“I’ll do that this week.”
“Good. You know, Terry, I’m starting to feel very good about this case. Very good.”
Ron Crosby worked the long, sauce-covered noodles around his chopsticks until he had them where he wanted them. Then, with a swift, stabbing movement, he jabbed the rolled noodles into his mouth.
“This place makes the best Chinese food in town,” he said. A piece of chewed noodle slipped out of the side of his mouth, and he nudged it back with his chopstick.
“How does it look, Ron?” Ortiz asked. He was toying with his food and had eaten little of it.
“Nash is smooth. That’s why he does so well. He scored a few points, but Stafford’s still in jail, isn’t he?”
“Only because Autley was on the bench. He wouldn’t let the pope out on bail. I’m not fooling myself. I made a lousy witness, and Nash didn’t take the gloves off like he will at trial.”
Crosby put down his chopsticks. “What’s bothering you, Bert?”
“Nothing. It’s just…Well, I feel responsible for…If I’d acted sooner, Darlene might still be alive. And now…I want that bastard, Ron, and I’m afraid I’ll screw up again and Nash will get him off.”
“You didn’t screw up the first time. Nobody thinks you did. Hersch was green and she was trying to prove how tough she was. She’s dead because she broke the rules. And Nash isn’t going to get Stafford off, anyway.”
Something in Crosby’s tone made Ortiz look up.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“Eat your noodles and I’ll tell you,” Crosby answered, pulling a folded police report from his inside pocket. “Do you know a pimp named Cyrus Johnson?”
“T.V.? There isn’t a vice cop in town who doesn’t know that asshole.”
“Check out this report,” Crosby said, handing it to Ortiz, “then have a talk with T.V. It might prove interesting.”
Cyrus(T.V.) Johnson was probably the easiest person to find in the city of Portland. Every evening he parked his pink Cadillac outside the Jomo Kenyatta Pool Establishment so junkies would know where to make their connections, and his whores would know where to bring their take. T.V. was not the biggest pimp or pusher in Portland, but he was the most notorious. He had once had the temerity to be interviewed as part of a locally produced television special entitledDrugs in Our Schools, and thus the sobriquet.
Ortiz parked his car in front of the Cadillac and tried to make out T.V. through the haze of smoke that obscured the activity going on behind the storefront window. He could not see Johnson, but that didn’t matter: he knew exactly where he was. T.V. always held court from an expensively upholstered armchair he had had the owner install in the rear of the pool hall. The armchair, surrounded as it was by the room’s shabby furnishings, was a symbol of T.V.’s affluence, and it was understood that heavy penalties attached if anyone else used it.
Ortiz snaked his way around the players and their extended cues, aware that the noise level dropped as soon as he neared a table. A few players turned to watch him, but none moved out of his way. It was a game that Ortiz was used to playing. You trained yourself to suppress the anger that the defiance kindled inside you. A white face in a place like the Kenyatta usually meant cop, and the men who played their pool here had no use for him.
T.V., as usual, was dressed in one of his flamboyant outfits. He hadn’t always dressed like the stereotype pimp before his television appearance, and it was only by coincidence that he had been wearing an anklelength fur coat and garish gold jewelry when the television cameras had happened along. But the word was that T.V.’s television performance had been the high point of his life, and since that day he had dressed to fit the part in case the cameras should call again.
T.V.’s nostrils flared as Ortiz approached, and he sniffed the air.
“We havin’ bar-be-cue tonight, Kermit?” he asked the large man standing to his left, in an exaggerated Negro accent. “’Cause I believe I smell pig.”
The large man fixed Ortiz with a cold, challenging stare. Ortiz recognized Kermit Monroe, a bodyguard who had played pro ball for Detroit before injuring a knee.
“You seem to be in good spirits, T.V.,” Ortiz said calmly.
“Why, sho’ nuff, massah. We colored folks is always happy.”
“Do you think you can cut your routine long enough for us to have a little talk?”
The grin faded and T.V. eyed him suspiciously. Ortiz was no stranger. He had busted T.V. twice, but neither rap had stuck. The last time Ortiz had split T.V.’s lip. T.V. was vain about his looks and had not shown up at the pool hall for a week. He had also taken out his anger on one of his girls and sent her to the hospital. T.V. held Ortiz responsible for the girl’s lost earnings, as well as his humiliation.
“Whatcho want to talk about?”
“In private,” Ortiz said, gesturing toward Monroe.
“Uh-uh. I got nothin’ to say to you I can’t say in front of my friends.”
“Why don’t you piss off, Ortiz?” Monroe said. His voice was deep and smooth. Ortiz didn’t show it, but he was afraid. He knew Monroe would not hesitate to kill a policeman. He might even enjoy it.
“I want some information about a white man who had some dealings with you and one of your girls a few years back,” Ortiz said, ignoring Monroe and pulling a mug shot of Larry Stafford out of his pocket. He noticed Monroe’s hand move inside his leather jacket when his own hand moved.
“Girls? What girls he talkin’ about, Kermit?” T.V. asked Monroe over his shoulder.
“I heard Ortiz don’t like girls. I hear he likes little boys,” the bodyguard said with a sneer.
T.V. took the photo and studied it. If he recognized Stafford, it did not show.
“This your boyfriend, Ortiz?” T.V. asked.
“You like to do it with boys, Ortiz?” Monroe asked, echoing his boss. There was no emotion in his voice.
“Do you know him?” Ortiz asked T.V.
T.V. smiled. “I ain’t never seen this white boy, massah.”
“I think you have.”
Ortiz noticed that the noise in the pool room had stopped. He suddenly regretted his decision to come alone.
“You sayin’ I’m lying, Ortiz?” T.V. asked. Monroe moved a step closer to Ortiz. T.V. took another look at the mug shot.
“You know, Kermit, this looks like that white boy who offed the lady pig. I read about that in the papers. The word is that Ortiz here fucked up. The word is she’s dead because of you.”
He directed his last shot at Ortiz, and it scored. Ortiz could feel his stomach tighten with a mixture of rage and anguish. He wanted to strike out, but his own uncertainty about his role in Darlene’s death sapped him of his will. T.V. read the uncertainty in Ortiz’s eyes, and a triumphant smirk turned up the corners of his lips. Ortiz stared at him long enough to collect himself. Then he took the picture back.
“It’s been nice talking to you, T.V. We’ll talk again.”
He turned his back on Monroe and Johnson and walked back through the maze of black figures. There was laughter behind him, but the ebony faces in front of him were blank and threatening.
His hand was shaking as he turned the key in the ignition. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseated. He had made a fool of himself. He knew it. Suddenly he was filled with rage. That black bastard was going to talk to him. That son of a bitch would tell him what he wanted to know. And he knew just how to make him tell.
5
David looked down at the stack of papers scattered across his desk. He had brought home a legal memorandum in the Stafford case to proofread, but he was too tired to go on. He closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids. The pressure felt good.
He stood up and stretched. It was ten-thirty. He looked out his den window. A pale-yellow half-moon was peeking around the side of the hill.
It was two weeks after the bail hearing, and the case was starting to shape up nicely. Conklin had secured a copy of Ortiz’s medical file, and it had proved interesting reading. His idea about the Mercedes had panned out, too. Most important, Terry Conklin had finally got around to taking the shots he wanted at the motel. The pictures had not been developed yet, but Terry was confident that they would show what they both thought they would.