“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 Wood, 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?”