What It Was (9 page)

“So?”

“Means Janet likes her salami cut.”

“I’m like that down there, too.”

“Yeah, but you don’t look like Tony. I bet he had that dish up one side and down the other all day long.”

“How would you know?”

“ ’Cause he was married to her, you dumbass.”

“Oh.”

“
Look
at that. I love it when a broad has a narrow waist and big tits. How about you, Gino?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Homos,” said Fanella.

They found a place nearby that had steaks on special and a salad bar. After the main they went with a couple of slices of cheesecake, then settled up the check and drove back into the city. They found Thomas “Zoot” Mazzetti seated at the bar of a place called the Embers, on the 1200 block of 19th Street.

A jazzy outfit called the Frank Hinton Group was playing in the lounge for an audience of lawyers, lawyer types, and secretaries, all dressed nice, seated around the low-lit spot. Fanella and Gregorio wore sport jackets and polyester slacks with bold-print shirts, collars out over the lapels. They looked like what they were.

Fanella felt that Zoot was showing off, setting the meeting at a high-end spot. Like, look at me; I have made it. Zoot had come up in their area and like them had worked for the Organization on the ladder’s lowest rungs. All of them were high school dropouts. Gino Gregorio, at the bottom of the bell curve, had done a stint in the army but had gone no further than the motor pool.

Years earlier, Zoot had followed a girl south to the Baltimore–Washington corridor. She soon threw him over for a guy with a brain and a job. By then Zoot had grown comfortable with the area. He was a novelty here, a real Italian just like Pacino instead of another failed swinging dick from the neighborhood back home. He decided to stay and found a niche in D.C. as a bookie and a buyer and seller of
information. Lately he had developed a relationship with a local cop who was into him on a gambling debt for two thousand dollars and change. Zoot was not book smart but he knew how to operate.

“Big shot,” said Fanella. “Look at you.”

Zoot smiled, stepped back from the bar, let them see his getup, tight jeans with a dollar-sign belt buckle, a rayon shirt, and a cinnamon-colored leather jacket.

“Them pants are kinda snug, ain’t they?” said Fanella, winking at Gregorio.

“That’s for the ladies,” said Zoot. “I dress to the left, as you can see.”

“You look like a hairdresser,” said Fanella.

“Fuck you and buy me a drink.”

They had cocktails and got around to why they had come. Zoot told them where they could find Roland Williams, the man they were looking for. He said the information had come from a law enforcement officer he had “on retainer” and the tip was golden. For his trouble they picked up the tab but gave Zoot nothing extra. It was understood that he was still connected, however tenuously, to the outfit, and always would be.

“Where can we look at some women in this town?” said Fanella. “You know what I’m talking about. Ann-Margret types.”

Zoot gave them a suggestion.

Fanella and Gregorio went down to the Gold Rush, a burlesque club low on 14th. No cover, no minimum. Daphne Lake and her “exotic revue” were performing. Daphne’s protégées were double-D gals with plenty of flank and ass,
but, to the disappointment and annoyance of Fanella, they showed no wool. Disoriented in their new surroundings, they walked the streets and came upon a theater, the Playhouse, showing a stroke picture called
Bacchanale.
“You must see Uta Erickson!” it said on the marquee, and they bit. Sitting there in the auditorium with the raincoat creeps who were moaning as they jacked off into newspapers and socks. It was distracting, but eventually Fanella’s trousers got tight, and he went to the bathroom and rubbed one off in the privacy of a stall. Returning to his seat, he tugged on Gregorio’s jacket and told him it was time to go.

“The movie’s not finished,” said Gregorio.

“Foreign pictures stink,” said Fanella. “Come on.”

The Lincoln was where they’d left it, around the corner from the Gold Rush. Fanella cruised out of town, careful to stay within ten miles of the speed limit. He had a switchblade with a bone handle in his pocket. Under the driver’s seat was a loaded .38. In the trunk were two cut-down shotguns and slings, handguns of various calibers, bricks of ammunition, a baseball bat, a pair of lead-filled saps, a set of butcher knives wrapped in soft cloth, and a white raincoat. Fanella did not want to have to shoot a police officer over a traffic stop. His people would not like it if he went to jail before completing his task. He and Gino had work to do.

ROBERT LEE
Jones was seated in the chair beside the red velvet couch where Shirley “Coco” Watkins lounged in her office, drinking pink champagne, enjoying a Viceroy. Her new ring was in a silverware box under the bed, where she kept her jewelry. Jones was having King George scotch cut with a
little bit of water. In the rooms down the hall, Coco’s girls were working.

“Time for me to move out,” said Jones. “Gonna room with Alfonzo for a while over in Burrville. I can’t be stayin here.”

“For real?”

“I’m too hot.”

“You the one lit the stove.”

“You see me sweatin?”

“I never have before.”

“I’m not stressed. I got cash now, Coco. Couple a thousand. Fonzo offed the product wholesale and we split the take.”

“You woulda made more, you sold it by the piece.”

“I got no interest in heroin. Just money.”

“So if you’re flush, what’s your problem? You got a bed right here.”

“People been seein us together. I ain’t about to wait for the law to show up. Me and Fonzo got a chance to make some real coin now.”

Jones produced a pack of Kools from his breast pocket, flipped it, and extracted a menthol out of the hole he had torn in the bottom of the deck. He lit it with a match from the Ed Murphy’s Supper Club book he had taken from Odum’s apartment.

“What are y’all’s plans?” said Coco.

“We’re goin at Sylvester Ward.”

“Two-Tone Ward? The numbers man?”

“Him. Fonzo been sittin on him and knows his routine.”

“Shit. You gonna take off Ward now.”

“Because we can.”

She blinked demurely. There was esteem and affection in her gaze. Also, concern for her man.

“You gettin bold,” she said.

“My name’s ringing out in this town,” said Jones. “People talkin about me in barbershops, on the stoops. Young motherfuckers steppin aside when I walk into the club. They all wanna be like me.”

“More you get known, bigger chance you gonna get taken down.”

“Then I’ll go down,” said Jones.

“What about us?”

“You’re my bottom, girl.”

He leaned forward and kissed her full mouth. He put his hand behind her neck to keep her in. Her tongue snaked around his. Sometimes her mouth was as good as her box, to him. Sometimes.

“How you fixin to cool things down?” said Coco.

“I made a mistake with Roland Williams. He’s in D.C. General right now, but when he comes out? I’m gonna take care of it. My man from back home will see to some other problems we got, too.” Jones double-dragged on his cigarette, let the smoke out slow. “What’s your girl’s name, got the mark on her face?”

“That’s a mole, Red. You talkin about Shay.”

“She been hangin with that dude come out of Lorton premature. Right?”

“Dallas Butler. You had a drink with him yourself, right here in this room.”

“
Dallas,
yeah. Boy’s custard. What was he in for?”

“He was doing sixteen on an armed robbery when he busted out.”

“We gonna make him a murderer, too. But I’m gonna need your help.”

Coco stubbed her Viceroy out in the ashtray after a hungry last drag. “What you want me to do?”

“Ask Shay to hook up a meet. Tell her I want to talk to her boy, but I want it to be a surprise. Not so she’d have cause to be suspicious. You know how to do it. Me and Fonzo will take care of the rest.”

“Anything else?”

“Pick up the phone,” said Jones.

He gave her instructions. She dialed the Third District station house and asked for Detective Vaughn. The voice on the other end of the line told her Vaughn was not in.

“Let me leave a message, then.”

“What’s your name and location?”

“Never mind that,” said Coco. “This about the Robert Odum murder, over there at Thirteenth and R. I know who downed the dude. The killer’s name is Dallas Butler. Dallas like the football team, Butler how it sounds.”

She hung up the phone.

Jones smiled and got up out of his seat. “You did good.”

“Where you goin?”

“Out.”

“Don’t forget about the show. It’s comin up.”

“What show’s that?”

“Donny and Roberta at the Carter Barron. You copped the tickets, fool!”

“Oh, yeah.” He wasn’t excited about it. Music for females and pretty boys. It was weak.

“Come here.”

He bent into her kiss. Standing to his full height, he patted the side of his unkempt natural and let her admire him.

“I’ll be around, Coco.”

“I know you will.”

F
RANK VAUGHN
and Derek Strange
sat at a lunch counter on Vermont Avenue owned and operated by a Greek named Nick. The diner seated twenty-seven: fifteen stools covered in blue vinyl and three blue vinyl booths that each fit four. Old photographs of the village were hung on the blue-and-white tiled walls, as well as formal-suit portraits of the owner’s immigrant parents. Near the front door stood a D.C. Vending cigarette machine with copies of the
Daily News
tabloid set upon it. Beside the machine was a pay phone.

Nick Michael was born Nick Michaelopoulos in Sparta, came to America as a toddler, and was a veteran of the infamous Battle of Peleliu in the Pacific theater. Like many marines who had fought, Nick had settled into a peaceful life of hard work during the day and quiet relaxation at night. He had shot and bayoneted many Japanese soldiers, and seen the deaths of many friends, but except for the USMC tattoo on his inner forearm, there was nothing about his manner or appearance to suggest his violent war experience. He had
come out of the Corps at a lean 145, was now fifty-one years old, went 180, and had a respectable paunch that was slightly visible beneath his apron. He sported a full head of hair, black on top, silver on the sides, and a pleasant, confident smile.

“Anything else I can do you for?” said Nick.

“You can warm up these coffees,” said Vaughn.

Nick put his hands around Vaughn’s cup and, with great exaggeration, rubbed it. “How’s this?”

“That gag’s got gray hair on it,” said Vaughn.

“Like us.”

Nick picked up their cups and saucers, went to one of his big urns, flipped down the black valve-style lever, and poured fresh coffee. He served Vaughn and Strange, emptied Vaughn’s ashtray, and put it back in front of him. Vaughn promptly lit an L&M with his Zippo and placed the lighter atop his newly opened pack.

“I like this place,” said Vaughn.

“It’s all right,” said Strange.

They had just eaten a breakfast of scrapple and eggs. The food was on the bland side by design, as the diner catered to white-collar whites. The crew behind the counter, hot station, cold station, waitress, and dishwasher, were black. The woman working hots had fried some onions and pepper into the eggs for Strange and he had further spiced up the plate with Tabasco. Strange’s father had been a grill man for the Three-Star, a place on Kennedy Street very much like this one. Darius Strange had also worked for a Greek, Mike Georgelakos, who had dropped dead of a massive heart attack in 1969.

“So you’re looking for a ring,” said Vaughn.

“Maybelline Walker’s. You met her.”

“Nice-looking lady. Teacher, I recall.”