Strange went right to the Metro section. Between the roundup columns, “In Brief” and “Crime,” there had been five gun-related murders reported over the past weekend. Many of the victims had gone unnamed and all were in their late teens or early twenties. One had occurred in east-of-the-park Northwest and the others had occurred in Far Southeast. At the city’s annual Georgia Avenue Day celebration, a teenager had been shot by random gunfire, sending some families fleeing in panic and causing others to dive on their children, shielding them from further harm.
Strange went to the A section. Deep inside, a congressman from the Carolinas dismissed the need for further handgun laws and vowed to continue his fight to hold Hollywood and the record industry accountable for the sexual content and violent nature of their product. This same congressman had threatened to cut off federal funds to the District of Columbia, earmarked for education, if D.C. did not agree to change its Metro signs from “National Airport” to “Reagan National Airport.”
Strange turned his head and looked at the Stylistics album, a birthday gift from Quinn, propped up against the wall.
Do something.
“I will,” said Strange, though there was no one but him in the room. His voice was clear and emphatic, and it sounded good to his ears.
STRANGE turned on the light-box of his storefront, returned the newspaper to Hawk’s, and drove north to his row house on Buchanan. From his basement he retrieved a couple of red two-gallon containers of gasoline, one of which was full, and carried them out to the trunk of his Caprice. He went to the Amoco station next, filled up his tank and filled the empty container with gas. He placed it next to the other in the trunk and used his heavy toolbox to wedge them tight against the well. Then he drove down Georgia to Iowa Avenue along Roosevelt High and parked in the lot between Lydell Blue’s Buick and Dennis Arrington’s import.
The boys were down in the Roosevelt “bowl,” doing their warm-ups in the center of the field. The quarterback, Dante Morris, and Prince, another veteran player, were in the middle of the circle, leading the team in their chant. Strange could hear them as he took the aluminum-over-concrete steps of the stadium to the break in the fence.
“How y’all feel?”
“Fired up!”
“How y’all feel?”
“Fired up!”
“Breakdown.”
“Whoo!”
“Breakdown.”
“Whoo!”
Strange shook hands with Blue and then with Arrington, a computer specialist and deacon who was a longtime member of the coaching staff. The boys were warming up together but would soon break into their Pee Wee and Midget teams, determined by weight, for the remainder of the practice.
“You’re a little late,” said Blue.
“Had to get some gas,” said Strange.
“We got a scrimmage set up for this weekend.”
“Kingman,” said Arrington.
“They’re always tough,” said Strange.
“I like the way that boy Robert Gray is playing,” said Blue. “Boy runs with authority. He’s not much of leader, but he can break it.”
“He’s just getting to know the other kids,” said Strange. “And he’s naturally on the quiet side. Plus he’s smart; he already learned the plays in just a week’s time. Be a change from Rico, anyway, the way that boy runs his mouth.”
Rico was the team’s halfback, a talented but cocky kid who had a complaint ready for every command.
“Gray’ll keep Rico on his toes,” said Blue. “Make him appreciate that position he’s got, and work harder to keep it.”
“I was thinkin’ the same thing,” said Strange. “And who knows? Maybe Robert’ll earn that position himself.”
“You gonna take the Pee Wee team alone, Derek?” said Blue, his eyes moving to Arrington’s. “’Cause me and Dennis here got our hands full with the Midgets.”
Strange nodded. “I’ll handle it.”
“You could use some help.”
“I know it,” said Strange, and ended the conversation at that.
After practice, the coaches had the boys take a knee and told them what they had seen them do right and wrong in the past two hours. The boys’ jerseys were dark with sweat and their faces were beaded with it. When Strange and Blue were done talking, Arrington asked them what time they should show up for the next practice.
“Six o’clock,” said a few of the boys.
“What time?” said Arrington.
“Six o’clock, on the dot, be there, don’t miss it!” they shouted in unison.
“Put it in,” said Strange.
They all managed to touch hands in the center of the circle.
“Petworth Panthers!”
“All right,” said Strange. “Those of you got your bikes, get on home straightaway. If you got people waitin’ for you, we’ll see you get in the cars up in the lot. For you others, Coach Lydell and Coach Dennis and myself will drive you home. I don’t want to see none a y’all walking through these streets at night. Prince, Dante, and Robert, you come with me.”
Strange crossed the field in the gathering darkness, Robert Gray beside him, his helmet swinging by his side.
“You looked good out there,” said Strange.
Gray nodded but kept his face neutral and looked straight ahead.
“It’s okay to smile,” said Strange.
Gray tried. It didn’t come naturally for him, and he looked away.
“It’s a start,” said Strange. “Gonna take some work, is all it is.”
Strange dropped Dante Morris, Prince, and Gray at their places of residence. Pulling off the curb from his last stop, Strange got WOL, the all-talk station on 1450 AM, up on the dial. The local headline news had just begun. From the female reporter, Strange learned that Judge Potterfield had sentenced Granville Oliver to death.
DRIVING south on Georgia, Strange saw a boy standing in front of his shop on 9th. He swung the Caprice around, parked in front of the funeral home, and walked toward the boy. He wasn’t any older than seven. His dark skin held a yellow glow from the light-box overhead. The boy took a step back as Strange approached.
“It’s okay,” said Strange. “That’s my place you’re standing in front of, son. I was just coming by to turn off the light.”
The boy looked up at the lighted sign. “That your business?”
“That’s me. Strange Investigations. I own it. Been in this location over twenty-five years.”
“Dag.”
“What you doin’ out here this time of night all by yourself?”
“My mother went to that market across the street. Said she couldn’t hold my hand crossing Georgia with those market bags in her hand, so I should wait here till she comes back.”
“What’s your name, young man?”
The boy smiled. “They call me Peanut Butter and Jelly, ’cause that’s what I like to eat.”
“Okay.”
“Mister?”
“What?”
“Will you wait with me till my mother comes back? It’s kinda scary out here in the dark.”
Strange said that he would.
AFTER the mother had come, and after Strange had given her a polite but direct talk about leaving her boy out on the street at night, Strange put his key to the front door of his shop. He had a slight hunger and knew that he could find a PayDay bar in Janine’s desk. As he began to fit the key in the lock, he heard the rumble of a high-horse, big American engine, and he turned his head.
A white Coronet 500 with Magnum wheels was rolling down the short block. It pulled over directly in front of the shop and the driver cut its engine. Strange recognized the car. When the driver got out, Strange could see that, indeed, it was that Greek detective who worked for Elaine Clay. As he crossed the sidewalk, Strange could see in the Greek’s waxed eyes that he was up on something. And as he grew nearer, he smelled the alcohol on his breath.
“Nick Stefanos.” He reached out his hand and Strange took it.
> “I remember. What you doin’ in my neighborhood, man?”
“I was driving around,” said Stefanos. “You said that if the light-box was on I should stop by.”
“I was just fixin’ to turn it off,” said Strange.
“Too late,” said Stefanos with a stupid grin. “I’m here.”
chapter 37
STRANGE and Stefanos walked to the Dodge, parked under a street lamp. Stefanos leaned against its rear quarter panel and folded his arms.
“I heard the news about Oliver on the radio,” he said. “I guess it’s why I thought of you and took a shot at stopping by.”
“They’ll give him the needle now, up in Indiana.”
“Not just yet. There’s plenty of appeal time left. Anyway, you did what you could.”
“That’s what everyone tells me,” said Strange. “So you were just driving around, huh?”
“Yeah, my girlfriend, woman named Alicia, she’s out with friends. I got itchy hanging around my crib.”
“Smells like you made a few pit stops on your way here,” said Strange. “Thought you were staying away from drinking.”
“I said I was tryin’ to stay out of bars. It’s not the same thing.”
“You fall off that wagon much?”
Stefanos shrugged. They stood there for a while without speaking. Stefanos lit a Marlboro and tossed the match onto the street.
“You sure did stir up the bees down in Southeast,” said Stefanos.
“I guess I did.”
“After Horace McKinley was found in that alley, it started the ball rolling, didn’t it? The ATF got involved and put together a case against that gun dealer, lived over the line in Maryland.”
“Ulysses Foreman. But it wasn’t McKinley’s death that triggered all the activity. It was Durham’s boy Bernard Walker gettin’ arrested for an unrelated murder a month later. The Feds flipped him on Durham and got him to detail the Foreman operation—what he knew about it, anyway. Apparently it was Foreman who blew up McKinley’s shit. They even indicted Foreman’s girlfriend as a coconspirator in the gun trafficking charge. Getting defendants to flip beats good police work every time.”
“I guess I ought to thank you for the job.”
“What job?”
“The Dewayne Durham thing, the whole Six Hundred Crew operation, it’s gonna be a RICO trial now. Elaine Clay was the PD assigned to the case. I’m doing the investigative work for the defense.”
“Congratulations,” said Strange.
“It’s work,” said Stefanos. He reached into the open window of his car, pulled free a pint bottle from under the front seat. “What ever happened with that little problem you had with the authorities?”
“Nothing. No more burglaries, no more threats. Never heard another word after McKinley got chilled.”
“No reason to go after you anymore. They got their verdict.”
“I guess.”
Strange watched him unscrew the top and tip the bottle to his lips. He watched the bubbles rise in the whiskey as Stefanos closed his eyes. The Greek wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done.
“Here you go,” said Stefanos, offering Strange the bottle. “Shake hands with my old granddad.”
“Crazy motherfucker,” said Strange, waving the bottle off.
“Suit yourself,” said Stefanos. He dragged deeply on his cigarette and blew smoke at his feet.
Strange looked him over. “Feel like going for a ride?”
Stefanos said, “What’d you have in mind?”
Strange told him.
“Guess you caught me in the right frame of mind,” said Stefanos.
“You want to take a pee, wash your face or somethin’, before we go? It’s a long drive.”
“No. But let’s pick up a six-pack. I need something cold to go with this bourbon. We can take my ride, you want to.”
“I’ll drive,” said Strange. “You’re half blind.”
THEY drove out of the city via New York Avenue, took the tunnel to 395, and were soon into Virginia and on Route 1. They spoke very little. Strange listened to his tapes, and Stefanos drank and smoked. He seemed to enjoy the wind in his face.
The road became more barren as they drove south.
Forty minutes later, they passed the Marine Corps base at Quantico and continued on.
“Won’t be long now,” said Strange.
“What’s the plan?”
“No plan. Get in quick, burn the motherfucker down, try to get out without getting nailed.”
“Viva la revolution,” said Stefanos.
“I need you as a lookout.”
“But I’m half blind.”
“Funny.”
“I got the matches. Don’t I get to play?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“We gonna wear gloves or something?”
“And ski masks, too. Shit, we get caught, we’re gonna get caught on the site. I ain’t gonna worry about fingerprints or nothin’ else but haulin’ ass out of there. Let’s just do this thing, all right?”
Deep forest lined both sides of the highway. Strange took his foot off the gas pedal and let a car pass on his left. Soon he slowed the Caprice down and swerved off onto the berm, then he made a right onto a gravel drive where Stefanos had seen a cut in the trees. What looked like a house stood alone back off the road. A sign reading “Commonwealth Guns” was strung along a porch holding barred windows. A light in a glass globe mounted beside the door illuminated the porch.
Strange killed the headlights as he drove the car onto the grass and parked alongside the house. The motorcycle was not on the porch.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They got out and went to the trunk. Strange opened it and took out the two cans of gas. A car approached on the highway and he closed the trunk lid, extinguishing its light.
“There’s gonna be cars from time to time goin’ by,” said Strange. “Just keep working fast.”
“You got a rag in there?”
“Yeah.”
“Give it to me. I’ll find a stick to tie it around while you do your thing. After I take care of that porch light. Leave some gas for the torch.”
“Okay, man. Let’s go.”
Stefanos waited for the rag, wrapped it around one hand, then went up to the porch and unscrewed the hot lightbulb inside its shield. Then he moved to the treeline in the nearly total darkness and hand-searched the ground until he found a small branch. He wrapped the rag around the top of the branch and tied it tightly so that it would not slip off.
Strange doused the porch with gasoline and continued around the house, flinging the liquid against its walls. When he was done with one can he went back for the other and continued his circular path. Cars sped by on the highway, but none stopped.
Strange met Stefanos at the trunk of the car.
“We all set?” said Stefanos.
“Yeah. It’s an all-wood house, should go up good.”
“Here,” said Stefanos, holding out the branch. Strange poured gasoline onto the rag, careful not to get any near the car.
“That’s good. Drive the car up to the road. I’ll be right with you, hear?”
Stefanos smiled. “Set ’em off, Jefferson: one, two, three, four.”
“You are something. Gimme your matches.”
“Here you go, Dad.”
Strange felt the book pressed into his hand.
Stefanos took the car up to the road, let it idle on the berm. He looked south and in the rearview took in the northern view. There were no cars coming in either direction. He flipped the headlights on and then off.
Strange lit the rag atop the branch. The light from it was startling and he swung the branch and released it, pinwheeling it onto the porch of the gun store. The porch caught fire immediately and then the rest of the house seemed to explode into a ring of flame. Strange stepped back, feeling the heat of the fire, watching it engulf the house. He heard the sound of his own car’s horn but stayed where he was
. He admired the power of the fire and the color dancing against the trees. He heard his horn again and he turned and jogged to his car. Stefanos was in the passenger seat, sweat shotgunned on his forehead. Strange got under the wheel and pulled down on the tree. He fishtailed off the berm, pinning the accelerator as he hit the asphalt.
Stefanos unscrewed the top from his pint bottle and had a drink. He handed it to Strange, who tipped it to his lips. The two of them laughed.
Strange handed the bottle back. “Thanks, buddy.”
“You feel better now?”
“Yeah, I feel good.” He thought of the cleansing warmth of the fire and the beauty of the flames.
“It’s a long jolt, we get popped for this. We ruined a man’s livelihood. He was running a legal business there.”
“He has insurance, I expect,” said Strange. “The way I look at it, we just saved a bunch of lives.”
Stefanos lit a cigarette. He looked at the white divider lines on the highway, rushing under the car. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
“They found that girl he was looking for,” said Strange, smiling some, thinking of Quinn. “He had written down her location on the back of a flyer. It was sitting there right next to him on the seat.”
Stefanos looked across the bench at Strange. “Not many of us left out here.”
“No.”
“I guess I’m in it for life.”
“I guess I am, too.”
“Seems like a long game, doesn’t it?”
“Long but simple,” said Strange. “Only got one rule.”
“Just one?” said Stefanos.
Strange nodded. “Last man standing wins.”
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Joe Aronstamn, Russell Ewart, Father George Clements, ATF Special Agent John D’Angelo, ATF Special Agent Harold Scott Jr., ATF Division Director Jeffrey Roehm, Sloan Harris, and Alicia Gordon, for their assistance and guidance in the writing of this book. As always, much love to Emily, Nick, Pete, and Rosa, for their patience and support.