“Maybe we should discuss this alone,” said Ives.
“I don’t have a problem with him being here,” said Strange, speaking of Quinn.
“Okay,” said Ives. “I went over the message left at your house. You say the voice was the voice of a white man.”
“Same one, probably, who called my office on Ninth and spoke to my wife. This is no gang member leaving me death threats. Those boys in Southeast want to fuck with me, they’d do it direct. This here’s not their style.”
“The voice spoke of your conversation with Kevin Willis down at Leavenworth.”
“I got nothing from Willis on the Oliver case.”
“Right. I reviewed the transcripts of your tapes.”
“And?”
“At several points Willis talks about people in protective who are hot or who are about to flip. He’s referencing potential witnesses who have nothing to do with the Oliver trial. These are cases that are still pending, Derek.”
“Make your point.”
“They have grounds for an obstruction charge.”
“You should have warned me about that.”
“I did warn you.”
“I don’t remember you sayin’ anything.”
“I went over it with you before you left town; it’s in my notes of our meeting. Now, understand, if the government wants to go after your license or prosecute you further, they’re within their rights to try.”
“The Feds had Willis set me up.”
“Maybe. That would be damned hard to prove.”
“You want me off the case?”
“If you dropped out now, I’d understand. But I need you more than ever. What I’m telling you is, you’ve got to be aware of the possible situation you have here. Let’s assume we’re talking about the FBI. They can bug your office, your house, your bedroom, even your car.”
“I know all that.”
“They can monitor your phone conversations, including your cell. At the very least you ought to be communicating with your people through pay phones.”
“Whatever,” said Strange.
“You don’t seem too concerned.”
“I’m staying on this.”
“Okay. Good. When the time comes to resolve your problem, I’ll represent you, gratis.”
“I was counting on that.”
“In the meantime,” said Ives, “you heard the testimony in there. I need something from the Stokes girl, if there is anything, right away. Something to refute Phil Wood’s testimony that Granville hit his own uncle or had him hit.”
“I’m working on it,” said Strange.
He asked Ives about what they could do for the girl and her son. Ives described the arrangements that could be made. When he was done he said, “I don’t need to tell you to watch your back.”
Strange and Ives shook hands. Quinn and Strange walked toward the Caprice.
“Hope you’re hungry,” said Strange.
“It depends.”
“The Three-Star Diner.”
“That Greek place where your father worked,” said Quinn.
“We’re meetin’ a Greek,” said Strange. “So it makes sense.”
THEY sat in a booth, its seats covered in red vinyl, along the window of the Three-Star on Kennedy Street. Quinn had a cheeseburger with mustard and fried onions only, and a side of fries. Strange ate eggs over easy, grilled half smokes, and hash browns, his usual meal.
Sitting across from them was Nick Stefanos. He had the half smokes and hash browns like Strange, but took his eggs scrambled with feta cheese. Both of them had scattered Texas Pete hot sauce liberally atop the dish.
“I remember this place,” said Stefanos. “My grandfather knew old man Georgelakos. They went to the same church, St. Sophia. And they were in the same business.”
“Your grandfather had a lunch counter?”
“Nick’s.”
“Fourteenth and S, in Shaw. I can picture the sign out front.”
“Right. He used to run up here from time to time. ‘I’ll be right back; Kirio Georgelakos needs a few tomatoes, I’m gonna run some up to him.’ Like that.”
“That’s his son,” said Strange, pointing behind the counter to Billy Georgelakos, wide of girth and broad of chest, nearly bald, working with a Bic pen wedged behind his ear. “My father worked here, too. He was the grill man in this place.”
“Small town,” said Stefanos, smiling pleasantly at Strange.
Stefanos wore a black summer sweater over a white T-shirt, simple 505 jeans, and black oilskin shoes. He kept his hair short and distressed. His face was flecked with scars, white crescents and tiny white lines on olive skin. He wasn’t handsome or ugly; his looks would have been unremarkable except for his eyes, which some would have called intense. His height and build were medium, and he kept his stomach reasonably flat for his age. Strange put him in his early forties. He looked as if he had lived a life. Strange could almost see this one as a younger, reckless man. He sensed that Stefanos had been about good times in his youth, and wondered if drugs were his thing today, and if not, what had replaced them. Maybe it was the adrenaline jolt from the job, or something else. Elaine Clay had said that he had his problems with drink.
“Elaine told me you had a wire on the gang situation in Southeast.”
“I’ve been working RICO cases and the Corey Graves thing for a long time. You just naturally pick up a ton of information, and misinformation, when you’re canvassing those streets.”
“Like any cop,” said Quinn.
“Exactly,” said Stefanos, looking Quinn over.
“I interviewed Kevin Willis down in Leavenworth recently,” said Strange. “Willis was an enforcer with Granville Oliver before he went over to Corey Graves.”
“Be careful with Willis. Kid talks so much, you lose track of what he’s sayin’. He’s charming, but he’s got those long teeth, if you know what I mean.”
“I got bit, too.” Strange told Stefanos about being burgled, and the phone call, and its relation to the Willis tapes.
“So he talked about hot wits in pending cases,” said Stefanos. “That’s where the obstruction could come in.”
“I know it. Now.”
“You fucked up.”
“Thanks for all your support,” said Strange, a dry tone entering his voice. But he liked Stefanos’s candor.
Billy Georgelakos’s longtime waitress, Ella, came to the table with a pot of coffee and refilled their cups with a shaking hand. Stefanos thanked her as she poured, tapping unconsciously on the hardpack of Marlboro reds set on the table beside his plate.
“Tell me what you know about Horace McKinley,” said Strange.
“Yuma Mob,” said Stefanos. “You remember that Cary Grant movie Mr. Lucky?”
“Was there a horse in it?” said Quinn.
“If they were gonna remake that movie,” said Stefanos, “they’d put Horace McKinley in the title role. He’s got that rep. Been hard-busted a few times, but nothing seems to stick.”
“Why’s that?” said Strange.
“Could be he has good attorneys; could be no one can get any wits to post. Could be he’s connected in others ways, too.”
“As in, some kind of law with juice has the finger on him.”
“I can’t say.” Stefanos pointed his fork at Strange. “You don’t know too much, huh?”
“I know some. My wife, Janine, she works for me. She dug up plenty of good information since yesterday. But I’m trying to piece all the players together down there. You know I’m working the Granville Oliver trial.”
“For Ray Ives.”
“Uh-huh. So keep in mind that everything I’m looking for, it’s got to go back to Granville.”
“Most things do in that part of the world. Granville was the king for a good while down there, and he went deep into the community. Take McKinley. He got put on and brought up by Granville when Horace wasn’t much more than a fat kid.”
“That would mean McKinley knew Phil Woo
d, too.”
“Phillip Wood,” said Stefanos. “As in the cat who’s flipping on Granville as we speak.”
“The same.”
Stefanos closed his eyes as he took in a forkful of half smoke and chewed. “Damn, that’s good.”
“My father’s signature,” said Strange. “Keep talking about McKinley.”
“What I hear, Horace is standing tall with Phil Wood. He figures that Granville is gonna get the needle or life without parole, so there’s no upside with him. McKinley runs Yuma, but his loyalty’s with Phil. Like I say, this is only what I hear.”
“That would explain his intimidation,” said Strange.
“It could explain it,” said Stefanos. “You’d have to go deeper than you been going to find out for sure.”
“How do you know all this?” said Quinn.
“I keep my ears open all the time. Stand by the pay phones and talk into a dead receiver, shop in those neighborhood markets for nothing. Ride the Green Line once in a while and listen. Young men down there talk about the day-to-day rumors of gang business every day, the way other young men talk about sports.”
“That’s your secret? Take the Green Line train and keep your ears open?”
“My main secret? My snitches. I can ride the Metro all I want, but without informants I wouldn’t have shit. I hand out a lot of twenty-dollar bills, Terry.”
Stefanos returned his attention to his plate.
“What about Dewayne Durham?” said Quinn.
They waited for Stefanos to swallow another mouthful of food. He started to speak, then raised one finger to hold them off and finished his meal. He pushed the plate away from him and centered his coffee cup where the plate had been.
“What was the question?”
“Dewayne Durham.”
“Yeah, Dewayne. Runs the Six Hundred Crew. Same kind of business, marijuana sales mostly. The two gangs work different strips. I hear they even work out of abandoned houses, one on Yuma and one on Atlantic, and stare at each other across the same alley. Once in a while they cross paths and shots get fired.”
“Like last night,” said Strange.
“I heard. Four dead—over nothing, most likely. A hard look, or someone walked down the wrong street, whatever. Just another war story to tell around the campfire. Like boys coming home from battle, wearing the medals and the uniforms, getting the eyes from the ladies. That little window of glory. Something to show that they were here. That’s all this is, you know? It doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with drugs.”
“In my time,” said Strange, “they would have met somewhere and gone with their hands to see who could take who.”
“Guns make the man now,” said Stefanos.
“Nothing wrong with guns,” said Quinn. “It’s the ones using them make the difference.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” said Stefanos. “I’m a man. I like the way a gun feels in my hand and I like the way it feels when I squeeze the trigger. I’ve used guns when I had to. But we’re not talking about hunting or target practice, and this isn’t the open country. It’s an East Coast city with plenty of poverty. Guns don’t belong here.”
“That’s why they’re illegal in D.C., I guess.”
“You’d never know it, with all the pieces on the street. All these fat-shit congressmen, blaming culture and rap music for the murder rate while they got their hands out to the gun manufacturers and their lobbyists. Don’t you think that’s wrong?”
“I guess we’ve got a difference of opinion.”
Strange cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to Dewayne Durham. Dewayne’s got an older brother. Little guy, looks like a beaver, goes by Mario?”
“I don’t know him,” said Stefanos.
“We’re kinda lookin’ for him on something else,” said Strange. “No one’s gonna help us out, on account of who his brother is, and I figure by now Dewayne has put him underground.”
“The cops’ll get him.”
“We want to get to him first. It’s crazy, I know. But it’ll make us feel better if we do.”
“Go out and find some rumors, then,” said Stefanos. “You guys ever used to congregate at a liquor store or a beer market when you were younger, to find out where the action was for the night?”
“Country Boy in Layhill,” said Quinn.
“For me it was Morris Miller’s,” said Stefanos. “In Anacostia it’s Mart Liquors, at Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. Or any bank of pay phones. The gas stations are good for that. Bring plenty of cash, and don’t forget the diplomacy. And humility, too.”
“Fuck humility,” said Quinn.
“Suit yourself. Me, I want to be around at the end of the race.” Stefanos looked from one man to the other. “You guys are busy.”
“The gun in that shooting last night,” said Strange, “it matches a gun used by Mario Durham in another killing.”
“Like I say, I don’t know him.” Stefanos shrugged. “My advice would be to follow the gun.”
“I’ve been thinking the same way.”
Stefanos picked up his pack of ’Boros, then put it back down. He looked at Quinn, back at Strange, and back at Quinn once more, squinting his eyes. “You’re the cop who shot that other cop a couple of years ago, aren’t you?”
“I got cleared,” said Quinn, his own eyes narrowing. “You’re pretty direct, aren’t you?”
“People say I am. To a fault sometimes.”
Quinn leaned back in his seat. “It’s better that way, I guess.”
“You look like you could use a smoke,” said Strange to Stefanos.
“I’ve got to get going anyway.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
Stefanos slid out of the booth and shook Quinn’s hand. “Nice meeting you, man.”
“You, too.”
Stefanos stopped and looked at the photograph mounted on the wall by the front door. In it, a tall black man stood by the grill beside a short Greek, both of them in aprons. Stefanos saw the resemblance of the Greek to his larger son behind the counter; in the tall man he saw Derek Strange.
“That’s him,” said Strange. “That’s my father right there.”
“Yasou, Derek,” said Billy Georgelakos from across the store.
“Yasou, Vasili,” said Strange, pointing to the booth where Quinn still sat. “Give the check to my son over there, hear?”
“You speak Greek?” said Stefanos.
“A few key phrases. I know what you folks call a black man—the nice word, I mean. I know how to call someone a jerkoff, and I know the word for, uh, pussy.”
“Prove it.”
“Mavros, malaka, and moonee.”
“The three M’s. You’re just about fluent.”
“It’ll come in handy, I happen to get over to Athens for the Olympics.”
Out on Kennedy, Stefanos put fire to a smoke. He took the first drag in and held it deep. Strange stood beside him, watching.
“Tastes good, huh?”
“After a spicy meal like that? Damn right.” Stefanos gave Strange the once-over and smiled. “Strange Investigations. I drive by your place all the time.”
“You know my sign?”
“Magnifying glass over half the letters. How’d you ever come up with that?”
“That logo with the guy smoking the pipe, wearing that hat’s got two bills on it? It was taken.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by sometime.”
“If the light in the sign’s turned on, I’m in. You’re welcome anytime.”
“How about your partner? Think he wants me around?”
“I think he liked you, to tell you the truth. Terry’s carrying some baggage with him, is what it is.”
“Aren’t we all.” Stefanos dragged on his cigarette, looked at it, and hit it again.
“Just so you know, you and me got some similar opinions about guns. I figure, we sat down in a bar together, we might have a lot to talk about.”
“I’m trying to stay out of bars. But I
wouldn’t mind hooking up with you sometime.”
“You know, I’m working this death penalty case for a reason.”
“Another thing we agree on. It’s why I’m on the Corey Graves thing. The federal prosecutors were looking to make it a capital case and they just got the go-ahead from the attorney general.”
“I heard.”
“There’s been too much death in this city already, Derek. I’ve had enough of it.”
“I have, too.”
“The neighborhoods you guys work, your partner’s gotta be careful, with that personality of his. He shows some smarts and less emotion, he’s gonna live longer.”
“I tell him all the time.”
“I remember what that guy went through, with the newspapers and television and all, after he shot that other cop. He’s got some shit flying around in his head; it’s understandable. For what it’s worth, I liked him, too.”
“Don’t forget to stop by. Ninth and Upshur.”
“I’ll be around.”
“Thanks for your help, Nick.”
Stefanos shook Strange’s outstretched hand and said, “Right.”
Strange watched him walk toward a Mopar muscle car, a white-over-red Dodge with aftermarket Magnum 500 wheels. He listened to the cook of the Detroit engine and went back into the diner. Quinn was dropping money on the table, a toothpick rolling in his mouth.
“You ready?” said Quinn. “I need to pick up my car.”
Strange nodded. “Let’s go to work.”
chapter 25
BERNARD Walker waited in the idling Benz as Dewayne Durham walked out of the Sixth District substation on Pennsylvania Avenue in Southeast. He could see that screwed-up look on Dewayne’s face, which meant confusion. Trouble, something to do with his family. Often it was his mother, always needin’ something. Money, jewelry, clothes, a ride to church. But today it was that brother of his, who’d fucked up big with that girl. When the police had called him into the station that morning—“You wanna come in, Dewayne, or should we send a car to pick you up?”—they said it had to do with Mario. Somethin’ about an “interesting” new development they had in the case.