George Pelecanos - What It Was

She was in her fifties, with graying, straightened hair that had a nice shine to it. From the way her bottom half filled out her slacks, he could see that she was young where it counted. Vaughn liked her manner and her looks.

“I didn’t see the Buick out front.”

“Dewight takes it to work.”

“Where’s his place of employment?”

She told him and asked, “What’s this about?”

“I’m hoping to question the owner of a car like yours. But I’m pretty sure your husband isn’t the man I’m looking for. Does he ever loan out his vehicle? Let a friend drive it, something like that?”

“Not that I’m aware of. But you should ask him that yourself.”

Henrietta looked down a l’at the soil she had just turned over with the shovel. “I’m going to put in some tomato plants. Do you think I waited too long? It’s awful late in the season, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Vaughn.

Vaughn hadn’t pushed a lawnmower in twenty years and he’d never planted a garden in his life. He paid neighborhood kids to take care of his yard. He had no hobbies or outside interests. He didn’t own a pair of shorts. He played no golf. Police work sprung him out of bed every morning. There wasn’t anything else.

“I’m going to plant them anyway,” said Henrietta Mitchell. “Even if they don’t last, what could it hurt?”

“That’s the spirit,’ said Vaughn.

Walking back to his car, Vaughn thought of Olga. What she was doing at that moment, where she was. Olga was probably shopping up at Wheaton Plaza, or visiting with her friends, who were Jewish gals, mostly. Sitting in one of their kitchens, smoking Silva Thins or Vantages, had the hole in the filter, drinking coffee, gossiping, or playing with those mah-jongg tiles. The Vaughns were Catholics and worshipped at St. John’s near their house. Well, Olga worshipped, and Vaughn went along. As Catholic as she was, and Olga was devout, she mainly gravitated toward Jewish ladies when she wanted to socialize. Vaughn scratched his forehead. A female Jew was a Jewess, right? Olga had told him that term was old and only cavemen still used it.

Okay, Olga, whatever you say.

Picturing her lecturing him, her hand on the hip of her pedal pushers, her red, red lipstick shouting out against her pancake-white face, Vaughn smiled.

Olga was on his mind often while he worked. Much as she annoyed him when he was home, and as little romance as they had between them, she never left his head for too long. As for Linda Allen, he only thought of her when he felt a stirring in his trousers. Funny how that was.

I guess I love my wife, thought Vaughn.

Done reflecting, he got into his Dodge.

Maybelline Walker had taken Military Road off 16th and cut down Oregon Avenue. Crossing Nebraska Avenue and hanging a left on Tennyson Street, just past the Army Distaff Hall, she came to stop in front of a center-hall brick colonial in a neighborhood called Barnaby Woods.

Keeping far back, Strange pulled over to the curb near the corner of Oregon and let his Chevy idle.

Maybelline got out of her Pontiac, went to the colonial, knocked on its front door, and was soon greeted by a middle-aged white woman, who let her inside. As the door closed, Strange pulled the horseshoe shifter back into drive and drove past the house. Making note of the address, he continued on to Connecticut Avenue, where he found a pay phone on the retail strip running south of Chevy Chase Circle.

Strange phoned Lydell Blue at the Fourth District station. Lydell was pulling desk duty. It was a break for Strange.

“What’s goin on, Sarge?” said Strange.

“Don’t Sarge me .”

“Got a favor to ask, blood.”

“And don’t blood me, either,” said Blue. “Not when you looking for favors.”

“Do I ask for many?”

“Matter of fact, you do. Would be nice if you called me once in a while and said, I don’t know, ‘Let’s meet for a beer.’ ”

“What you want, a box of chocolates, too? You sound like a female.”

“Come over here right now and this female will put a foot up your ass.”

“When I do try to get you out, you say you can’t.”

“I got responsibilities now.”

“Wasn’t me who told you to get married.”

“What do you know about marriage? Even if you were married, Derek, you wouldn’t be.”

“True.” Strange wasn’t proud of it. His friend Lydell knew him well. “About that favor…”

“What is it?”

Strange gave him the address he had memorized. “I need a phone number and names.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“I’ll hold. I know you got the crisscross right there.”

“Gimme a minute,” said Blue. Shortly thereafter, he got back on the line with the information. Strange wedged the receiver between his chin and chest as he wrote it down.

“Thanks, brother.”

“That all?”

“What kind of flowers you like? I wanna send you a bouquet.”

“ Fuck you, man.”

“You my boy,” said Strange, and hung up the phone.

Strange had time, and he was hungry. He drove down to the Hot Shoppes on Connecticut, below Albemarle Street, sat at the counter, and ate a Teen Twist with fries and a Coke. The waitress mentioned that Mr. Isaac Hayes was across the street at the WMAL studios, doing an interview in advance of a local performance. When Strange was finished with his meal, he settled up, went outside, and stood on Connecticut Avenue. Wasn’t long before Isaac Hayes came out of the building across the street and walked toward a waiting limousine. Hayes was shirtless, his big chest and shoulders draped in the multiple, thick-link gold chains he’d worn at Wattstax and on the cover of Hot Buttered Soul .

“Black Moses,” said Strange with wonder.

He c sim" hecked his watch. Reckoning that Maybelline would be in that house tutoring for another hour or so, Strange walked a half block north to the Nutty Nathan’s stereo and appliance store and had a look around. A mustached salesman, pink eyed and smelling of weed, malt liquor, and breath mints, got a hold of him and promptly led him to the sound room in the back of the store, where he put an album on a BSA platter and demoed a high-amp sound system played through the much-touted Bose 901 speakers. A stinging guitar intro came forward.

Strange’s eyes widened involuntarily. It was not the kind of music he normally listened to, but the sound quality of the system was outrageous and the song was blowing back his head.

“Steely Dan,” said the salesman. “New group out of California.”

“Nice,” said Strange.

“ ‘Your everlasting summer, you can feel it fading fast,’ ” said the salesman, reciting the lyrics dramatically. He hand-brushed a Hitleresque shock of black hair that had fallen across his forehead, then did some fretwork with his fingers. “They can play, Jim.”

“The name’s Derek.”

“Johnny McGiness,” said the salesman, extending his hand.

Strange shook it. “Maybe I’ll be back.”

McGinnes smiled stupidly. “If I don’t see you here, I’ll see you… hear? ”

Before he left, Strange purchased a four-pack of blank Memorex tapes. A skinny young white dude, probably around sixteen, his white-boy Afro touching his shoulders, in Levi 501s rolled up cigarette-style and a Nutty Nathan’s T-shirt, stood by the register counter, eyeing Strange. Had to be a stock boy, ’cause he held a dustrag in his hand. Looked like an Italian or a Greek, what with the large Mediterranean nose that dominated his face. He, too, had stoned eyes.

A female clerk with dilated pupils handed Strange the bagged-up tapes, the package no bigger than a sandwich.