George Pelecanos - Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But it’s probably better you didn’t ask.”

The waitress came back momentarily with our drinks.

Lyla lifted her wineglass. “Takes the edge off,” she said, and had a sip. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“I thought you looked a little thick today,” I said. And I had noticed her hand shaking as she picked up her glass.

She shrugged apologetically. “Happy hour stretched to last call. Sorry I didn’t make it over last night.”

“That’s okay.”

She flicked the brown paper on the table. “So, what’s in the bag?”

“Some stuff I picked up at the Chinese store on H. Something for you.”

I withdrew a small ceramic incense burner, hand-painted lilacs on a black background, and put it in front of her.

“Love it.” She smiled, turned the burner in her hand. “What else?”

“Something for me.” I took a videotape from the bag and waved it in front of her. “A Ringo Lam flick, for the collection.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Something for us.” I pulled out a tub of cream, labeled completely in Mandarin characters. “The lady at the counter said it was ‘very special lotion for lovers.’ ”

“What’s so special about it?”

“I don’t know. But we’ve got a date, tomorrow night, right?”

“Yeah?”

“So I was thinkin’-”

“Oh boy,” she said.

“That, at the end of the night, maybe you’d care to dip your fingers in this jar and give me a back rub. And maybe after that, I could return the favor and give you a front rub.”

“Here it comes.”

“And then we could rub it all over us and get some kind of friction going.”

“You could get a burn like that.”

“And maybe we’d get so much friction going, that, I don’t know, the two of us could just explode.”

“At the same time?”

“Well, we could try.”

“Nick, why are you such a dog?”

“Speaking of dog,” I said, “here comes your food.”

Lyla and I spent a couple of hours in the restaurant, enjoying the food and talking and having a few more laughs. There was a sign over the kitchen door that read MANAGEMENT NOT RESPONSIBLE, and Lyla commented dryly on that. I stuck with water and she had another wine. Lyla paid the check and I left the tip, and we kissed outside on the street. I stood there and watched her walk in the direction of the subway stop, moving in that clipped, confident way of hers in her short peasant dress, her red hair brilliant in the sun and long on her back. You’re a lucky bastard, I thought, and then I added, Nick, just try not to fuck this up.

The offices of Ardwick, Morris and Baker occupied the top floors of an Oliver Carr building on M Street at 24th. I have to laugh now when I hear any law firm’s name; a guy by the name of Rick Bender comes in d ter comethe Spot for a vodka gimlet once a week-I don’t know what Bender does, but he’s a profoundly silly guy, and I know he’s not an attorney-and always leaves a business card on the bar with his tab: “Rick Bender, Esquire.” Printed below his name is the name of his “firm”: “Bender, Over, and Doer.”

I passed through the marble-floored lobby and made an elevator where a couple of secretaries stood huddled in the back. I was of the tieless variety, and after a quick appraisal, the two of them went right on complaining about their respective attorneys. A few floors up, a paralegal joined us, a guy in his twenties who was struggling mightily in his attire and haircut to look fifteen years older. Then on the next floor, we picked up a real attorney, wearing a real charcoal suit with chalk stripes and a really powerful tie. I said hello to him and he looked both confused and scared to death. Finally, we made it to the top floor of the building, where I put my back to the door to let the ladies out first, which seemed to perplex everyone further. My grandfather taught me to do that, and it isn’t done much in D.C. anymore. I’m almost never thanked for it, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop.

I announced myself to the receptionist, had a seat in a very comfortable chair, and leafed through a Regardie’s magazine set on a round glass table. I wasn’t far into it when Mrs. Lewis walked into the lobby on two nice cocoa-colored legs and stood over my chair. I got up and shook her hand.

She wore a tan business suit and a brown blouse with an apricot scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her face was long and faintly elastic, with large brown eyes and a large mouth lipsticked apricot like the scarf. She was younger than the voice on the phone, and I bet she had a good smile, but she wasn’t using those muscles just yet. I looked at the fingernails on the spidery fingers that rested in my hand; the polish on the nails was apricot, too. Neat.

“Nick Stefanos. Thanks for seeing me.”

“Shareen Lewis. We can use one of the conference rooms. Follow me.”

I did it, walked behind her, passing open-doored offices where men stood reading briefs or sat talking on telephones. They wore British-cut suits with suspenders beneath the jackets and orderly geometric-patterned ties. I thought, Why the suspenders? Did these guys collectively buy their pants in the wrong size?

Shareen Lewis directed me into a conference room whose center held a long, shiny table with gray high-backed swivel chairs grouped around it. The shades had been drawn, and when she closed the door the room became cool and quiet as a tomb. We sat next to each other by the windows. She turned her chair in my direction, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and faced me.

“Are we being recorded?” I said, kidding only by half, trying to break things down.

“Should we be? You look a little uncomfortable.”

“Well, I’m playing an away game here. This isn’t my usual arena.”

“That much I can see.” Her enunciation was careful, slightly forced.

“So I’ll be brief. I’ve got to get to work nd; get to myself.”

“What do you do, Mr. Stefanos? Besides… this.”

“I work in a bar, a place called the Spot. Over on 8th in Southeast.”

“I don’t know it.”

“You wouldn’t,” I said, intending it as a compliment. But she didn’t know what I meant by the remark, and the muscles of her jaw ratcheted up a notch.

“What can I do for you?” she said.

“Like I told you on the phone, I’d like to have the opportunity to speak with your son, Roland. Everything I’ve been able to uncover tells me that he was the closest friend that Calvin Jeter had. I’m assisting the police on the Jeter murder.”

“I don’t believe that I can help you.”

“Maybe Roland might like to help.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Could you tell me where to contact him?”

“No.”

“Is that because you don’t know where he is?”

“Roland is seventeen years old. Almost a man. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

“So he’s not missing.”

“No.”

“But he didn’t attend Calvin’s funeral, did he?”

“How do you know that?”

“The police haven’t talked with Roland since the murder. Don’t you think it’s odd that Roland didn’t attend Calvin’s funeral, seeing that the two of them were best friends?”

She spoke quietly, but for the first time her voice registered emotion. “I would hardly say, Mr. Stefanos, that Roland and Calvin were best friends. Roland might have felt sorry for that boy, but nothing in the way of real friendship. After all, the Jeter boy lived in a welfare setup, down in those… apartments.”

So she was about that. I didn’t like it, and stupidly, I’ve never been one to hide it. I leaned forward. “I’ve been to your house, remember? And those apartments are just a few blocks away from you. The people who live in them are your neighbors. And I’ve got to tell you, Calvin’s mother-that welfare mother you’re talking about-treated me with more dignity and grace than you’re showing me here.” I relaxed in my chair, then tried to throw some water on the fire. “I’m only trying to help.”