George Pelecanos - What It Was

“What else?”

“I saw Odum kissin on her one day, right here, outside the back door. She was lettin him, but you know, any fool could see that she wasn’t into it. What I was thinking was, how’d a little man like Bobby get so much woman? ’Cause a girl like that has needs. You know what I’m talking about?”

“I do indeed,” said Strange. Something rustled inside him, like a snake in dry leaves.

He, too, had needs.

Vaughn entered the offices of the Third District headquarters and went to his desk. He found a memo slip taped to his phone. Martina Lewis had called and asked that he get back to him.

Vaughn visited with Detective Charles Davis, who was on the bubble, waiting to catch his next case. Davis was a young, stylish guy, one of the few blacks in this house who had been promoted to Homicide. Vaughn felt he was friendly enough with him to ask for a favor. Davis agreed to stake out Monique Lattimer’s house in exchange for something in return.

“I got you, Hound Dog,” said Davis. “But I’m gonna bank this one.”

“Count on it,” said Vaughn.

Their supervisor, Lieutenant David Harp, tall, white, whippet thin, middle-aged, and blue-eyed, with black slicked-back hair, came into the room and told Vaughn he wanted to see him in private.

“Right now,” said Harp.

Vaughn wiggled his eyebrows at Davis before following Harp back to his office. The white shirts rarely bothered him, and when they did he didn’t let it get under his skin. He wasn’t bucking for promotion. He already had the job he wanted. The only way they could hurt him was to fire him, and they’d never do that. Vaughn’s closure rate was top-shelf.

Harp was already behind his desk when Vaughn walked into the office. Vaughn took the hot seat, a hard chair set in front of Harp’s desk. He removed his hat, held it in his lap, and waited.

“Where you been, Detective?”

“Working my case. The Odum homicide.”

“The suspect is Robert Lee Jones, correct?”

Vaughn nodded. “Street name Red. We just need to put the bracelets on him. Charles Davis is gonna stake out a woman who’ll lead us to Alfonzo Jefferson, Jones’s partner. We’re close.”

“I’ve been tryin to get hold of you. You take your personal car today?”

“I’m more comfortable in my own vehicle, sir.”

“It has a two-way in it, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, si"3"to tr,” said Vaughn. “But sometimes I forget and leave it off.” Truth was, he didn’t like to be bothered with the constant crackle of the radio while he was doing his job. The talk over the police frequency almost never had a thing to do with him.

Harp drew a pencil from a leather cup and tapped it on his desk. “Your boy Red and his partner robbed Sylvester Ward in his own house. Happened this morning. Y’know that?”

“First I heard of it,” said Vaughn. He was intrigued, but he tried not to let his emotions play out on his face.

“Know who Ward is?”

“That would be Two-Tone Ward. The numbers man.”

“Correct. He reported the crime soon as it happened. But Ward didn’t call the MPD. He called his city councilman. And the mayor, for all I know. And then I got calls. More than one. Matter of fact, these politicians have been up my ass all day. They want to know when we’re gonna get this joker off the street.”

“I’m sorry about the trouble it caused you, sir. If you want me to explain the progress of my case to any of those gentlemen-”

“ Fuck them.”

“Yes, sir.” Vaughn smoothed out the brim of his hat. “It’s unusual for a guy like Ward to call the authorities, even after he’s been victimized. I mean, there’s a code.”

“They broke it. Red and his partner beat Ward like an animal before they left his house. From what I hear, Ward wasn’t even resisting.”

“Sounds like my man.”

“What’s this guy’s problem?”

“Red Jones isn’t looking forward to retirement or old age, Lieutenant. He’s living for this summer. Today. People all over the city are talking about him. The notoriety pours gasoline on his fire. That’s what he wants.”

Harp slipped the pencil back into its cup. He relaxed his shoulders and sat back in his chair. “Bring the motherfucker in.”

“Bet it,” said Vaughn.

“And keep your radio on, Detective.”

Walking out of the offices, Vaughn put his hand in his pocket and touched a slip of paper. It was the message from Martina Lewis.

Strange stood on a landing in an apartment building on 15th Street, located across the road from Malcolm X Park. He made a fist and prepared to knock on the door before him. He hesitated, knowing he could still go back down the stairs. Knowing he was wrong. There were many ways a young man could ruin things with a good woman, and this was the most thoughtless. But he was here, right now, and he had come here deliem" w weberately and with determination. Later, if confronted, he would make excuses, but there weren’t any valid ones, none for real. He wanted what he wanted. He had been thinking on it since the woman had walked into his office, swinging her hips.

Strange recalled the day he had sat at the Three-Star Diner when his father, Darius, was still alive and working the grill. Seeing a moment pass between his father and the Three-Star’s longtime waitress, Ella. Recognizing the familiar look between them that suggested intimacy and maybe even love. He had always thought that his mother and father had shared an unbreakable, sacred bond. To realize, at that moment, that his father had cheated, and had done so, perhaps, for many years, had dropped Strange’s heart. But it hadn’t ruined Darius in Strange’s eyes.

Much as he loved his mother, Strange couldn’t bring himself to righteous anger or to hate his father for his transgression. Yes, he was disappointed. Also, he understood. His father, like all mortals, was a sinner, fallible. In matters of the flesh he was downright weak.

I am my father, thought Strange, as he knocked on Maybelline Walker’s door. No better than any other man. Just a man.

Vaughn bought a ticket at the Lincoln box office and went through the lobby to the auditorium. The 5:30 show was about to begin. Buck and the Preacher had been held over, but first the projectionist was running a reel of trailers for the current features playing at other District Theaters, a chain whose bookers programmed films for black audiences in black neighborhoods. Vaughn let his eyes adjust and watched the promo for The Legend of Nigger Charley, currently running down at the Booker T. How the West Was Rewritten, thought Vaughn, as he spotted Martina in one of the middle rows and made his way to a seat beside him.

“Just got your message, baby,” said Vaughn, leaning close to Martina so he could keep his voice low and still be heard.

“You weren’t followed or nothin, were you?” Martina was wearing a dress, heels, and red lipstick.

“No. This about Red Jones? ’Cause I already know about the Sylvester Ward robbery.”

“That’s not why I called you.”

“I gotta find Red. Get me his location and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Money,” said Martina huskily, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Cash ain’t gonna do nothing for me unless you got a lot of it.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

In the light coming from the screen, Martina’s features were angular, masculine, and troubled.

“Tell me,” said Vaughn.

“Hitter name of Clarence Bowman came into the diner earlier today. Was talkin to Gina Marie.”

“I know Gina.”

“Many do. Bowman had Gina Marie call some woman up on the phone and theinaask her when her man was gonna be home tonight. I had the impression that Bowman was about to put work in.”