George Pelecanos: Hell To Pay

STRANGE drove east in his white-over-black ’89 Caprice, singing along softly to “Wake Up Everybody” coming from the deck. That first verse, where Teddy’s purring those call-to-arms words against the Gamble and Huff production, telling the listener to open his eyes, look around, get involved and into the uplift side of things, there wasn’t a whole lot of American music more beautiful than that.

His Rand McNally street atlas lay on the seat beside him. He had a Leatherman tool-in-one looped through his belt, touching a Buck knife, sheathed and attached the same way on his right hip. His beeper he wore on his left. The rest of his equipment was in a double-locked glove box and in the trunk. It was true that most modern investigative work was done in an office and on the Internet. Strange thought of himself as having two offices, though, his base office in Petworth and the one in his car, right here. His preference was to work the street.

It was early September. The city was still hot during the day, though the nights had cooled some. It would be that way in the District for another month or so.

“‘The world won’t get no better,’” sang Strange, “‘if we just let it be…’”

Soon the colors would change in Rock Creek Park. And then would come those weeks near Thanksgiving when the weather turned for real and the leaves were still coming down off the trees. Strange had his own name for it: deep fall. It was his favorite time of year in D.C.

FROSSO’S, a stand-alone structure with a green thatched roof, sat on a west-side corner of 13th and L, Northwest, like a pimple on the ass of a beautiful girl. The Mediterranean who owned the business owned the real estate and had refused to sell, even as the offers came in, even as new office buildings went in around him. Frosso’s was a burger-and-lunch counter, also a happy-hour bar and hangout for those remaining workers who still drank and smoked or didn’t mind the smell of smoke on their clothes. Beer gardens in this part of downtown were few and far between.

Strange made his way through a noisy dining area to a four-top back by the pay phone and head, where two women sat. He recognized the investigators, a salt-and-pepper team, from an article he’d read on them in City Paper a few months back. They worked cases retrieving young runaways gone to hooking. The two of them were aligned with some do-goodnik, pro-prosti organization that operated on grants inside D.C.

“Derek Strange,” he said, shaking the black woman’s hand and then the white woman’s before he took a seat.

“I’m Karen Bagley. This is Sue Tracy.”

Strange slid his business card across the table. Bagley gave him one in turn, Strange scanning it for the name of their business: Bagley and Tracy Investigative Services, and below the name, in smaller letters, “Specializing in Locating and Retrieving Minors.” A plain card, without any artwork, Strange thinking, They could use a logo, give their card a signature, something to make the customers remember them by.

Bagley was medium-skinned and wide of nose. Her eyes were large and deep brown, the lashes accentuated by makeup. Freckles like coarse pepper buckshotted her face. Sue Tracy was a shag-cut blonde, green-eyed, still tanned from the last of summer, with smaller shoulders than Bagley’s. They were serious-faced, handsome, youngish women, hard boned and, Strange guessed – he couldn’t see the business end of their bodies, seated at the table – strong of thigh. They looked like the ex-cops that the newspaper article had described them to be. Better looking, in fact, than most of the female officers Strange had known.

Tracy pointed a finger at the mug in front of her. Bagley’s hand was wrapped around a mug as well. “You want a beer?”

“Too early for me. I’ll get a burger, though. Medium, with some blue cheese crumbled on top. And a ginger ale from the bottle, not the gun.”

Tracy called the waitress over, addressed her by name, got a burger working for Strange. The waitress said, “Got it, Sue,” tearing the top sheet off a green-lined pad before turning back toward the lunch counter.

“You’re a hard man to get ahold of,” said Bagley.

“I been busy out here,” said Strange.

“A big caseload, huh?”

“Always somethin’.” A glass was placed before Strange. He examined a smudge on its lip. “This place clean?”

“Like a dog’s tongue,” said Tracy.

“Some say that about a dog’s hindparts, too,” said Strange. “But I wouldn’t put my mouth to one.”

“Maybe they ought to put that on the sign out front,” said Tracy, without a trace of a smile. “Good food, and clean, too, like the asshole on a dog.”

“Might bring in some new customers,” said Strange. “You never know.”

“They don’t need any new customers,” said Bagley. “The regulars float this place.”

“I take it you two are numbered with the regulars.”

“We used to come here plenty for information,” said Tracy. “Here and the all-night CVS below Logan Circle.”

“Information,” said Strange. “From prostitutes, you mean.”

Bagley nodded. “The girls would be in the CVS at all hours, buying stockings, tampons, you name it.”

“Them and the heroin lovers,” said Strange. “They do crave their chocolate in the middle of the night. I remember seein’ them in there, grabbing the Hershey bars off the racks with their eyelids lowered to half-mast.”

“You hung out there, too?” said Bagley.

“Back when it was People’s Drug, which must be over ten years back now, huh? Used to stop in for my own essentials when everything else was closed. I was a bit of a night bird then myself.”

“The demographics have shifted some the last couple of years,” said Tracy. “A lot of the action’s moved east, into the hotel cluster of the new downtown.”

“But this here tavern was a known hangout for prostis, wasn’t it?”

“More like a safe haven,” said Bagley. “Nobody bothered them in here. It was a place to have a beer and a smoke. A moment of quiet.”

“No more, huh?”

Bagley shrugged. “There’s been an initiative to get the girls out of public establishments.”

Tracy moved her mug in a small circle on the table. “The powers that be would rather have them shivering in some doorway in December than warm in a place like this.”

“I guess y’all think they ought to just go ahead and legalize prostitution, right? Since it’s one of those victimless crimes, I mean.”

“Wrong,” said Tracy. “In fact, it’s the only crime I know of where the perp is the victim.”

Strange didn’t know what to say to that one, so he let it ride.

“What about you?” asked Bagley. “What do you think about it?”

Strange’s eyes darted from Bagley’s and went to nowhere past her shoulder. “I haven’t thought on it all that much, tell you the truth.”

Bagley and Tracy stared at Strange. Strange turned his head, looked toward the grill area. Where was that burger? All right, thought Strange, I’ll have my lunch, listen to these Earnest Ernestines say their piece, and get on out of here.

“You come recommended,” said Bagley, forcing Strange to return his attention to them. “A couple of the lawyers we’ve worked with down at Superior Court say they’ve used you and they’ve been pleased.”

“Most likely they used my operative, Ron Lattimer. He’s been doing casework for the CJA attorneys. Ron’s a smart young man, but let’s just say he doesn’t like to break too much of a sweat. So he likes those jobs, ’cause when you’re working with the courts you automatically got that federal power of subpoena. You can subpoena the phone company, the housing authority, anything. It makes your job a whole lot easier.”