Right as Rain (8 page)

“Baby doll,” said Earl. And then he said, “God.”

RAY
checked his wristwatch. Fifteen minutes had passed and still his old man had not showed. Ray was ready to leave this place, the Junkyard and the city and the trash who lived in it. He flicked the ass end of a ’Boro against the cinder—block wall and watched embers flare and die.

It disgusted him, thinking of what his daddy was doing back there with that high—yellow girl. She did have white features, but she was mud like the rest of them, you could believe that. His father and him, they disagreed on a few things, but none more than this. What was Earl thinkin’, anyway? Didn’t he know how that girl got to keep that stall on the end of the row? Didn’t he know what a prime piece of real estate that was, what you had to do to keep it? Ray knew. If you were a man you had to fight for it, and if you were a woman … Girl was probably on her back or on her belly or swallowing sword ten times a day just for the right to squat in that shit hole. Didn’t his father think of that?

But Ray was tired of pressin’ it. Once he had made the mistake of calling that girl common nigger trash, and his father had risen up, told him to call her by her name. Hell, he could barely
remember
her name. It was Sandy Williams, somethin’ like that.

Ray Boone flipped open the top of his box and shook another smoke from the deck.

Sondra
Wilson.
That’s what it was.

Chapter
7

T
ERRY
Quinn was behind a display case, sitting beside the register reading a book, when he heard a car door slam. Quinn looked through the plate glass window of the store and out to the street. A middle—aged black guy was locking the door of his white Chevy. Then he was crossing Bonifant on foot and heading toward the shop.

The car looked exactly like a police vehicle, and the gray—haired, gray—bearded black guy looked like a plainclothes cop. He wore a black turtleneck under a black leather, with loose—fitting blue jeans and black oilskin work boots. It wasn’t his clothes that yelled “cop,” but rather the way he walked: head up, shoulders squared, alert and aware of the activity on the street. The guy had called, said he was working in a private capacity for Chris Wilson’s mother, asked if Quinn would mind giving him an hour or so of his time. Quinn had appreciated the direct way he had asked the question, and he’d liked the seasoning in the man’s voice. Quinn said sure, come on by.

The chime sounded over the door as the guy entered the shop. Just under six foot, one ninety, guessed Quinn. Maybe one ninety—five. All that black he was wearing, it could take off a quick five pounds to the eye. If this was the guy who had phoned, his name was Derek Strange.

“Derek Strange.”

Quinn got out of his chair and took the man’s outstretched hand.

“Terry Quinn.”

Strange was looking down slightly on the young white man with the longish brown hair. Five nine, five nine and a half, one hundred sixty—five pounds. Medium build, green eyes, a spray of pale freckles across the bridge of his thick nose.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me.” Strange drew his wallet, flipped it open, and showed Quinn his license.

“No problem.”

Quinn didn’t glance at the license as a gesture of trust. Also, he wanted to let Strange know that he was calm and had nothing to hide. Strange replaced his wallet in the back right pocket of his jeans.

“How’d you find me here?”

“Your
place of residence is listed in the phone book. From there I talked to your landlord. The credit check on your apartment application has your place of employment.”

“My landlord supposed to be giving that out?”

“Twenty—dollar bill involved,
supposed to
got nothin’ to do with it.”

“You know,” said Quinn, “you get your hands on the transcripts of my testimony, you’ll be saving yourself a whole lot of time. And maybe a few twenties, too.”

“I’m gonna do that. And I’ve already read everything that’s been written about the case in the press. But it never hurts to go over it again.”

“You said you were working for Chris Wilson’s mother.”

“Right. Leona Wilson is retaining my services.”

“You think you’re gonna find something the review board overlooked?”

“This isn’t about finding you guilty of anything you’ve already been cleared on. I’m satisfied, reading over the material, that this was just one of those accidents, bound to happen. You got two men bearing firearms, mix it up with alcohol on one side, emotion and circumstance, preconceptions on the other —”

“Preconceptions?” You mean racism, thought Quinn. Why don’t you just say what you mean?

“Yeah, you know, preconceptions. You mix all those things together, you got a recipe for disaster. Gonna happen from time to time.”

Quinn nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Strange.

Strange cleared his throat. “So it’s more about exonerating Wilson than anything else. Wiping out the shadow that got thrown across his name, what with everything got written and broadcast about the case.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that. I never talked to the press.”

“I know it.”

“Even his own mother should be able to see that.”

Quinn spoke quietly, in a slow, gravelly way, stretching his vowels all the way out. Out—of—towners would guess that Quinn was from somewhere south of Virginia; Washingtonians like Strange knew the accent to be all D.C.

“Have you spoken with his mother?” asked Strange.

“I tried.”

“She’s single—minded. Probably didn’t make it too easy on you.”

“No. But I can understand it.”

“Course you can.”

“Because I’m the guy who killed her son.”

“That’s a fact. And she’s having a little trouble getting beyond that.”

“The finer points don’t matter to her. All those theories you read about, whether or not I was doing my job, or if I made a bad split—second decision, or if it was the lack of training, or the Glock … none of that matters to her, and I can understand it. She looks at me, the only thing she sees is the guy who killed her son.”

“Maybe we can just clear things up a little,” said Strange. “Okay?”

“There’s nothing I’d like more.”

Quinn put the paperback he had been reading down on the glass top of the display case. Strange glanced at its cover. Beneath it, in the locked case, lying on a piece of red velvet, he saw several old paperbacks: a Harlan Ellison with juvenile—delinquent cover art, a Chester Himes, an
Ironside
novelization by Jim Thompson, and something called
The Burglar
by a cat named David Goodis.

Strange said, “The owner of the shop, he into crime books?”

“She’s
into selling first editions. Paperback originals. It’s not my thing. The collecting part, and also those types of books. Me, I like to read westerns.”

“I can see that.” Strange nodded to Quinn’s book. “That one any good?”

“Valdez Is Coming.
I’d say it’s just about the best.”

“I saw the movie, if I recall. It was a little disappointing. But it had Burt Lancaster in it, so I watched it through. That was a man, right there. Not known especially for his westerns, but he was in some good ones.
Vera Cruz, The Professionals
—”

“Ulzana’s Raid.”

“Damn, you remember that one? Burt was a scout, riding with some wet—behind—the—ears cavalry officer, played by that boy was in that rat movie … yeah,
Ulzana’s Raid,
that was a good one.”

“You like westerns, huh?”

“I don’t read the books, if that’s what you mean. But I like the movies, yeah. And the music. The music they put in those is real nice.” Strange shifted his weight. For a moment, he’d forgotten why he’d come. “Anyway.”

“Yeah, anyway. Where do you want to talk?”

Strange looked over Quinn’s shoulder. There were three narrow aisles of wooden, ceiling—high shelves that stretched to the back of the shop. In the far right aisle, a thin man in a textured white shirt stood on a step stool and placed books high on a shelf.

“He work here?”

“That’s Lewis,” said Quinn.

“Lewis. I was thinking, you had the time, maybe
Lewis
could cover the shop and we could take a drive to the spot where it went down. It would help me to see it with you there.”

Quinn thought it over. He turned around and said, “Hey, Lewis!”

Lewis stepped down off the stool and walked to the front of the store, pushing his black—framed glasses up on his nose. His eyes were hugely magnified behind the thick lenses of the glasses, and his hair was black, greasy, and knotted in several spots. There were yellow stains under the arms of his white shirt. Strange could smell the man’s body odor as he arrived.

“Lewis,” said Quinn. “Say hello to
Detective
Strange.”

Strange ignored Quinn’s sarcastic tone and said, “How you doin’, Lewis?”

“Detective.” Lewis did not look at Strange. At least Strange didn’t think he did; Lewis’s eyes were as big as boccie balls, unfocused, all over the shop. Lewis fidgeted with his hands and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. It made Strange nervous to be around him, and the man smelled like dog shit, too.

“Lewis, you don’t mind, me and Detective Strange are gonna go out and take a ride. Syreeta calls, you tell her I clocked out for a while. That okay by you?”

“Sure.”

“Nice meeting you, Lewis.”

“You, too, Detective.”

Quinn snagged his leather off a coat tree behind the counter. Strange and Quinn walked from the shop.

Crossing the street, Strange said, “He blind?”

“Legally, he is. I know he can’t drive a car. He says he ruined his eyes reading under the covers with a flashlight when he was a boy. Had a father who thought Lewis was unmanly or something ’cause he read books.”

“Imagine him thinking that.”

“Lewis is all right.”

“You’re a friend to him, you
ought
to tell him about these new products they got on the market, called soap and shampoo. Got this new revolutionary thing called deodorant, too.”

“I’ve told him. So has Syreeta. But he’s a good clerk. She doesn’t like to work too many hours and neither do I. He’s the kind of guy,
his
hours might as well be painted on the front door. Hard to find help like that today.”

“What, they got him in charge of the romance books or something? He looks like he might be an expert in that department.”

Quinn looked over at Strange. “You’d be surprised.”

“For real?”

“I’m not saying he’s a player or anything like that. He’s one of those one—woman men. Matter of fact, he’s been faithful to a girl named Fistina for the last twenty years.”

“They say that’ll make you blind, too.”

“I’m not blind.”

“Neither am I. But you and me, we probably practice that kind of love in moderation. I bet Lewis in there, he just wears old Fistina out.”

They got into Strange’s Caprice. Strange turned the ignition, and the engine came to life. He looked through the windshield at the gun shop across the street.

“Real nice how they’re running that place a half mile over the District line. Makes it real convenient for those kids downtown, don’t have to drive too far to buy a piece.”

“They don’t buy them there. Too many restrictions, and who wants a registered handgun, anyway? They just kind of road—test the floor models.”

“Just as bad, you ask me.”

“You’re thinking like a cop,” said Quinn.

“That so.”

“And you’re driving a cop’s cruiser. What’s this, a ninety?”

“Eighty—nine. Three—fifty square block with a beefed—up suspension. Thicker sway bars and a heavy—duty alternator. Not as fast as those LTIs, you know, the ninety—six with the ’Vette engine. But it moves.”

“Don’t your tails get burned, driving this thing?”

“Sometimes. When I’m doing a close tail I take out a rental.”

“I thought you
were
a cop when you pulled up out front of the place. Not just the car — the way you moved.”

“Yeah, I got made as one by this old lady yesterday down in Langdon Park. Once you put on the badge, I guess you never lose the look.”

“You tellin’ me —”

“Yeah,” said Strange. “I was a cop and then I wasn’t. Just like you.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Been about thirty years since I wore the uniform. Nineteen sixty—eight.”

Strange pulled down on the tree and put the Chevy in gear.

THEY
drove south on Georgia Avenue, music playing from the deck. Just past Kansas Avenue, Strange pointed out his shop, set back off the main drag in the middle of a narrow strip.

“That’s me right there,” said Strange. “That’s my office.”

“Nice logo.”

“Yeah, I like it.”

“You sell magnifying glasses, too?”

“Investigations, man. Little kid sees that symbol, he knows what it means. Hell, your boy Lewis sees it, he squints real good,
he
can tell —”

“I got you.” Quinn looked across the street at a bar called the Foxy Playground. “What’s that, your hangout over there?”

Strange didn’t answer. He turned up the volume on the deck and sang under his breath. “We both know that it’s wrong, but it’s much too strong, to let it go now… .”

“I’ve heard this one,” said Quinn. “Guy’s hammering some married lady, right?”

“It’s a little more subtle than that. Mr. Billy Paul, he justified an entire career with this single right here. Glad I recorded it before I lost my album collection. Had to throw them all out after the pipes busted in my house, couple years back.”

“You can buy it on CD, I bet.”

“I have a player. But I like records. Was listening to this Black—byrds tape yesterday,
Flying Start?
Thinking about the liner notes on the inner sleeve of the original record. I sure wish I had that record today.” Strange smiled a little, listening to the music. “This is kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”

“If you were there, I guess.”

“Don’t you like music?”

“When it speaks to my world. How about you? You ever listen to anything current?”