George Pelecanos: What It Was

Coco’s eyes came alive as she studied one of the tickets. “Donny and Roberta at the Carter Barron? Thank you, Red.”

“Ain’t no thing.”

“Bobby give these to you?”

“He can’t use ’em no more.” Jones placed the scotch glass on the mat between his feet. “I got somethin else for you, too.”

“Show me, baby.”

“When we get to your crib. We need to leave outta here now.” Jones pointed to the keys hanging in the ignition. “Cook it, Coco.”

She turned the key, engaged the transmission, and pulled away from the curb.

Milton Wallace eyed the Fury as it traveled south on 13th. Wallace recorded the image of the car, and the license plate, in his head.

She was stepping out of a Warwick-blue Firebird convertible, sitting on redline tires, when Strange first saw her. She had parked the Pontiac on 9th, near the Upshur Street cross. She was young, had prominent cheekbones and clean beige skin, wore her hair in a big natural, and was unrestrained in a print halter dress. The girl was fine. Purse in hand, her hips moving with a feline sway.

Looked to Strange that she was headed toward his spot. He could see her clearly through the wide plate glass window fronting his business. One of the reasons he liked this place: the open view.

He got up out of the swivel chair behind his metal desk. A hard desk-style chair, like the kind he’d had in high school, sat before it. He looked around with an eye to straightening up, but there wasn’t much to put in place. He had one of those new machines, recorded the phone calls when they came in, but he had not yet figured out how to use it. He’d been here for just four months or so, and he had only acquired the bare bones that a person needed to replicate the look of an office. Everything seemed temporary. Even the sign out front was a bullshit sign, done by a dude around the corner who called himself an artist but claimed he was a lot of things when he was high.

A radial GE clock radio sat on his desk, plugged into a floor socket. Its AM dial was set on WOL. The sound was all treble, no bass. Amid the static, “Family Affair” was playing low, Sly and his drugged-out drawl.

A little bell mounted overrseb the door chimed as the woman entered the shop. Strange, tall and broad shouldered, wearing low-rise bells, a wide black belt, brass-eye stacks, a rayon shirt stretched out across his chest, and a thick Roundtree mustache, stepped up to greet her.

“Are you Mr. Strange?”

“I am. But call me Derek, or Strange. Either way’s fine with me. No need to call me mister.”

“My name is Maybelline Walker.”

“Pleasure.”

“Can I take some of your time? I’ll be brief.”

Strange shook her hand and took in her smell, the faint sweetness of strawberries. “Let’s sit.”

They crossed the cool linoleum floor. Strange allowed her to go ahead so he could check out her behind, as a man will tend to do. He made a maitre d’s hand motion, pointing her to the client chair. She fitted herself into it, glanced at its attached desktop with puzzlement, and rested her forearm atop its face as she crossed one bare leg over the other. Strange noticed the ripple of muscle in her thigh as he took a seat behind his desk.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I’ve been seeing your sign out front for months now.”

“I’m fixin to get a new one.”

“Strange Investigations. Do you have many?”

“A few.”

Background checks, mainly, thought Strange. Case-builds for divorce lawyers. Infidelity tails. Nothing of any weight.

“Are you busy with one now?”

“I’m in a slow period.”

“Hmm.”

Strange looked her over. Straight backed and poised. Had some nice titties on her, too. High and tight, big old erasers about to bust through the fabric of her dress. A redbone with light-brown eyes. One of those brown-paper-bag gals, the kind he’d rarely gone after, as dark-skinned women were more to his liking. Not that he wouldn’t straighten out Miss Maybelline Walker if she’d give him a go-sign. God, he would hit the hell out of it if he had the chance.

“Is there something?”

“What?” said Strange.

“You’re looking at me… well.” Maybelline blushed, a little.

“I’m just waitin on you to tell me what this is about, Miss Walker.”

“Make it Maybelline.”

“Go ahead.”

Maybelline took a deep, theatrical breath. “I lost a piece of jewelry. A ring. I’d like you to find it and bring it back w?ing it to me. I’ll pay you for your time, of course, and a bonus if you succeed.”

“How do you mean lost, exactly?”

“I loaned the ring to an acquaintance of mine. He said that he had an associate who could appraise it. You know, to see if it had any real value.”

Strange knew the meaning of the word appraise, but he did not make an issue of her condescension. If she was one of these uppity, educated girls, if she thought she was better than him because of geography, high school, skin color, or whatever, it made no difference to him. A job was sitting across the desk from him, and that meant cash money, something for which he had need.

“And your acquaintance, he, what, took off with the ring?”

“He was murdered.”

Strange sat forward in his chair. He picked up a pencil that he had been using to draw the design of a logo he intended to implement on a new sign for out front, in the event that he ever had enough money to purchase one. He’d put the logo on his cards, too, when he got around to having some printed. He’d been playing with a magnifying glass laid partially over the name of his business, but as of yet he had not gotten it exactly right.

“So now the ring’s missing,” said Strange.

“Yes.”

Strange opened a schoolboy notebook and looked at Maybelline.

“The name of your acquaintance?”

“Robert Odum. Went by Bobby.”

“When was this? His murder, I mean.”

“A week ago yesterday. He was shot to death in his residence.”

“Gimme the address.”

Maybelline told him where Odum stayed and Strange wrote it down. He vaguely remembered reading about the murder in the Post, buried in the section locals called “Violent Negro Deaths.”

“Why was Odum killed?” said Strange. “Any idea?”

“I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt Bobby. He was gentle.”

“You knew him long?”

“Not very. He was a friend of a friend.” She held her eyes on his. “I like to think I’m a good judge of character.”

“How you know the ring’s gone?”

“I’ve been by his apartment since his death. I looked everywhere for it.”

“Police let you in?”

“No. I spoke to a detective, but he told me I couldn’t pass through. I waited until they were done working the… what do you call that?”

“The crime scene.”

“It was several days after Bobby’s death that I went by.”

“How’d you get into his place?”

“I have a key.”

“But you say you were only an acquaintance.”

“We’d grown close in a short period of time. Bobby trusted me.”

“If he was going to a fence with your ring-”

“I didn’t say he was going to a fence.”

“Okay. Where’d you get the ring, originally?”

“I’m not sure I like your tone.”

“No offense intended,” said Strange.

Maybelline’s eyes flickered delicately with forgiveness. “The ring was in my family. It was my mother’s. Her mother’s before that. It’s costume jewelry, you want the truth. But it means something to me.”

“I understand. Still, if it was only costume jewelry, why was Odum getting it appraised for you?”