What It Was (21 page)

They were in a commercial and residential district gone to seed. There weren’t a whole lot of straight citizens out, but there was life. People moving about furtively in the darkened doorways of shuttered businesses, heroin addicts, pushers, hookers, a guy dressed outrageously in a purple suit and hat, the Halloween version of a pimp. They had both noticed the unusual number of police cars cruising the area, too.

“We shouldn’t stay too long, Lou,” said Gregorio.

“Relax,” said Fanella. “Here comes somethin now.”

A black girl, low to the ground and tarted up, approached their car.

“You datin tonight, sugar?” she said, her hand on the roof of the Lincoln as she leaned in.

“We got something specific in mind.”

“You police?”

“No.”

“You want black girls, right?”

“White girls,” said Fanella, holding up two fingers. He dragged on his cigarette and blew some smoke in her direction.

“Wait up,” said the girl sourly.

A few minutes later two young white girls in their late teens walked down the sidewalk. One wore short shorts and a scoop-neck shirt with a glittery star on it stretched tight across her full chest. Her hair was on the orange side of blond. The other one was skinny, small-breasted, brunette, and wore a miniskirt and V-neck top.

“I know which one you want,” said Fanella with a smile. Gino liked them slim to bony.

“So?”

“She looks like a boy.”

The girls reached their car. Neither of them lived in the neighborhood of pretty, but they would do.

The one who had the woman’s body looked down at Fanella. “You two datin?”

“Yeah, and we’re not police. Get in the car.”

“Don’t you want a room?”

“I don’t do whorehouses. We got a place. Let’s go there and party.”

“Me and my friend don’t have that kind of time.”

“I’ll pay for your time. Get in.”

The girls opened the suicides and climbed into the Lincoln. Fanella asked them their names, and the one who was
doing all the talking said hers was April. The skinny trick called herself Cindy.

“I’m Lou and this is Gino.”

“You got anything to drink, Lou?”

“Liquor and setups.”

“I like rose-A. Cindy does, too.”

“We’ll get some wine, then.”

“How ’bout a little blow to go with it?” said April.

“What do I look like, Rockefeller?”

“C’mon, Lou, let’s have some fun.”

After some negotiation, they agreed on a price. April had Fanella drive to a nearby row house on T and told him to keep the Lincoln running while she went inside. She returned a few minutes later with the eager, optimistic look of a coke addict who has just copped.

Fanella drove east as Gregorio found a radio station that April and Cindy liked. A hit song was playing, and the girls sang along to the title refrain every time it came around.

“ ‘Alone again’…” sang April.

“… ‘Naturally,’ ” sang Cindy and April in unison, and both of them laughed.

It was annoying, but Fanella did not tell them to knock it off. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and that was all right with him. After all, they weren’t much more than kids.

STRANGE SHOWERED,
dressed in a nice slacks-and-shirt arrangement, and picked up Carmen at her apartment off Barry Place, near the playing fields across from Howard University. Carmen wore a simple, flattering minidress with hoop
earrings. Her makeup was understated and just right. When she got into the passenger bucket of his Monte Carlo, they kissed. Pulling back, her eyes dimmed somewhat as she said, “You smell sweet.”

“I cleaned myself up real good for you, girl,” said Strange, his voice sounding unconvincing to his own ears.

He told her to find something on the radio, and she dialed it over to WOL. The station was spinning light tunes that women liked when they were alone and men and women liked to listen to when they were together. “Betcha by Golly, Wow,” by the Stylistics, “Lean on Me,” by Bill Withers, the 5th Dimension’s “(Last Night) I Didn’t Get to Sleep at All.” It was like the DJ knew that they were on a date. Strange drove west, windows down, a nice pre-summer night in D.C., Carmen humming along to the music, somewhat distant maybe, but seemingly content.

Strange went to the big lot off 16th Street at Carter Barron and found a space near the amphitheater set in the woods of Rock Creek Park. He and Carmen walked with the moving crowd of stylishly dressed black Washingtonians down an asphalt path, past the box office, and through the turnstiles, where Strange presented his tickets. They found their seats in the bowl, under a clear night showcasing stars. The amphitheater had been built on a slope, designed so that the sound would reach all spaces equally, and there were few undesirable seats in the house. Strange felt that there was no better outdoor venue in the city to watch a musical performance. He reached for Carmen’s hand.

Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway had been students
together at Howard, and Flack had played piano and sang for years at the Clyde’s bar, making them hometown heroes. Flack in particular received a raucous ovation as she took the stage, wearing one of several gowns she would change into during the show.

The Carter Barron engagement had been booked and sold out for several consecutive nights. The evening’s program had Flack and Hathaway executing solo sets and also playing together. It was expected that they would do “Where Is the Love,” their number one single on the R&B charts, and when they launched into it, a great reception was issued from the overcapacity crowd.

In truth, Strange was not much of a Roberta Flack fan. Her vibe was too soft for him, and though he would never tell Carmen, he felt it was music for females. But he found himself getting into her performance. She had an accomplished group of musicians backing her up, and her man on guitar, Eric Gale, doled out some tasty licks. Strange had seen Hathaway at the Ed Murphy’s Supper Club, where he played often, and he put Donny’s debut album,
Everything Is Everything,
in the category of classic. When Hathaway got down on the ivories during his intro to “The Ghetto,” the house lit up.

Strange waited with dread for the inevitable comedown of “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” Flack had recorded it in ’69, but it caught chart fire when Eastwood put it in that movie of his, about the one-night stand gone way wrong. To Strange, it was one of the most lackluster songs ever to hit the charts. But Carmen liked it, so Strange never put it down in her presence. Flack was singing it now, one spotlight
on her at the piano. There was a rapt, spiritual expression of attention on Carmen’s face.

Strange looked around at the audience. Turning his head back toward the rear rows, he saw a big, rust-colored, misshapen Afro on a light-skinned man, and the large hair of the tall, overly made-up woman who sat beside him.

Strange couldn’t believe that any man could be that bold. Still, he wondered.

He put his mouth close to Carmen’s ear. “I gotta make a phone call.”

“Okay.”

Strange produced his wallet and gave Carmen a twenty-dollar bill. “Case I don’t come back…”

“What?”

“That’s for cab fare. They got taxis out in the lot. I’ll meet you back at your crib later on.”

“For real, Derek? You gonna
leave
me here?”

“I’m working a case.”

“Not tonight you’re not.”

“I’ll explain later on.”

“You got plenty to explain,” she said.

He had no time to ponder her words. He ignored the looks of reproach from the audience members seated around them and managed to get out of their aisle. Went up the steps between the rows and couldn’t help but look over at Jones, who was staring at him straight on. The dude knew no caution and had no fear.

RED JONES
had been suffering through that boring-ass song he’d heard on the radio when he saw a man with a thick
mustache turn his head and study him from the center rows of the theater. Then watched as the man talked to his woman and got up out of his seat. He locked eyes with him as he walked up the steps. Dude had big shoulders on him and a chest. He looked like some kind of police.

Red Jones turned to Coco. “I smell pig.”

“Red, I’m tryin to hear Roberta.”

“Let’s go.”

“For
real
.”

“Do I look like I’m playin?”

They got up and took their time moving through the aisle. They were interrupting Flack’s dramatic performance and blocking the view of many, but no one had the balls to say a thing.

STRANGE FOUND
the pay phone up near the bathrooms. He dialed the Third District house, identified himself as a former police officer, and asked to speak to Vaughn. When told by the desk sergeant that Vaughn was out, Strange left a detailed message and suggested that any available units be sent to the amphitheater. Red Jones and Coco Watkins went past him, taking their time, taking long strides, without a glance in his direction. Strange saw no ring on Coco’s hand.

As the two of them went out the gates, Jones stopped to light a cigarette for himself and one for his woman. To Strange, it didn’t look like either of them gave a good fuck about being recognized or anything else. But they were leaving, which meant that they knew they’d been made.

Strange watched Jones and Watkins step off the asphalt path and walk directly into the darkness of the woods.

Strange cradled the receiver. He saw a couple of private security guards talking and smoking by the front gates. He walked past them, exited the venue, and began to jog when he hit the lot, where his MC was parked under a light.

T
HE CRIME
scene at Soul
House had been secured by the time Vaughn arrived. Uniformed officers kept witnesses calm and on premises while the lab technicians worked around the body of Roland Williams. Several patrons and the bartender described the killer in detail and the doorman, Antoine Evans, identified him by name.

“You certain it was Jones?” said Vaughn.

“Course I am. Red robbed a card game I was in couple a weeks back.”

“Poker?”

“Tonk. But there was real money on the table.”

“Where was that?”

“Bottle club, ’round the corner.”

“Will you take the stand, Antoine?”

Antoine Evans nodded. “Red ain’t had to do Roland like that.”

Vaughn found the man with the gray beard, still sitting in
his chair on the sidewalk outside the club, and asked him what he’d observed.

“After the gunshots, tall light-skinned dude came out the House and got back into the Fury he’d come in.”

“What was the color of the car?”

“Red-over-white coupe,” said the man, pronouncing it “koo-
pay
.” “Way those pipes sounded, had to be the GT.”

“Can you describe the driver?”

“Shoot, I can tell you her name. Says it right on the Fury’s plates. She goes by Coco. Runs a house right here on Fourteenth.”

Vaughn had his package for the prosecutors: confirmable details and eyewitnesses who were willing to talk and even testify. Now he needed to make the arrest.

A patrolman approached Vaughn. “Message came over the radio for you, Detective. A citizen spotted Robert Lee Jones at the Carter Barron. We’ve got units headed over there…”

Vaughn was already moving toward his Monaco, double-parked on the street.

STRANGE GUESSED
that Jones and Watkins had left their Fury in the neighborhood of Crestwood, adjacent to Rock Creek Park, surmising correctly that the Plymouth was too radioactive to be parked in the main lot. Their walk in the woods would put them on Colorado Avenue, which branched out to other residential streets. Somewhere on those streets was their car.

Strange got into his Monte Carlo and fired it up. Driving through the lot, he saw two squad cars down by the tennis courts parked nose to ass, the conversation arrangement for
uniformed police, but he did not go there for help because he felt there was no time.