Crime Song

by David Swinson

  Hurley’s inside waiting for me. No one else is in the store except for a young short guy in his midtwenties riddled with tattoos. He’s leaning against a gold-trimmed glass counter and has a scowl that I’ve seen countless times when someone thinks he’s being harassed. This is probably one of the locations where people would plot their moves back in the day when we had all the IMF protesting going on. Maybe even filled baggies with their own piss to throw at the police standing the line. I don’t even know this guy and I’ve already judged him.

  Looks like he sells a few records, which he keeps in bins along a back wall, but he has a lot more CDs. Gotta be hundreds of them. He has old stereo equipment, too, along with a few bikes, small pieces of furniture, a couple of racks of clothing—leather jackets, flannel—and a lot of odds and ends, collectibles.

  I greet Hurley with a handshake.

  “Everything is behind the counter,” he says.

  I follow him. The protester reluctantly steps aside to let us invade his space. I get a heavy waft of skunk weed when I pass him, like it’s stuck to his clothing and he’s sweating THC.

  I take a look.

  Son of a bitch. My stereo equipment. Fucking son of a bitch. It’s sitting right here in front of me. Oh, I’m pissed, but it’s a sorta happy mad.

  “Yeah, this is my shit.”

  “Everything you put on your list is in there,” Hurley says. “No vinyl or CDs, though. I took a look around because, as you know, I don’t need a search warrant.” He stares directly at the storekeeper after saying that. “Didn’t see anything that matches the description of your other property.”

  “I told you, Officer, he didn’t come in with any vinyl or CDs, just this stuff.”

  “No laptop, either?” Hurley asks.

  “No.”

  Now I want to slap him silly.

  As I turn to face Hurley and Stinky Boy, I notice the cover of The Best of Bread tacked to the wall above a cash register. Mounted beside it is the record, broken in half.

  It’s like I’ve been violated again.

  “You broke my Bread,” I tell the owner directly.

  He seems baffled at first, then realizes.

  He drops his head like he knows he just got fucked twice.

  I look at it more closely.

  “That’s mine. My mother made those little doodles on the cover’s corner.”

  “So where is the rest of the vinyl and the CDs?” Hurley asks.

  “Okay, I swear I only bought this one. For fifty cents.”

  “Why would he only bring in one?”

  “He said he had more and just wanted to know how much he could get before lugging it in here. It wasn’t enough to make it worth his while.”

  “So why’d you have to go and mount it on the wall like that?” I ask.

  “Dude, I—I just don’t like Bread,” he says with a shrug.

  “Dude?” I return. “Fuck, you ain’t got no heart.”

  A little over the top, maybe, but still. I don’t have to look to know that Hurley probably rolled his eyes.

  “Can I take it off?” I ask Hurley.

  “Let me take a couple of pictures first, and then I’ll take it off.”

  He snaps a couple of photos with a small digital camera. He slips on some latex gloves.

  “We’re going to see if we can get prints off all this.”

  “So that means I’m not going to see it for a while.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ll keep everything safe.”

  Hurley walks over, pulls the tacks out of the cover, and peels the vinyl off the wall. He used double-sided adhesive tape, so some of the wall paint tears off with it. He sets the broken vinyl and covers near the turntable.

  “So what’s the story here?” I ask Hurley.

  “Like I told you the other day, secondhand dealers and pawn shops have to log in whatever they buy off the street, including information about who they bought it from. I was looking through the database we have and noticed that young Mr. Wendland here purchased stereo equipment on the same day you reported the burglary.”

  Stinky Wendland turns his head away from us, toward the ground, looking like he wants to spit.

  “Did you get a name?”

  “Yes, and no record. I’m sure it was a fake ID.”

  “His identification looked good to me, Detective,” Wendland says.

  “Yeah, they always do,” Hurley returns.

  Wendland turns back to the ground.

  Hurley motions for me to step away from the counter. Talk privately.

  “Just a matter of procedure: you know anybody by the name of Graham Biddy?” Hurley asks me.

  Damn. I thought it would be the dude Ray gave up, Givens. Maybe this Biddy just sold my property for him, or maybe they worked together.

  “Fuck no. Nor did I give him permission to break into my home, kill my cousin, steal my property, then sell some of the shit here.”

  “You beat me to it,” Hurley says.

  “I know the line of questioning.”

  “But let’s not jump to conclusions. We don’t know if this guy’s the shooter.”

  “Okay. So what now?”

  “Simple. I take a picture of your property, put it all in the trunk of my cruiser, and I’ll make sure Crime Scene is gentle and kind.”

  He snaps his pics, and after Hurley gives me latex gloves, I help him carry everything to his car and put it in the trunk.

  We return to the store, and Hurley proceeds to light Wendland up for several violations. His lips tighten, and he’s shaking his head ever so slightly. Makes me smile.

  Hurley’s phone rings. He looks at the screen.

  “I’d better take this,” he says, and he answers. “Really? Yes, of course, Sarge. Heading there now…maybe fifteen minutes. Copy.” He disconnects, looks at me. “Damn.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I have to roll on something. I’ll get back to you soon.”

  Must be important, ’cause I gotta wonder if Hurley did the right thing leaving me here alone with Wendland.

  He starts to walk away. I suddenly remember.

  “Wait—before you go.”

  He stops by the front door, out of earshot for Wendland.

  I approach him. “I got some good info for you.”

  “About what?”

  “I was able to get some good info on that kid who served Jeffrey at the club. The one with dreadlocks.”

  “Yeah?”

  I take out my wallet and remove a torn piece of paper from it, hand it to Hurley.

  “Ray, and a tag number? How the hell did you get this?”

  “Same way you and Millhoff would’ve, but I did it first.”

  “Damn, Frank. We told you to stay the hell out of this.”

  “Don’t go worrying yourself. I didn’t fuck anything up. I saw him outside the club and got a friend of mine who works security a couple buildings over to approach him. He’s an ex-cop, so he knows how to handle himself and how to play these mopes.”

  “Thanks. We’ll follow up on it for sure, but I have to go.”

  He opens the door, turns to me, and says, “Don’t work this anymore, all right?”

  “Go or you’ll be late.”

  He shakes his head and hurries to his car. I return to the counter.

  Twenty-Two

  Anything else I can help you with?” Stinky asks.

  “Yes. Did Detective Hurley mention to you who I am?”

  “No. Why would he?”

  “Well, the only difference between me and him is I’m retired. But you know…”

  I show him my badge.

  “I spent most of my career as a detective at the Narcotics Branch. Had a pretty good reputation, actually, and still have a lot of friends on the department.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now I’m a private investigator, so the good thing is, for me, I can get away with a lot more than my good friend Detective Hurley can.”

  “That sounds like a threat
.”

  “Well, dude, sort of. Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

  “I think maybe you should leave now.”

  “I think maybe I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer them.”

  “I told the detective everything I know. You got your property back. Now you’re harassing me.”

  “So call the police.”

  “Listen, you got your stuff back, and I lost money on the deal because I don’t get reimbursed. Not to mention all these violations I’m going to have to pay now.”

  “So you’re the victim here?” I’m thinking of Jeffrey, but I don’t mention him.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Tell me what you told Detective Hurley.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Do you get a lot of return customers? ’Cause damn, you got some attitude. Or is it just the police you have a problem with?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Don’t worry. Even though I’ve been known to have anger issues, I won’t let that happen here. My girl’s a lawyer, and I’d rather make this a civil matter and tie your ass up in court for the next year. We can go that route, but I don’t think you can afford it. Or you can just answer a couple questions, help me find the rest of my stolen property. The music collection means a lot to me. Damn important. So there. Now you know why I’m so pissed off.”

  He doesn’t know what to say.

  “Couple questions, and I’m outta here for good. Whaddya say? I’ll even talk to Hurley, see if he’ll cut you a break on the fines.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

  “No, it’s the truth. With what I do for a living I gotta be a man of my word. Word gets out I can’t be trusted, and it’s bad for business.”

  “Like I said, I told him everything I know, but if you need to hear it for yourself, then I guess that’s all right.”

  “Some of these things Hurley already told me, too, but I’m going to ask anyway.”

  Odd turn of his head to the right and up, like “Get on with it already.”

  “This Biddy guy come in often?”

  He hesitates.

  “Listen. Detective Hurley already has a list of all the transactions this guy’s made with you. I just want to hear it from you.”

  “Couple times a week.”

  “Does he come in alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How the hell did he manage to carry all this equipment in here?”

  “He made a couple of trips.”

  “So he kept a car parked outside?”

  “No. He had a cab waiting for him.”

  “A cab?”

  “Yeah. The cabbie waits for him, then they leave.”

  “Does Biddy sit in the front or the back of the cab?”

  “Huh? Backseat, I think.”

  “Does the cab driver ever help him take stuff out?”

  “No. He just sits in the front seat and pops the trunk.”

  “You ever help him?”

  “Uh…no?”

  “Do you know the cab number?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Describe the cab for me.”

  “Indie cab. Black with white letters on the front. An older model, like the old cop cars you guys used to drive. Some of you still do.”

  “What does the cab driver look like?”

  “I don’t know, man. He’s just an older black guy.”

  “Give me a description of Biddy.”

  “I don’t—African American, tall and skinny.”

  “Complexion, age, hair…”

  “Medium complexion, I guess, maybe early thirties. Short hair.”

  “You tell Detective Hurley all this?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to. He was asking me a bunch of questions, then you came in, and he stopped questioning me.”

  It takes a lot to surprise me, even a burglar who has a cab pick him up and lets him pack stolen goods into the trunk, then transports him to a fence. It’s only one more story to add to the list of heartbreak and terror and betrayal. Now the question is, do I tell Hurley? It is my life on the line, after all.

  Twenty-Three

  I have a plan.

  Wendland gave me good information after all that. What I need to do now is sit on Thrift World and wait for a cab that fits Wendland’s description to drop off Biddy or some other burglar. According to Wendland, they come by on a fairly regular basis, but not always on the same days. If Hurley and Millhoff find out I’m holding on to this info for myself, I don’t know what they’ll do. But I’m not going to just sit back. Besides, if they start working it, who knows how long it’ll take? Like I said, and will probably keep saying, it’s my life in the fucking grinder here.

  Jeffrey again.

  His, too. I can’t forget that.

  I can get away with a lot more than the police can. Plain and simple. At least this is what I tell myself. I’ll start tomorrow when the store opens, at 10:00 a.m.

  I wonder, too, if Wendland does a little more than just weed. Based on the odor radiating from his body, the weed’s gotta be good. I’m thinking, even hoping, he might be into blow, but I doubt it. His type usually smokes morning, noon, and night.

  I stay parked for a while, keeping an eye on the store. I pull out a capsule from a vial in my pants pocket, twist the capsule open, and squeeze the contents onto the back of my left hand. I scan the area, then snort it up.

  Twenty-Four

  More coffee, with a couple of grapefruit, a scalding shower, and then dressing down for surveillance. I grab my backpack and stuff a large plastic bottle of water in the pouch on the side.

  I drive back to Thrift World and find a good spot on a side street that faces west and most of the block the store is on. I’m far enough away not to be made. That’s why I have palm-size binos. I got about twenty minutes before he opens.

  I slide the car seat back and recline to my usual comfortable position. Everything I need within arm’s reach. Have to keep the car running, though, or I’d die of heat exhaustion. It’s gonna be another hot and humid day. But the heat is good, ’cause my car won’t spew exhaust like it would in the cold months. Honestly, no one’s going to think much of me parked here anyway. I’m not in the type of car cops use, and I know Vice isn’t hitting this area that much anymore. They’re stuck on more important details, like standing on corners in uniform and serving lemonade under an umbrella.

  A little after ten, a young white chick unlocks the front door to Thrift World. I peer through my binos. She’s fairly attractive in a grimy sort of way. She has long dreads and wears a V-neck white T-shirt and short shorts. Her nose is pierced, and she’s got a lot of ink. She enters and closes the door behind her.

  The hot coffee I bought on the way is cooling down. I grab a bottle of Jameson out of my pack and pour a couple shots’ worth in the paper cup.

  After a long sip I exhale with contentment. Gotta keep yourself content.

  In the couple of hours that follow I only notice a handful of people entering, but they look like regular customers. Today might not be the day for the other kinda business. Buying stolen shit might be reserved for those days Wendland is working. Who knows at this point? It’s only the first day, and this spot sure as hell doesn’t look like a fencing operation. Maybe mom-and-pop, but nothing major.

  The day’s a bust. Night encroaches. The interior of the store darkens a bit. The front light over the door and interior back lights go on. A couple of minutes later she exits and locks up.

  I watch her as she walks around the corner. I follow.

  When I get to the corner, she’s heading toward 9th Street. I ease up to let her make that turn, then I drive to the corner. She walks into a place I know well. The Velvet Lounge. Used to be a cool hangout, probably still is, but I haven’t been there in years. I’m thinking I want a drink, but then maybe that’s not such a good idea, especially if Wendland is meeting her there. I won’t take the c
hance. Drinking alone at home is what I’d rather do anyway. That I do enjoy.

  I park the car on the corner of 12th and W, just barely legal. I make sure everything is secured in my pack and exit. Tap the key fob to lock it up and walk. There is something soothing about the cicadas at this time of the evening, when the sun begins to set, like gentle waves seeping into the sand after they hit the shore.

  I hear the rumble of a car’s big engine behind me, and when I turn I notice the marked patrol cruiser easing up to the curb and stopping. It’s gotta be someone I know. But then the emergency lights go on and the driver’s-side spotlight is directed at my face, blinding me, so I have to look down and shield my eyes.

  What the fuck is this?

  I’m thinking it’s all over, but then I realize no, it’s just one vehicle. If it had to do with the homicide, they sure as hell wouldn’t come at me with one patrol car. I hear the car door open.

  “Please place the backpack slowly on the ground behind you.”

  “What the hell is this about?” I ask with authority.

  I move my head away from the direct light, shield it with my right hand so it doesn’t blind me so much. I see a young officer, looks like he’s fresh out of the academy, standing behind the open passenger door of the cruiser with his gun pointed at me. The strobing lights catch my attention, but only for a millisecond.

  Fuck, I love those lights.

  “I want to see your hands.”

  “They’re right here and empty, Officer. Tell me what’s going on. My house is right down the street.”

  “Turn around and lace your fingers over your head. Slowly step backwards toward the car.”

  “I’m a retired DC police detective. Check my wallet.”

  I hear him mumbling something to the driver.

  “Now!” he commands.

  I don’t think now is the time to tell him I’m armed. I slowly raise my hands over my head and lace my fingers.

  “Now slowly walk back toward me until I say stop.”

  I’m not about to argue with this fucking rookie, so I obey.

  “You’re making a big mistake, Officer. I know most of the officials at 3D. Who is your supervisor?”