George Pelecanos - Right as Rain

Strange pulled folded twenties from his wallet. He peeled one off, crumpled it in a ball, and tossed it to the floor at Morris's feet. Morris picked the bill up quickly and jammed it in the pocket of his trousers.

'What was the white boy doin' in here?' said Strange.

'Lookin' for a girl,' said Morris. 'A friend of mine. Old friend to him, too.'

Strange's blood ticked. 'A girl?'

'Girl named Sondra,' said Morris.

'This girl got a last name?' said Strange, his voice hoarse and odd to his own ears.

'She got one. I don't know it.'

'This her right here?'

Strange pulled the photograph of Sondra Wilson from his corduroy jacket, held it up for Morris to see. Morris nodded, his mouth twitching involuntarily. Strange slipped the picture back into his pocket.

'He find her?' asked Strange.

'Huh?'

'Is she here ?'

Morris licked his dry lips and pointed his chin at the bankroll in Strange's hand. Strange crumpled another twenty and dropped it on the floor.

Morris smiled. His teeth were black stubs, raisins stuck loosely in rotted gums. 'What'sa matter, brother? You don't want to touch my hands?'

'Where is she?'

'Sondra gone , man.'

'Where is she?' repeated Strange.

'Two white men took her out of here, not too long ago. Little crosseyed motherfucker and an old man. I don't know 'em. I don't know their names. And I don't know where they went.'

Strange didn't speak. He balled and unballed one fist.

'They're comin' back,' said Morris playfully.

'How you know that?'

'Word gets out in here… The ones across the street, that one by the stairs… they know when we be gettin' too hungry. They tell us when we're about to be fed. And we are about to be fed. Those white men are bringin' it in.'

'When?'

'Tomorrow. Leastways, that's what I hear.'

Strange reached into his breast pocket and withdrew one more folded twenty. Morris held his hand out, but Strange did not fill it.

'What do you know about the girl?'

'The white boy, he used to bring her with him when he made his visits. He'd take her with him to that place across the street. One day he left her in there. She was across the street for a few weeks, comin' and goin' in those pretty-ass cars. A month, maybe, like that. Then she made her way over here. She kept her own stall up there on the second floor. But she never did make it back across the street.'

'You know what time those two white men are coming back tomorrow?'

'No,' said Morris, looking sadly at the twenty, still in Strange's possession.

Strange placed the bill in Morris's outstretched hand. 'You see me around here again, you don't know me, 'less I tell you that you know me. Understand?'

'Know who?'

Strange nodded. Most likely he'd just given that junkie more money than he'd seen at one time in the last few years.

Strange turned and shuffled off toward the hole from which he'd entered. There was a racing in his veins, and he could feel the beat of his own heart. It was difficult for him to move so slowly. But he managed, and soon he was out in the light.

Strange woke from a nap in the early evening. His bedroom was dark, and he flicked on a light. Greco, lying on a throw-rug at the foot of the bed, lifted his head from his paws and slowly wagged his tail.

'Hungry, buddy?' said Strange. 'All right, then. Let this old man get on up out of this bed.'

After Strange fed Greco, he listened to the soundtrack of A Pistol for Ringo as he sat at his desk and went through the matchbooks spilled across it: Sea D.C., the Purple Cactus, the Jefferson Street Lounge, the Bank Vault on 9th, the Shaw Lounge on U, Kinnison's on Pennsylvania Avenue, Robert Farrelly's in Georgetown, and many others. These were Chris Wilson's matchbooks; Wilson knew.

Strange reached for the phone on the desk and called the Purple Cactus. He got the information he needed and racked the receiver. Strange rubbed his face and then his eyes.

He stripped himself out of his clothes. He took a shower and changed into a black turtleneck and slacks, then phoned the woman named Helen. Helen was busy that night and on the upcoming weekend. He called another woman he knew, but this woman did not pick up her phone.

Strange got into his black leather, slipped a few items into its pockets, patted Greco on the head, and left his house. He drove his Cadillac downtown, listening to Live It Up all the way, repeating 'Hello It's Me,' because he really liked the Isleys' arrangement of that song. He parked on 14th at H, walked to the K Street intersection, and entered Sea D.C.

The dining room and the dining balcony were full, and the patrons were three deep at the elevated bar. Many were smoking cigarettes and cigars. A narrow-shouldered manager with a tiny mustache was trying to get a group of men, all of them smoking, to step closer in toward the bar. His emotional, exasperated, high-pitched voice was making the men laugh. A television mounted above the call racks was set on the stock market report, and some of the fellows at the bar were staring up at the ticker symbols and figures traveling right to left across the screen as they sipped their drinks.

Strange politely muscled his way into a position at the end of the stick. White people, in a setting like this one, generally let a black man do whatever he wanted to do.

Strange waited for a while and finally caught the bartender's eye. The bartender was trim, clean shaven, and of medium height. He had a false smile, and he flashed it at Strange as he leaned on the bar and placed one hand palm down on the mahogany.

'What can I get ya, friend?' said the bartender.

'Ricky Kane,' said Strange, giving the bartender the same kind of smile.

'What, is that a drink?'

Strange placed his hand over the back of the bartender's hand. He ground his thumb into the nerve located in the fleshy triangle between the bartender's thumb and forefinger. The color drained from the bartender's face.

'Saw you talkin' to Ricky Kane yesterday,' said Strange, still smiling, keeping his voice even and light. 'I'm an investigator, friend. You want me to, I'll pull my ID and show it to you right here. Show it to your manager, too.'

The bartender's Adam's apple bobbed, and he issued a short shake of his head.

'I don't want you,' said Strange, 'but I don't give a fuck about you, understand? What I want to know is, was Ricky Kane hooked up with Sondra Wilson?'

'Sondra?'

'Sondra Wilson. She worked here, case you've forgotten.'

'I don't know… maybe he was. He picked her up once at closing time when she was working here, but she didn't work here all that long. She lasted, like, a week.'

'She get fired?'

'She had attendance problems,' said the bartender, his eyes going down to the stick. 'My hand.'

'Barkeep!' yelled a guy wearing suspenders, from the other end of the bar.

Strange said, 'Kane and Sondra Wilson.'

'He met her over at Kinnison's, that seafood restaurant over near George Washington. She was working at Kinnison's before she came here. He was a waiter over there before he took the gig at the Cactus.'

'Bartender!'

Strange leaned forward. 'You tell Kane or anyone else I came by, I'm gonna send my people in here and shut this motherfucker down. Put you in the D.C. Jail in one of those orange jumpsuits they got, in a cell with some real men. You understand what I'm tellin' you, friend?'

The bartender nodded. Strange released him. He bumped a woman as he turned and he said, 'Excuse me.' He unglued the smile that was on his face, shifting his shoulders under his leather jacket as he went out the door.

Strange went over to Stan's on Vermont Avenue and ordered a Johnnie Walker Red with a side of soda. The tender was playing Johnnie Taylor's 'Disco Lady' on the house system, the one that had Bootsy Collins on session bass. Strange liked the flow of that song. A man took a seat next to him at the bar.