“Just passing out flyers.”
“ ’Cause you’re gonna have a little trouble blending in.”
“But I feel the love,” said Quinn. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”
They drove back to W Street, passing the Fredrick Douglass Home, then cut up 16th toward Minnesota Avenue, where they could catch Benning Road to the other side of the river and back into the center of town. They passed solid old homes and rambling bungalows sitting among tall trees on straight, clean streets, sharing space with apartments and housing complexes, some maintained but many deteriorating, all surrounded by black wrought-iron fences. Many of the apartment buildings, three-story brick affairs with the aesthetic appeal of bunkers, showed plywood in their windows. Hard young men, the malignant result of years of festering, unchecked poverty and fatherless homes, sat on their front steps. Strange had always admired the deep green of Anacostia and the views of the city from its hilly landscapes. It was the most beautiful section of town and also the ugliest, often at the same time.
“You can’t find one white face down here anymore,” said Quinn, looking at a man driving a FedEx truck as it passed.
“There’s one,” said Strange, pointing to the sidewalk fronting one of the many liquor stores serving the neighborhood. A cockeyed woman with a head of uncombed blond hair and stretch pants pulled up to her sagging bustline stood there drinking from a brown paper bag. “Looks like they forgot to do their head count this morning up at St. E’s.”
Strange was hoping to bring some humor to the subject. But he knew Terry would not give it up now that he’d been stepped to.
“Bet you there’s some down here, they’d tell you that’s one too many white people on these streets,” said Quinn.
“Here we go.”
“You remember that loud-mouth guy they had in this ward, ran for the city council, Shazam or whatever his name was? The guy who wanted everyone to boycott the Korean grocery stores?”
“Sure, I remember.”
“And?”
“And, nothin’,” said Strange.
“So you agreed with that guy.”
“Look. People down here got a right to be angry about a lot of things. They talk it out among themselves, in the barbershop and at the dinner table, and when they do they talk it out for real, the pros and the cons. But one thing they don’t do is, they don’t go shittin’ on that guy you’re talking about, or our former mayor, or Farrakhan, or Sharpton, or anyone else like that to people like you.”
“People like me, huh?”
“Yeah. Black folks don’t put down their own so they can feed white people what they want to hear.”
“This guy ran his whole election on fear and hate, Derek.”
“But he didn’t win the election, did he?”
“Your point is what?”
“In the end, in their own quiet way, the majority of the people always prove that they know the difference between right and wrong. What I’m saying is, there’s more good people out here than there are bad. Once you get hip to that, that anger you’re carrying around with you, it’s gonna go away.”
“You think I’m angry?”
“Look at the world more positive, man.” Strange reached for the tape deck, looking for some music and some peace. “Trust me, man, it’ll help you get through your day.”
Chapter 5
“I SEE you’re a ’Skins fan,” said Mario Durham, nodding at the plaster figure with the spring-mounted head on Strange’s desk.
“I see you are, too,” said Strange, his eyes passing over the Sanders jersey Durham wore as he sat slumped in the client chair.
“I do like Deion. Boy can play.”
“He couldn’t play for me. Biggest mistake the ’Skins ever made, gettin’ rid of a heart-and-soul player like Brian Mitchell for a showboat like Deion. Mitchell used to get that whole team up, man. That’s what happens when a new owner comes in, doesn’t understand the game.”
“Whateva. You a longtime fan, though, I can see. This right here must go back to Charley Taylor and shit.” Durham reached out and flicked the head of the plaster figure. Greco, lying belly down on the floor, raised his head and growled.
“Watch it,” said Strange. “My stepson painted that, and it’s special. Money can’t replace it.”
“That dog all right? Animals and me don’t get along.”
“You interrupted his beauty sleep,” said Strange.
Durham shifted in his chair. “So anyway, like I was sayin’, I’m lookin’ for this girl.”
“Olivia Elliot,” said Quinn, seated beside the desk.
“Right. I was knowin’ her for, like, two months, and I thought we was gettin’ along pretty good.”
“Where’d you two meet?” said Strange.
“I was tryin’ to hook up with this other girl, see, worked at this nail and braid salon in Southeast. I went in there lookin’ to date this girl, and I see Olivia, got some woman’s hand in her lap, paintin’ it. Y’all know how that is, when you get a look at a certain kind of woman and you say, uh-huh, yeah, that right there is gonna be mine.”
“You had a lot of girlfriends, Mario?”
“I ain’t gonna lie to you; I been a player my whole life,” said Durham. He smiled then, showing Quinn and Strange two long, protruding front teeth surrounded by space. “But this was different right here.”
“And then she left,” said Quinn.
“She just up and left, and I ain’t heard from her since.”
“You two have an argument, something like that?” said Strange.
“We was cool,” said Durham, “far as I know.”
“Where was she staying when she disappeared?”
“She had this apartment, stayed with her son, young boy. They stayed in this place they rented off Good Hope.”
“Her son’s name?”
“Mark.”
“Same last name? Elliot?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he’s in school?”
“Elementary, down in that area they was stayin’ in, I guess, but I don’t know the name.”
“You try her mother, any other family?” said Strange.
“She never spoke of any kin,” said Durham. “Look, fellas, I’m worried about the girl.”