so it stuck.”
Fuckin’ Jiffy.
“What’d he call you?”
He hesitates. “Ray.”
Nineteen
Ray’s leaning back on the rear of his car again. I offer him a cigarette.
“Naw. I don’t smoke.”
Got some sense.
“Jiffy piss off anyone you know?”
“Naw, man. People liked him. He was funny.”
“Funny?”
“Wisecrackin’, but not the type that make you want to bitch-slap him. Just funny. Make you smile.”
“Did he use?”
“Use what?”
“Give me a fuckin’ break.”
Smiles like he was playing me. “On occasion, I guess, like most of us. But it wasn’t somethin’ that ruled him. You say maybe it was a burglary?”
“Yeah, but don’t know for sure. Why?”
“Fuck, you know how I do, so I’m gonna be straight with you, too.”
“’Preciate that.”
“But you keep my name outta this shit, a’right?”
“Okay.”
“Because of what I do, I know me some burglars.”
I want to ask about the records and CDs and the stereo, play it like that shit was stolen from Jeffrey, but he’s probably been in Jeffrey’s apartment, so I can’t chance it. He had a flat-screen and some CDs, though. Probably had a laptop, too.
“They wouldn’t let me in his apartment,” I begin, “but I could see through the door. There was a table that looked like it had a flat-screen on it, couple CDs on the floor. I know that’s common shit, but you know a burglar who was trying to unload some music, a flat-screen, and maybe a laptop? I’m pretty sure Jiffy had a laptop, being a college kid and all.”
“Most of the thieves here always hit that shit. Not a lot of them brave enough to kill somebody. Crackheads usually just run the fuck away. I know me one, though, might be crazy enough. Least I seen him with a gun before.”
“He got a name?”
“Fuck, nobody on the streets gotta full name. He did have a part name. Gibbons, Givens, some shit like that.”
“What does he look like?”
“A fucking crackhead. Skinny.”
“White guy, black, what?”
“Black dude. Keep his hair nice and tight, not all fucked up like most fiends. And he’s smart, too.”
“Oh, yeah? What areas does he hit?”
“Fuck, he’s all over the place.”
“What kinda gun you seen him with?”
“Some kinda nine.”
“Did this Gibbons or Givens ever have cause to get with Jiffy?”
“Not that I know.”
“Did he ever hang at the club?”
“The crackhead?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck no. He’d never be allowed in that club.”
“What was he doing with the gun he had?”
“Showin’ it off. Take a lot to scare me away, but that boy did. I rolled on outta there. He actin’ like he fuckin’ gonna shoot somebody.”
“So he get his crack from you?”
“I ain’t gotta tell you again.”
“When was the last time?”
“When he was waving that gun around. He got what he need, and like I said, I rolled out. Ain’t seen him since.”
“He go anywhere else to buy his shit?”
“Yeah, he gotta main place, but I don’t know where.”
He’s lying. They all know the competition.
“He drive a car?”
“Hell, no. Man, that’s about all I know. Fuck, damn sorry to hear about Jiffy. Fucking good dude. Smart as shit, but never act like he was better because of it.”
“Yeah. Sounds like he was a good boy.”
“Yeah. Damn.”
“You hang here often, so maybe I can try to get with you again in a couple days to see if you heard anything?”
“Yeah, but never fucking in front of no one. You still got cop all over you. Especially that expensive suit you wearin’.”
“I got me a part-time gig as a security consultant, so I got to dress the part, right?”
“A’right, then.�
��
“Let me pay you for your time?”
“Fuck no. I don’t need your money like I’m snitchin’.”
“Okay.” And I walk away, but turn to shoot him a nod and memorize the tag on his car.
“Remember to keep me outta this shit. And watch out for that Gibbon. He ain’t right.”
I nod. Sorta feel bad afterward. I like him.
Twenty
The phone wakes me up. I scramble for it on the nightstand beside my bed.
Hurley. I was going to call him today.
“What’s up, Joe?” I answer.
“May have located some of your property.”
“No shit! That was fast.”
“Yeah, especially when the suspect makes it easy. I’m at Thrift World, a secondhand dealer not far from your house. You available to stop by?”
“Hell, yes.”
I find a pen and an old receipt on the nightstand. I turn the receipt over so I can write on it.
“Go ahead.”
I write down the address he gives me.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Copy that.”
I disconnect.
“Damn!” I say happily to myself.
Twenty-One
Thrift World is a two-story redbrick row house connected to two more colorfully painted row houses on either side of it. It’s located off 9th Street, Northwest, on a small block that seems to be struggling, either to separate itself from the new trendy U Street corridor or hoping to find its place there. It’s only a few blocks from my house and not even a block from the 9:30 Club. Parking’s not a problem. I pull to the curb behind Hurley’s unmarked cruiser.
This neighborhood looks the way I remember it, which isn’t a good thing. Back when I was at NSID we used to hit this block and the surrounding blocks on a regular basis with buy busts. Mostly heroin. Certainly isn’t rolling like it was back in the day, but still, I wouldn’t trust leaving my car unattended for too long, even if it is parked behind a detective’s cruiser.
I check the outdoor temperature on the dash before I step out. Ninety-eight degrees. That, along with the extreme humidity, makes it feel like a mucky hundred and ten.
Crime Song Page 6