Джордж Пелеканос: What It Was

“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?”

“He seemed to think that the body of it, the ring itself, I mean, was gold. Obviously the stones were cheap glass, but gold, of course, has value. I didn’t care about its worth. I wasn’t ever going to sell it. But for insurance purposes, I thought it was a good idea.”

“All right.” Strange was tiring of her story, which was illogical and probably a lie. It had begun to confuse him, and maybe that was her intent. Still, he was curious. “Describe the ring, please.”

“But I haven’t decided to hire you yet,” she said, rather petulantly.

“I can provide references if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary. Tell me something about your background.”

“I’m D.C. born and bred. Grew up in Park View, on Princeton. Went to high school at Roosevelt, right across the street from where we sit. I was Four-F ’cause of a knee injury I got while playing football for the Rough Riders. My knee is good now, and as you can see I’m perfectly fit. I was an officer with the MPD until the riots, at which time I left the force. Kicked around some, doing a little bit of this and that, until I figured out that I dug detective work but not a uniform. So I copped a license and opened up my own place. I like soul and funk, the Redskins, good-looking women, Western movies, half-smokes, nice cars, puppy dogs, and long walks on the beach. Hot oils, too, if the situation calls for it.”

This time Maybelline blushed full. She smiled and said, “I guess that almost covers it.”

“Almost?”

“Why have a storefront here when you could operate out of your car? What I mean is, what does paying rent get you when your business is done mostly on the street?”

“It’s an odd question.”

“I’d like to know if my money is going to your overhead or to shoe leather.”

“Fair enough. Kids in this neighborhood watch me open that front door every morning. I think it’s important for them to see a young black man going to work each day, building his own thing. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So there it is. Now tell me something about you.”

“If you’re looking to know more about me, here’s not the time or place.”

“Okay, then,” said Strange. “The ring?”

“It has a large center stone, looks like a diamond, with eight smaller stones circling around it. The arrangement is called a cluster. The ring it’s mounted on has the Grecian key design engraved on its shoulders on a background of black enamel.”

As she spoke, Strange drew a version of the ring, based on her description. When he was done he turned the notebook around and let her look at it.

“Close?”

“Something like that,” she said. “What do you charge?”

“I get eight dollars an hour. My hours are straight and I’ll account for all of them. I ask for a fifty-dollar retainer at the start.”

“I can give that to you right now if you’d like.”

“That would be good.”

She reached into the small rectangular purse and counted out some bills. She handed Strange his fee across the desk.

“What do you do, Maybelline, you don’t mind my askin?”

“I’m a tutor,” she said. “Mathematics.”

“Which school?”

“In-home. I work by the hour, just like you.”

“Let me get your contact information right quick.”

She took the notebook and pencil, and wrote down her phone number and home address. As she did it, “Mr. Big Stuff” came from the clock radio on the desk. Strange saw her nod her head to the rhythm and the syncopated shake of one of her feet.

“You like this one?”

“Hard to get it out of my head. OL doesn’t help, either. They play it all the time.”

“All groove, no melody,” said Strange. “But what a groove.”

Jean Knight, he thought, from New Orleans. Stax single number double-0-88. Originally recorded for the Malaco/Chimneyville label out of Jackson, Mississippi. Strange still catalogued this arcane data in his mind.

“The singer is a southern girl, right?”

“Uh-huh. But this radio does her no justice. I need to get a real stereo in here.”

“All in time.”

Maybelline got up out of her seat. Strange did the same.

“Have you reported the missing ring to the police?”

“ Please. I’m not even trying to waste my time.”

Strange nodded. “I’ll be in touch. Thanks for your confidence.”

“That ring is dear to me. My mother passed last year and it’s what I have left of her.”

“I’ll do my best to find it.” As he walked her to the front door, he said, “Do you know if the MPD has a lead on Odum’s killer?”

“The homicide policeman I spoke with barely told me anything.”

“You recall his name?”

“Frank Vaughn,” said Maybelline. “White man, on the old side. Do you know of him?”

“Heard tell of him, yes.”

In fact, Strange knew Vaughn well.

He wore his hair a little bit longer now, just over his ears. What they called the dry look. No more flattop, no more Brylcreem. Even Sinatra’s hair was on the long side, though that Hail Caesar thing he’d tried for a while was all wrong for his face and age. That was around the time he’d married that skinny young actress. Vaughn reckoned that Sinatra was just scared. Scared of death, like all sane men and, worse, scared of being irrelevant. At least Frank Vaughn had not made those kinds of mistakes. An updated hairstyle, sure. But no leisure suits, no Roman Empire cuts, no May-December romances. Vaughn knew who he was.

He studied himself in the mirror as he straightened his black tie and smoothed out the lapels of his gray Robert Hall suit. A bit more jowly in the face, some baggage under the eyes, but not too gone for fifty-two years old.

Vaughn smiled, displaying his widely spaced, crooked teeth. The younger cops called him “Hound Dog,” on account of his look. He’d heard one of the uniforms say, “Vaughn looks like a animated canine,” trying to be fancy with it, when all he meant was, he looked like that big dog in the cartoons, the one with the scary choppers and the spiked collar. Vaughn preferred to think of himself as a less pretty Mitchum. Or Sinatra on the cover of that record No One Cares, seated at the bar in raincoat and fedora, staring into his shot glass. A night wolf, wounded and alone.