George Pelecanos - What It Was

“What’s wrong?”

“Some boofer poured rotgut into a Royal bottle.”

They tossed the room but found no heroin. Before they exited, Gregorio watched Fanella reach into a box and drop something in his pocket.

“Who’s that for?” said Gregorio.

Fanella said, “My wife.”

When strange was certain they had left, he reentered the house. He’d watched them, sitting as far back as possible on the fire escape, through the dirty window. He’d made out their race, size, hair color, guns, and the white raincoat the larger man wore.

Strange went down the hall to the large office, where a light had been left on. Carefully, he moved the curtain slightly aside on one of the big windows fronting 14th and looked down at the street. A large dark-haired man and a lean one with blondish hair were getting into a late-’60s black Lincoln. From this vantage point, the origin and numbers on the plates were unreadable. The car started with deep ignition and pulled away from the curb.

Strange had a quick look around. The men had turned the place over indelicately and searched the room thoroughly. A big wooden box, the kind used to hold silverware, sat on the floor beside the bed.

It was the box described by Vaughn. It had been opened and remained open still. There were only a few trinkets left inside. Necklaces of colored glass, a tiara with broken rhinestones, and a cameo brooch that looked to be made of plastic. All kinds of cheap, imitation jewelry.

Strange moved his hand through the goods. He found no ring.

Frank Vaughn pushed his plate aside, picked up his deck of L amp;Ms, and shook out a smoke. He lit the cigarette with his Zippo, placed the lighter atop the pack, and pulled an ashtray within reach. Before him was a notepad and pen.

“I’ll have some more java, Nick.”

“Sure thing, Marine.” Nick Michael, owner and operator of the Vermont Avenue diner, took Vaughn’s empty and moved to the big urns, where he drew a cup of fresh coffee. He returned to the counter with the full cup and placed it in Vaughn’s saucer. To the young black man with the thick mustache and broad shoulders, seated beside Vaughn, Nick said, “How ’bout you, young fella, want me to warm that up?”

“I’m good,” said Strange. He had already devoured his eggs, scrapple, and onions fried in hash browns, and sopped up the yolk with toast. Nick removed both of their plates and walked toward a bus pan down by the register.

“You get in that building all right?” said Vaughn.

“Thanks to you.”

“Wish I’d stuck around.”

“I was lookin through a di ~ttlivuckrty window, mostly, so I didn’t have the best view.”

“And you saw…”

“Two white men. One dark and on the big side, one thin and fair skinned. The big guy carried a shotgun. The other one had some kind of pistol.”

“What about their vehicle?”

“Black late-sixties Lincoln with suicides.”

Vaughn wrote that down on his pad. “Sounds like a match. Two white men visited Roland Williams and tortured him in D.C. General yesterday. A nurse gave us a rough description that’s close to yours.”

“Tortured him for what?”

“Williams says he doesn’t recollect. I’m guessing they were after information on the whereabouts of Red Jones. If I’m right, Williams gave up the location of Coco Watkins’s whorehouse. That’s what they were doing there-looking for Red.”

“Who are they?”

“Button men from up north,” said Vaughn. “Italians. Williams copped heroin on consignment from a guy up in Harlem who was connected to the Organization. So Roland Williams, in effect, owed money to the Mob. Jones took off Roland’s stash. Now the Italians are looking for Jones to settle the debt.”

“You know this?”

“Williams told me just enough to put it together. It makes sense.”

“Red Jones is leaving behind a trail of fire.”

“He’s bold,” said Vaughn. “Him and his partner, little dude named Alfonzo Jefferson, compelled a Lorton escapee, Dallas Butler, to come into the station last night and make a false confession to the murder of Bobby Odum.”

“Compelled him how?”

“They beat the shit out of him and threatened to murder his mother. Butler’s on the way back to jail, and happy to catch the ride. I did get one bit of information before I shipped him off.”

“What’s that?”

“Jefferson drives a sixty-eight Electra, gold exterior, hardtop with fender skirts.”

“Deuce-and-a-quarter?”

“Uh-huh. Case you see it on the street…”

“I know. Proceed with caution.”

“I’m guessing Jones is cribbed up with Jefferson somewhere,” said Vaughn. “Coco’s trick pad is way too hot.”

Strange borrowed a pen from Vaughn and wrote down the description of Jefferson’s car on a napkin. He folded the napkin and slipped it in the pocket of his slacks.

“You happen to find Red,” said Vaughn, “I wouldn’t try to talk to him about any missibouheing jewelry.”

“Someone’s gotta end this cat sooner or later.”

“It’s coming,” said Vaughn. “Jones has a big set of nuts and he gives a good fuck about exactly nothin. But he’s gonna bite it. Guys like him think they’re taller than they are. They step on the wrong toes, and then it’s assassination time. Darkness.”

“Maybe you’ll find him first.”

“I hope I do,” said Vaughn. He hit his cigarette and studied it as he exhaled smoke. “I think I’m startin to love this guy.”

“What’s next?”

“I ran Alfonzo Jefferson through the system. He’s got priors but he’s no longer under supervision. Father deceased, no siblings on record. If his mother’s alive, there’s no record of her whereabouts. Prob’ly has a different last name than he does.”

“Find the Electra, you find Jefferson.”

“Right. There’s a few Buicks in the city that match the description, but none under his name. I’ll go out on the registration list and see if someone’s carrying the paper for him. Talk to my informants, like that. You?”

“I’m thinking about taking a closer look at my client.”

“Maybelline Walker? I don’t blame you.”

“I’m curious, is all.”

“That broad’s got a bag of cats under her dress. I met her, remember?”

“It’s not like that,” said Strange.

“Yeah, I know. You like her.” Vaughn’s grin was canine. “Deep down inside.”

“Sayin, I’m spoken for. Got a date tonight with my girl, matter of fact. We’re going to a show at Carter Barron.”

“I took Olga there to see Henry Mancini and Harry Belafonte a few years ago. Mancini played ‘Moon River,’ and I acted like I cared.”

Nick laid down the check between them, and Strange reached for his wallet. “I got this one.”

“Stay in touch, Derek.”

“I will.”

Vaughn crushed out his L amp;M. Strange palmed a couple of dollars over the counter to the grill woman and settled up with Nick.

Red Jones and Alfonzo Jefferson sat in the gold Electra, parked nose east on Oglethorpe Street, in a neighborhood called Hampshire Knolls in Northeast. Their clothing was brightly colored, their heels were high, and the collars of their shirts were laid out wide across their chests. Jones had his.45 on the seat, resting against his leg. Jefferson’s police-issue.38 was fit snugly between his legs.

Small homes, attached to one another in pairs, lined the block. The houses, built in 1950 and sold under the GI Bill, had originally gone for $12,000, with a mere $500 down payment the ticket in. Nearly all of those veterans and their young families were gone now, having moved out to suburban Maryland in search of better schools, safer streets, and whiter neighborhoods.