George Pelecanos - What It Was

The young man said, “Would you like me to take that out to your car for you, sir?”

“I think I can handle it,” said Strange.

The young man smiled. “Just doin my j-o-b.”

Smartass, thought Strange. And heading out the door, he thought: Is it just me, or is everyone in this motherfucker high?

Vaughn had a brief conversation with Dewight Mitchell, a D.C. Transit bus mechanic who troubleshot at the depot up by 14th and Decatur. Mitchell was about Vaughn’s age, solidly built, with short gray hair and veins thick as worms on the backs of his workingman hands. Once Mitchell had shown him his Electra, a convertible, Vaughn knew for certain he was speaking to the wrong man. He had known, in fact, since he’d met Henrietta, Mitchell’s wife.

They talked cars, mainly. Vaughn said he was a Mopar man but felt that Dodge had erred with the design change they’d made afterdwid the golden years of ’66 and ’67. Mitchell liked GMs for their elegant lines but conceded their mechanical inferiority. Said he could break down any kind of engine, so the nuts-and-bolts shortcomings didn’t bother him much, long as he was driving a nice-looking car.

They shook hands and Vaughn went on his way.

In Vaughn’s mind, he was straight with black people. He got along fine with them, mostly, if they were polite and close to his age. It was some of the young ones, with their attitude, who rubbed him the wrong way. As if to underscore the point, a dark guy with a blowout crossed the road up by Colorado Avenue, taking his sweet old time as Vaughn approached in his Monaco. Vaughn had to stop and wait for the young man to pass, and got an eyefuck for his courtesy. It was that special look that said, I dare you to hit me, white man.

Maybe I should pull over and kick your ass, thought Vaughn. But these days, at the urging of Olga, he was trying to get with the program and move to a higher spiritual place, join hands with all the people of colors and step forward into the light.

Vaughn showed the spade his choppers and drove on.

First thing Clarence Bowman did after reporting for work at D.C. General early that morning was to check in on Roland “Long Nose” Williams. Looking through the open door of his room, he saw an orderly changing the sheets on Roland’s empty bed. Confirming that Williams had been released, Bowman called in to the home office and said he was experiencing stomach problems that rendered him unable to work. Excused from his duties for the day, he returned to his apartment off H Street, got out of his security guard uniform, and changed into triple-pleat black slacks, a gray poly shirt, black side-weaves, and a summer-weight sport jacket, also black. Bowman phoned Coco Watkins and told her that Williams was back on the street.

“I’ll make sure Red gets the message,” said Coco. “You on your thing?”

“I could use some female assistance,” said Bowman. “Phone call shit.”

“My girls are kinda shook from a bust went down last night. You know they be delicate sometimes.” Bowman heard Coco inhale deeply on a cigarette as she thought it over. “There’s an all-purpose girl, goes by Gina Marie. She should be down at the diner on U. She goes there to start her day.”

“I know Gina.”

“Many men do,” said Coco. “That girl will do anything for a dime.”

Bowman ended the call. He went to his small kitchen and dropped the door on the oven of his freestanding electric range. In its cool cavity were two guns: an S amp;W.38 and a Colt.22. Bowman checked the loads on both and slipped them into a small gym bag. He found the keys to his Mercury Cougar and with bag in hand left out of his crib.

Coco Watkins looked out

Focusing on the unmarked, Coco did not take notice of a black Continental parked on the opposite side of 14th, or the two white men who were its occupants. Had she studied the Lincoln, she would have noted that the car was not a typical police vehicle, and that the men inside it didn’t look like law.

It was not like Coco to be sloppy, but she was stressed. She had spent the night in lockup, had been forced to lie down on a hard cot, and had gotten no more sleep than a cat on coffee. Then she had returned in the morning to find her place burgled and tossed. Couple of the doors of the girls’ rooms had been broke off their hinges, and the pretty ring Red had given her was gone. She didn’t know how she was going to tell him. Top it off, she was worried about him. She’d already heard that he’d robbed Two-Tone Ward earlier that day, and given Ward a beatdown in the bargain. That would come back on Red for sure.

Coco dressed in tight-fitting bells, low heels, and a nice silk blouse, put on some costume jewelry, and made herself up in the light of her vanity mirror. She went out into the hall and talked to Shay and a couple of the other girls who were relaxing in their rooms. Said she’d be around and would return but didn’t know when. Told Shay she’d check in with her later. Reminded them that it was a work night, and to prepare themselves to get back on the stroll.

Coco used the fire escape to go down to the alley, where a boy was watching her red-over-white Fury. She gave him a five-dollar bill and fired the Plymouth up.

Strange went to a pay phone outside the Boukas Florist, high on Connecticut, and dialed the number Lydell Blue had provided for the house on Tennyson. The lady of the house, Hallie Young, answered. Strange gave her his name but not his occupation.

“I understand you’re using a Miss Maybelline Walker as a math tutor,” said Strange. “She’s been recommended to me for my daughter.”

“Yes, we hired Maybelline to help our son.”

“She gave me your name as a reference.” Strange figured this untruth would get back to Maybelline, but he would deal with that conflict when it arose.

“We’re pleased with her, so far. She’s only just made her second visit today.”

“How did you come to know of her services, originally? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“She was referred to us by a couple we know from the neighborhood. The Rosens. Seth and Dayna live over on Thirty-First Place. Dayna used her longer than we have.”

“Would you happen to have their phone number?”

“Hold on, Mr. Strange.”

Strange held, and got what he was after. He hung up the phone, lifted the receiver back out of its cradle, and made his next call.

The second name on Vaughn’s list took him to the neighborhood of Brightwood, off Georgia Avenue. He was looking for a Costas Lambros, who was the registered owner of a ’68 gold Electra.

Lambros lived on Tuckerman Street in a small neat house of brick and shingle. A large healthy fig tree was set against the south wall of the colonial. From his years on patrol, Vaughn knew that one could identify the past and present Greek-owned homes in any community by the fig trees growing in their yards.

Vaughn inspected the Buick that was parked out front. It was a base-model Electra, stripped down and stock from the factory, with a white roof. It was a nice vehicle, but it was not a deuce.

An old man came out of the house, his pants cinched sloppily above his waist with a mangled leather belt. His wife, her gray hair tied up in a bun, wearing a housedress, orthopedic shoes, and calf-length stockings, followed. Both of them walked with difficulty. As he approached, the old man’s lips were moving, but there were no sounds emanating from his mouth.

Costas and Voula Lambros wanted to know why Vaughn was standing by their car. They had to be mindful of strangers. The neighborhood had changed for the worse, what with “the mavri ” moving in. Costas had owned a fruit-and-vegetable stand in the Eastern Market for many years, and his wife, Voula, had worked beside him. Their kids had families of their own and were living in the suburbs. Nixon had to do something soon about the welfare and all the crime.