George Pelecanos - Right as Rain

The four of them danced, tentatively at first, to the complex, dense songs. The bass line was snaky and insistent, and the melodies bubbled up in the mix, and as the rhythms insinuated themselves into their bodies they let go and found the groove. They had broken a sweat by the fifth cut.

Strange dimmed the lights and put on Al Green's The Belle Album.

'Reminds me of those blue-light parties we used to have,' said Strange.

'That was before my time, too,' said Janine, kissing him on the mouth.

They slow-dragged to the title tune. Janine had her cheek resting on Strange's chest, moving in her stocking feet. Quinn and Juana made out like high-schoolers as they danced. As the cut ended, Janine checked her watch and told Strange that it was time to go.

'Lionel ought to be getting back to my house by now,' she said. 'I want to be there for him when he arrives.'

'Yeah, we need to clear out of here,' said Strange.

'Where's the head?' asked Quinn.

'Up the stairs,' said Strange.

Quinn went up to the second floor. He saw the bathroom, an open door that led to a bedroom and sleeper porch, and two more bedrooms, one of which had been set up as an office. Quinn looked over his shoulder at the empty flight of stairs and walked into the office.

The office appeared to be well used. Strange's desk was a countertop set on two columns of file cabinets. Atop the desk was a monitor, speakers, a keyboard, and a mouse pad, and scattered papers and general clutter. Quinn went around the desk.

Beside the desk, Strange had mounted a wooden CD rack to the wall. In the rack were western movie sound tracks: the Leone Dollars trilogy, Once Upon a Time in the West, The Magnificent Seven, Return of the Magnificent Seven, My Name Is Nobody, Navajo Joe, The War Wagon, Two Mules for Sister Sara, The Professionals, Duel at Diablo, The Big Country, The Big Gundown, and others. There was no evidence in this room of the funk and soul music from the sixties and seventies that Strange loved so much. Quinn wondered if Strange was hiding this collection here, if he was embarrassed to have his taste for western sound tracks on display for his friends.

Quinn looked at the papers on the desk. Stock related documents, mostly, along with report forms with the Strange Investigations logo printed across the top. A heap of matchbooks and a faded photograph of a pretty young woman. He picked the photograph up, recognizing the image as that of Chris Wilson's striking sister. Quinn remembered her from the newspaper stories and television reports that had been broadcast the day of the funeral.

'You see a toilet in here?' said Strange from the doorway.

Quinn looked up. 'Sorry, man. I'm naturally nosy, I guess.'

Strange's eyes were pink and lazy. He folded his arms and leaned on the door frame.

'Why have a photo of Wilson's sister?' said Quinn.

'For the simple reason that I'm beginning to think Sondra Wilson's the key to this whole thing.'

'You talk to her?'

Strange shook his head. 'Gonna have to find her first. Her own mother doesn't know where she is. Sondra's a junkie, man, got a deep heroin jones. Been away from the house a long while now. Wilson was looking to hook up with her, maybe bring her back home, is what I think. And another thing I think is, on the night he was killed, Chris got a phone call had something to do with Sondra.'

Quinn dropped the photograph to the desktop. 'You think Ricky Kane had something to do with that?'

'I like your instincts, Terry.'

'Well, do you?'

'It crossed my mind.'

'You need to talk to Kane.'

'If he's involved, it won't do any good to talk to him. It would shut him up for real, and I got no kind of leverage. It might even hurt my chances of finding Sondra.'

'That's what you're looking to do now?'

'Yeah,' said Strange. 'Finish what Chris Wilson started. Bring her home.'

'Because you know you got nothing else for Leona Wilson, right? You know there was nothing deeper than what got put on the record about my involvement in the death of her son.'

'You tellin' me?'

'I'm asking you, Derek.'

'Look here, man.' Strange rubbed his cheeks and exhaled slowly. 'God damn, I am fucked up. Haven't smoked herb in years, you want the truth. Don't know why I did tonight. But I got to blame it on something, I guess.'

'Blame what?'

'The crazy thing I'm gettin' ready to ask you to do. See, my associate, Ron, he's gonna be busy next week. And I could use your help.'

'Name it.'

'A tail and surveillance on Ricky Kane, for starters. I was thinkin' Monday morning.'

'Tell me what time.'

'You don't even have a car.'

'I plan to go out tomorrow and buy one.'

'Just like that.'

'Gettin' tired of Juana chauffeuring me around.'

'Okay, then. I'll call you in the evening, let you know where we can meet.'

'Derek?'

'What?'

'This mean I'm off the hook?'

'Aw, shit,' said Strange, chuckling from deep in his gut. 'You're somethin', man.'

'I'm serious, Derek.'

'Okay.' Strange unfolded his arms. 'That hook you're talkin' about, you put yourself on it. You got to admit to yourself the reality of the situation. You got to free your own self, man.'

'You just said-'

'I said that I suspect there was something with Chris Wilson and his sister. That her lifestyle is what drove him to D Street that night. But you yourself admitted that Wilson was tryin' to tell you and your partner that he was a cop. He was screaming his badge number out to you, man, but you wouldn't listen.'

'Look-'

'You wouldn't listen. You saw a black man with a gun and you saw a criminal, and you made up your mind. Yeah, there was noise and confusion and lights, I know about all that. But would you have listened to him if he had been white? Would you have pulled that trigger if Wilson had been white? I don't think so, Terry. Cut through all the extra bullshit, and you're gonna have to just go ahead and admit it, man: you killed a man because he was black.'

Quinn stared into Strange's eyes. Quinn wanted to say more in his defense, but the words wouldn't come. He was certain that any words he could choose would be insufficient. How could a white man ever tell a black man that he wasn't that way without sounding self-serving or duplicitous?

They heard Janine's voice, calling them from the bottom of the stairs. Strange lowered his gaze to the floor.

'C'mon, Terry,' he said, his voice nearly a whisper. 'We better go.'

Quinn and Juana drove east to her row house on 10th. They went straight to her bedroom, where he stripped naked and undressed Juana from behind. He ran both hands up her inner thighs and slipped two fingers inside her. She arched her back and moaned as he pinched her swollen nipples. Then, very quickly, they were fucking on the bed, Juana on the edge of it with her calves resting on his shoulders, and Quinn thrusting with his feet still on the floor. It was fast and nearly violent; Juana came with a groaning howl. Quinn was right behind her, veins standing out on his forehead and neck. The bed had slid across the room, stopping when it hit the wall.

Quinn pulled out and slid Juana up to the center of the bed, putting a pillow under her head. They got beneath the blankets, holding a tight embrace, and what was left from them wet each other and the sheets. She stared up at him, not saying a word, her eyes saying everything. Soon she was breathing evenly. Her eyes fluttered, then closed completely, and she fell asleep.

Lionel Baker came home at one forty-five in the morning, nearly two hours past his curfew. Janine had been waiting in the living room, parting the curtains of the front window every few minutes to check for her son, as Strange sat patiently beside her. A Lexus finally pulled up on Quintana in front of her house, and when she saw her son emerge from the car, Janine said, 'Thank the Lord.'