George Pelecanos - What It Was

“I just didn’t like the man.”

“Must have been a strong dis like.”

“It was.”

“Where’d he live again?”

Butler gave Vaughn the correct address of Odum’s building and added, “Second floor.”

“How’d you get the better of him? I mean, you got some size on you, Dallas. But Odum had to be what, six-three or — four?”

“Bobby? You could put him in your pocket.”

“Wasn’t too sporting of you to shoot him in the back.”

“It w se="g oas the back of the head . Twice.”

“Thirty-Eight, right?”

“Twenty-Two, Colt Woodsman.”

“That particular gun makes you a contract man.”

“If the shoe fits,” said Butler, “you got to put it on.”

“I don’t think so,” said Vaughn.

They stopped speaking for a while and enjoyed their cigarettes. The smoke hung thick in the small space. It irritated their eyes and nose hairs, but they smoked on. Butler dragged deeply on his Newport and added to the cloud in the room.

“Back to Odum…” said Vaughn.

“Right.”

“I’m on the old side, case you haven’t noticed,” said Vaughn. “Been at this a long while. Can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat in rooms like this one, talking to murderers. Some of them acted on impulse, or out of rage or jealousy. Some of them planned their deed well in advance. Different reasons and motives, but they all had one thing in common. They had the capacity to pull the trigger or twist the knife. What I mean is, they could kill. You? You don’t have that thing in you, young man.”

“No?”

“There’s nothing in your sheet to suggest it. No violence. Even the crime that got you your sixteen. Armed robbery? Shit, you weren’t even armed. Your accomplice had the gun.”

“You get inside those walls, you learn.”

“It’s not in your eyes.” Vaughn hit his cigarette one last time and crushed the cherry. “That day you robbed the market. What were you up on, some kinda dope?”

Butler shook his head and spoke softly. “Swiss Colony wine.”

“Took a couple a fifths of Bali Hai to jack up your courage, didn’t it, Dallas? Didn’t it?”

Butler looked away.

“You didn’t kill anyone,” said Vaughn.

“Wanna speak to an attorney.”

“I already know that Red Jones murdered Odum. Who beat your ass and sent you in here to confess? Was it Jones?”

Butler crossed his arms. His cigarette had burned down to the filter. “Send me back to Lorton. I don’t even like it out here no more.”

“First you need to tell me who did this to you.”

“I can’t, man.”

“Why not?”

“My mother.”

Vaughn leaned forward. n leaneward. “Tell me about it.”

“They threatened to do my mom if I didn’t turn myself in.”

“Jones?”

“And his partner.”

“Little man with gold teeth.”

“Alfonzo Jefferson.”

Vaughn pulled a pen from his jacket and wrote the name down on a pad. “Does your mother have someone she can live with until we can get these guys off the street?”

Butler nodded. “My sister stays over in Maryland with her husband and kids.”

“I’ll send someone to your mom’s place. We’ll tell her to move to your sister’s for a while.”

“My brother-in-law’s not gonna like that,” said Butler. But he gave Vaughn his mother’s address.

“They worked you over pretty good,” said Vaughn.

“It was mostly Fonzo.”

“Why’d he have to do you like that?”

“ Had to got nothin to do with it.” Butler lit his second cigarette off the one still burning.

“Where can I find those two?”

“I don’t know. I was supposed to meet with, you know, this girl I see. I went to the spot, and they rolled up on me instead. Took me into an alley.”

“Rolled up in what?”

“Gold deuce-and-a-quarter with skirts. Nice-lookin car… a sixty-eight.”

“Hard or soft top?”

“Hard.”

Vaughn wrote this down. “The girl is the one out in the office with the mole on her face. That’s how you got involved in all this?”

“Shay,” said Butler. “Nice little gal.”

“She looks it.”

“Don’t be rough on her, man. She didn’t know. Red told me so hisself.”

“I’m not looking to add to her problems.”

“She ain’t had no problem with me.”

“No?”

“I hit that thing right.” Butler smiled reflectively. “She got some good pussy on her, man.”

“It’s all good when it’s young.” Vaughn got up out of his chair. “You need some medical attention before they put you back. I’ll just get that going for you. Get you some more cigarettes, too.”

“Y’all talk to my mother,” said Butler, “please don’t tell her I got beat. I don’t want the old girl to worry.”

“Not a problem.”

Vaughn left the room and closed the door behind him. Passman was still working, but Coco, the ladies, and their lawyer were gone. Vaughn gave some instructions to Officer Anne Honn regarding Butler’s treatment and his mother. He then went to his desk, had a seat, picked up his phone, and got Derek Strange at his apartment. He told Strange what he’d seen in Coco’s bedroom, and the window of opportunity that existed, most likely, for just one night. He described the layout of the building and its front door.

Vaughn then phoned Olga. He told her he loved her. He told her he had paperwork to do and not to wait up.

Out in the lot, he got into his Monaco and headed uptown. Vaughn stopped at the Woodnar on 16th Street, past the lion bridge, and went up to Linda Allen’s apartment.

“How about a drink for an old friend?” said Vaughn when Linda opened her door.

She put a June Christy record on the console stereo and fixed a couple of cocktails. They had some laughs and fucked like animals in her bed.

Alfonzo Jefferson had a spot in the high fifties, in a place known as Burrville in far Northeast, the populous but least-mentioned quadrant of the city, forgotten by many in power, mysterious and virtually unknown to most suburban commuters. Jefferson rented a two-story asbestos-shingled house near Watts Branch Park, on a sparsely built block whose houses sat on large pieces of land. It was an urban location with a country vibe. A few kept chickens in their backyards, and one old man had a goat on a chain. It was quiet here, and that suited Jefferson fine.

Jefferson had no checkbook or Central Charge card. He paid a man cash to live in the house. The rent was a little bit more than the surroundings warranted, but the extra was for utilities and such. Jefferson didn’t want his name on any bills. As for his car, he had bought it from the Auto Market at 3rd and Florida and had this girl, Monique Lattimer, put her name on the title and registration. Come tax time, Jefferson wrote “handyman” in the space they had for occupation. He claimed he earned little income and paid nothing or sometimes pennies to the government. He used his mother’s address when he had to, and it was an old address. He was as invisible as a man could be.

He was seated in the living room, which held worn, heavily cushioned furniture grouped around a cable spool table. Jefferson, wearing a woven brimmed hat indoors, looked small in the big high-back chair. Red Jones and Clarence Bowman were on the couch. They were drinking Miller High Lifes out of bottles and huffing cigarettes. Monique Lattimer was somewhere in the house, but Jefferson had asked her to leave the room. They could hear her moving around up on the second floor.

“Tempchin say Coco and the girls gonna be out tomorrow,” said Jones. “She vp h got word to me through the lawyer. Said it was that detective, Vaughn, was in on the bust. He’s lookin for me on the Odum thing.”