What It Was

EIGHT

Frank 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 amp;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.”

“She’s a math tutor.”

“Right.” Vaughn dragged on his cigarette. “I don’t think she cared much for me. I wouldn’t let her look around Odum’s apartment.”

“She had a key. Let herself in after y’all closed the scene.”

“The resourceful type. What’s so special about the ring?”

“Has sentimental value, she says. Costume jewelry. Says she and Odum were friends. Odum was gonna get the ring assessed for her, to see if it had any value. Stones were a cluster of glass but the body of it was gold. She says.”

“You don’t believe her.”

“She hired me to find the ring. Don’t much care about the why.” Strange looked at Vaughn, who was exhaling a thin stream of smoke over the Formica-covered counter. “You didn’t happen to see it, did you?”

“A ring? No. There was some women’s jewelry we found in his bedroom dresser. A bracelet and a necklace, too, if I remember right.”

“Real shit?”

“I wouldn’t know. Bobby used to do Burglary Ones, years ago. Said he lost his ambition after he fell in love with smack. Maybe the trinkets in the bedroom were some old pieces he was holding on to.”

“What happened to that jewelry?”

“Property’s got it,” said Vaughn. “You think Odum’s killer took the ring?”

“Or one of the uniforms on the scene slipped it in his pocket.”

“It happens. But I’d put money on the one who chilled Odum.”

“You got a suspect?”

Vaughn showed Strange his choppers. “You’re cute. You know it?”

“We might be able to help each other out.”

“That’s what you said on the phone. But I haven’t heard a goddamn thing yet.”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” said Strange.

Vaughn chuckled. “For a nickel I will.”

It was an old vulgar joke about a colored girl. Vaughn was indelicate. Vaughn’s kind were about to be extinct. He was the type of man Strange’s mother would charitably call “a product of his time.” Strange knew that Vaughn was that way. He was also good police.

“What I got for you is real,” said Strange. “That’s a promise.”

“Now you’re gonna bargain.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You always were smart. It’s a damn shame you left the force.”

“I had to,” said Strange.

Vaughn tapped ash off his cigarette. “I like a guy named Robert Lee Jones for this one. Goes by Red.”

“Red Jones.”

“You heard of him?”

“Sure.”

“Got a nice long rap sheet. Relatively small stuff up till now. Agg assaults and shit like that.”

“You have a description?”

“Tall, light-skinned black. Reddish hair.”

Strange took this in. “That would explain his street name.”

“You’d think. Wears an Afro like you, but his is all fucked up. I’ve seen his latest mug shot. Looks like Stymie gone wrong.”

“What’s the motive?”

“Contract hit. Odum was one of my informants; he tipped me on a homicide I’d been working. The guy we arrested and charged probably arranged the murder-for-hire from inside the jail.”

“I know Odum washed dishes up at Cobb’s. What’s that pay, dollar sixty-two car p han hour? You say he was your CI, but even with that, how did he afford that apartment and his heroin habit?”

“He was a tester, so the jolts were free. Could be he was living off his old B-Ones. Bobby always found a way to make it. Career criminal, but no violence.” Vaughn dragged on his L amp;M and let the smoke out slow. “He was a good egg.”

“How’d you come to all this knowledge?”

“Red Jones robbed and shot a small-time heroin dealer by the name of Roland Williams. Williams lived to finger Jones and describe an unidentified accomplice: a little man with gold teeth. Odum was a tester for Williams. Odum must have put Jones onto Williams before he got done. I think it connects.”

“You think.”

“Yeah.”

“So pick up Jones.”

“We would if we could find him. His photo’s been passed out at roll call in every district. He’s on parole, but his PO says he hasn’t reported to her in months. The Absconding Unit’s been looking for him, but so far they’ve come up with bupkes. His last known address is bullshit. My informants don’t know anything, either, or they’re too afraid to talk. If he’s driving a car it’s not registered.”

“That’s where I might be able to help you.”

“Hold up a second.” Vaughn stubbed out his cigarette and signaled the owner of the diner. “Hey, Nick, gimme a Hershey bar, will you? I need somethin sweet to go with this coffee.”

“Male or female?” said Nick.

“With nuts,” said Vaughn. As Nick went down to the register, where the candy was racked in a display, Vaughn returned his attention to Strange. “Go ahead.”

“A source of mine saw a man, matches your description of Red Jones, on Thirteenth at the time of the murder. My source heard a small-caliber gunshot right before the man exited the Odum building.”

“Will your source testify?”

“Hell, no,” said Strange. “He won’t talk to the law, on or off the record. And I’m not about to give him up.”

“I’m still listening,” said Vaughn. He unwrapped the Hershey bar Nick had dropped before him, broke off a piece, and popped it into his mouth.

“Jones, if it was Jones, got into a red late-model Plymouth, white interior.”

“A Plymouth what?”

“Fury, had fold-in headlamps.”

“That would make it a seventy-one.” Vaughn nodded, thinking of Martina Lewis, seated beside him in the auditorium of the Lincoln Theatre. I heard him called Red Fury, too. I don’t know why. “Sonofabitch.”

“What?”‹ c0emnt›p height="0em" width="27"›“I think my dick’s gettin hard.”

“Wait’ll you hear the rest.”

“Tell me.”

“There was a woman driving the Fury. Tall, from what my source could make out. Had dark skin and big hair.”

“Your source didn’t happen to get the numbers on the plates?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“ ’Cause there weren’t any numbers,” said Strange with a small smile. “They were vanity plates.”

“You don’t say.”

“Plates read ‘Coco.’ C-O, C-O.”

Vaughn slid off his stool and stood. “D.C. tags, right?”

“Correct.”

Vaughn put another cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and went to the house pay phone, where he made a call. Strange got up, walked down to the end of the counter, and got the attention of the grill woman, who said her name was Ida. Strange complimented her on her cooking, thanked her for her kindness in making his eggs southern, and slipped her a couple of dollar bills. He met Vaughn at the register, where he was hurriedly settling up with Nick.

“I got this,” said Vaughn.

“Did you see me reach?” said Strange.

“Thanks, Marine,” said Nick, closing the register drawer.

Vaughn and Strange walked toward their cars, parked together on Vermont.

“Your mom doing all right?” said Vaughn.

“She’s fine,” said Strange. “Working for an eye doctor downtown.”

“I’ve been by the Three-Star. Heard your dad passed. My sympathies.”

“Thank you.”

Vaughn stopped walking, hit his cigarette, hot-boxed it with one last drag, and flicked the butt out to the street.

“If you happen to come up on that ring…” said Strange.

“Right,” said Vaughn. “Watch yourself out there.”

“I plan to.”

They shook hands.