George Pelecanos - What It Was

“Why don’t you just be polite and ask us in,” said Passman.

“Don’t touch anything,” said Coco. “I’m not playin.”

She unfolded her arms and walked into her apartment, which was also her office. Vaughn and Passman followed. To Vaughn it looked like the lair of a proper madam. Red velvet sofa, a nice big bed, and a bar cart, fully stocked.

“Drink?” said Coco, reading Vaughn’s eyes.

Vaughn shook his head.

“We’re placing your girl under arrest for solicitation,” said Passman. “You, too, and the others.”

“This here is a licensed massage establishment.”

“You’ll get a phone call,” said Passman.

“Shit.” She looked at Vaughn. “I know why Vice made my door dark. Why you here?”

“I’m looking for Robert Lee Jones,” said Vaughn. “Goes by Red.”

“So?”

“He’s wanted on suspicion of a homicide. You and Red are friends, aren’t you?”

“Maybe we are. But I don’t kut nknow where he is at this time. If you run into him-”

“I know. Give him your regards.” Vaughn looked around, saw a closed door. “Is that a closet?”

“Go ahead and look in it. While you’re at it, search under the bed, you got a mind to.”

Vaughn’s eyes were drawn to the bed. It was a brass-rail deal, the box spring and mattress up high. He could see the edge of a wooden box beneath it, sitting on the floor. Many straights kept their valuables close by, underneath their beds. Criminals did, too. Vaughn glanced at Coco’s manicured hands, unadorned with jewelry.

“I doubt Red Jones is hiding under anyone’s bed,” said Vaughn.

“Believe it, big man.”

Coco looked at Vaughn directly. Vaughn smiled.

“I don’t need no bracelets, Hap,” said Coco.

“Right,” said Passman, turning to one of the cops in uniform. “Take her out. Gently.”

Out in the hall, as the girls were being led to the stairs, Coco watched Shay, her head down, her hair disheveled, being moved along by the undercover man. Shay was one of the newer ladies, and this was her first arrest. It would not be the only emotional hit she’d take that night.

Coco felt bad for Shay, almost. But it was time for her to see this life as it was instead of how she wanted it to be. Girl had to learn.

Vaughn was the last one out of the building. He checked the front door before stepping onto the street.

At half past ten that night, a bloody and beaten man named Dallas Butler walked into the Third District police station at 16th and V, Northwest, went directly to the desk sergeant, and said, “I wanna confess to the murder of Robert Odum. I’m turning myself in.”

Sergeant Bill Herbst, black-haired and beefy, pointed to a row of chairs. “Have a seat over there and wait.”

A few minutes later, Vaughn came out from the offices and found Butler, a uniformed cop now standing beside him. Vaughn studied Butler, a young man with wide shoulders and thick hands. His lower lip was split as if filleted, and one eye was swollen shut. There was a raised welt on his left cheek, and the ear on the same side was as big and misshapen as a gourd.

Blood was splattered all over the front of his white shirt, and blood had crusted beneath his mouth.

“You are?”

“Dallas Butler.”

“I understand you want to talk about a homicide.”

n Butler.“Yes, sir.”

“It’s Detective Vaughn.” He put out his hand. Butler gripped it weakly. “C’mon back and get cleaned up.”

Vaughn helped Butler up and guided him back into the main offices, which were not traditional offices but rather an open room of desks. Across the room, Coco Watkins, Shay, and the rest of the girls were finalizing their processing by Passman and a couple of the junior members of his squad. Coco’s lawyer, Jake Tempchin, who serviced many in the D.C. underworld, had arrived and was talking loudly and gesturing broadly at Passman and other police, who were going about their paperwork and pointedly not looking at him.

“Dallas!” said Shay when she noticed her man crossing the room. Her hand went to her mouth, an involuntary shock response at seeing Butler in his woeful condition.

“Shut up, girl,” said Coco.

Butler glanced over at his lady friend, made no acknowledgment, then lowered his head and kept walking. But Vaughn had caught the connection.

Butler was put into one of the interview rooms, which held a scarred table-and-chairs arrangement. Beside one chair a leg iron had been bolted to the floor, and on the table were an ashtray, a tape recorder, and a yellow legal pad. Vaughn sent in Officer Anne Honn, blond and womanly, who was the unofficial station house nurse and the object of much attention from her male coworkers. She commenced to working on Butler with alcohol swabs and antiseptics. Honn told Vaughn that Butler needed to go to a hospital, that at the very least his lip was going to need stitches. Vaughn agreed with her assessment, adding that it would have to wait. He turned to Butler.

“Your name is really Dallas?”

“Says Leonard on my birth certificate.”

“I’ll be back in a few,” said Vaughn. “You need water?”

“I’d rather have a soda.”

“Okay.” Vaughn lifted his deck of cigarettes from his inside pocket and dropped them on the table, along with a pack of matches. He never left his lighter in these rooms.

Butler eyed Vaughn’s L amp;Ms with disappointment. “Can I get a menthol?”

“I’ll give it a try.”

Vaughn exited the room. He got Passman’s attention, took him aside, and learned that Coco and the others would spend the night in jail, then be arraigned, bailed by Tempchin via a bondsman, and bounced the following day. In all probability the laborious and useless process would end in a fine. Passman asked Shay if she would speak with Detective Vaughn, but she refused.

Vaughn returned to his desk. He ran Butler’s name through the card system and made some phone calls, the first to the Absconding Unit, the last to Lorton Reformatory. All of that took an hour. On the way back to the interview room he bought a Nehi from a machine and hit up a young black detective, Charles Davis, for a couple of Newports.

He s si a youngwent back into the room, sat across the table from Butler, put down the orange soda, and rolled two Newports in his direction. Butler picked one up and fitted it carefully into the corner of his mouth. Vaughn readied an L amp;M, produced his lighter, put fire to Butler’s cigarette, and fired up his own. He let the nicotine hit his lungs and exhaled a long stream of satisfaction over the table. Butler closed his eyes dreamily as he dragged on his smoke.

Vaughn simultaneously pressed two buttons, play and record, on the machine, and stated the date and time.

“Let’s begin.”

“I’m ready.”

“Dallas is an unusual street name.”

“It’s my nickname. My mother’s been a Cowboys fan since nineteen sixty. I’m the same way.”

“You from here?”

“Straight D.C.”

“But you don’t root for the Redskins.”

“Hail to Old Dixie? Please. I can’t root for ’em.”

There were many black residents of the Washington area who supported the Cowboys. The Redskins, under previous owner George Preston Marshall, were the last team to integrate in the NFL. Some locals would never forget.

“You’re the Leonard Butler who busted out of Lorton on April nineteenth, correct?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Lotta people been looking for you, Dallas.”

“Here I am.”

“And now you want to confess to the murder of Bobby Odum.”

“Robert Odum, yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“On account of I killed him.”

“What was your motive?”