It was not like Coco to be sloppy, but she was stressed. She had spent the night in lockup, had been forced to lie down on a hard cot, and had gotten no more sleep than a cat on coffee. Then she had returned in the morning to find her place burgled and tossed. Couple of the doors of the girls’ rooms had been broke off their hinges, and the pretty ring Red had given her was gone. She didn’t know how she was going to tell him. Top it off, she was worried about him. She’d already heard that he’d robbed Two-Tone Ward earlier that day, and given Ward a beatdown in the bargain. That would come back on Red for sure.
Coco dressed in tight-fitting bells, low heels, and a nice silk blouse, put on some costume jewelry, and made herself up in the light of her vanity mirror. She went out into the hall and talked to Shay and a couple of the other girls who were relaxing in their rooms. Said she’d be around and would return but didn’t know when. Told Shay she’d check in with her later. Reminded them that it was a work night, and to prepare themselves to get back on the stroll.
Coco used the fire escape to go down to the alley, where a boy was watching her red-over-white Fury. She gave him a five-dollar bill and fired the Plymouth up.
Strange went to a pay phone outside the Boukas Florist, high on Connecticut, and dialed the number Lydell Blue had provided for the house on Tennyson. The lady of the house, Hallie Young, answered. Strange gave her his name but not his occupation.
“I understand you’re using a Miss Maybelline Walker as a math tutor,” said Strange. “She’s been recommended to me for my daughter.”
“Yes, we hired Maybelline to help our son.”
“She gave me your name as a reference.” Strange figured this untruth would get back to Maybelline, but he would deal with that conflict when it arose.
“We’re pleased with her, so far. She’s only just made her second visit today.”
“How did you come to know of her services, originally? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“She was referred to us by a couple we know from the neighborhood. The Rosens. Seth and Dayna live over on Thirty-First Place. Dayna used her longer than we have.”
“Would you happen to have their phone number?”
“Hold on, Mr. Strange.”
Strange held, and got what he was after. He hung up the phone, lifted the receiver back out of its cradle, and made his next call.
The second name on Vaughn’s list took him to the neighborhood of Brightwood, off Georgia Avenue. He was looking for a Costas Lambros, who was the registered owner of a ’68 gold Electra.
Lambros lived on Tuckerman Street in a small neat house of brick and shingle. A large healthy fig tree was set against the south wall of the colonial. From his years on patrol, Vaughn knew that one could identify the past and present Greek-owned homes in any community by the fig trees growing in their yards.
Vaughn inspected the Buick that was parked out front. It was a base-model Electra, stripped down and stock from the factory, with a white roof. It was a nice vehicle, but it was not a deuce.
An old man came out of the house, his pants cinched sloppily above his waist with a mangled leather belt. His wife, her gray hair tied up in a bun, wearing a housedress, orthopedic shoes, and calf-length stockings, followed. Both of them walked with difficulty. As he approached, the old man’s lips were moving, but there were no sounds emanating from his mouth.
Costas and Voula Lambros wanted to know why Vaughn was standing by their car. They had to be mindful of strangers. The neighborhood had changed for the worse, what with “the mavri” moving in. Costas had owned a fruit-and-vegetable stand in the Eastern Market for many years, and his wife, Voula, had worked beside him. Their kids had families of their own and were living in the suburbs. Nixon had to do something soon about the welfare and all the crime.
Vaughn thanked them and apologized for taking their time. Driving away he thought, Please don’t let that happen to me.
Clarence Bowman parked his Cougar on 11th, walked around the corner, and entered the diner that remained one of the few spots of thriving commerce and life on U Street since the riots.
Bowman saw Gina Marie at the counter, seated on one of its red-cushioned stools. To the left of her was another streetwalker who went by Martina. Martina was picking at a basket of fries drowning in ketchup. All the counter seats were taken, as were most of the two- and four-tops spread about the front of the house. The diner’s storied jukebox was playing “Talking Loud and Saying Nothing,” James Brown’s new one, Parts I and II, and hard-at-work employees and patrons alike were moving their heads to its surging, infectious groove. Bowman stood over the shoulder of a man who was sitting to the right of Gina Marie and waited. The man felt Bowman’s presence, turned his head and gave him a look, then a double look, and got up off his stool, basket of lunch in hand. Bowman had a seat.
“Girl,” said Bowman.
“Clarence.”
From the baggage underneath her eyes, it looked like Gina Marie had just got up out of bed. She was a hard-faced woman to begin with, half used up at twenty-five. She wore a curly brown wig and false eyelashes, and a short r ana Marieed dress that showed off her heavily muscled legs. Reminded Bowman of that running back, Don Nottingham, played for Baltimore, the low-to-the-ground man they called “the Human Bowling Ball.” Gina Marie was built like him, with a triangle. Some men liked that body type, but Bowman went for tall. Gina Marie was drinking a large sweet tea from a paper cup and smoking the life out of a cigarette.
Bowman lit one of his own. “What’s goin on?”
“Guess you heard about Red.”
“He dead?”
Gina Marie shook her head. “It’s all over the telegraph. Him and Fonzo Jefferson robbed Sylvester Ward earlier today. They gave him an ass-whippin, too.” Gina Marie dragged on her smoke and French-inhaled. “You know Two-Tone got police and politicians in his pocket. This ain’t gonna be good for Red. Your boy must be losing his got-damn mind.”
Bowman studied the burning menthol between his fingers.
“That homicide detective,” said Gina Marie, “the one they call Hound Dog? He been askin around, too.”
“You mean Vaughn.”
Gina Marie made a head motion to her left. “He talked to Martina. Don’t worry, Martina ain’t give nothin up.”
Bowman glared at Martina Lewis, a punchboard dressed and made up as a woman. Martina held Bowman’s gaze for a moment, then looked away.
“Martina’s cool,” said Gina Marie, not liking Bowman’s cold stare.
“There’s somethin you can do for me,” said Bowman.
“Say it.”
Bowman reached into his shirt pocket, produced a slip of paper, and handed it to Gina Marie. On it was the phone number and address of assistant prosecutor Richard Cochnar. Bowman had copied it straight out of the book. The prosecutor had not even been on the job long enough, or made enough enemies, to realize that his contact information should be unlisted. He was that green.
“Cock-nar,” said Gina Marie, struggling as she tried to read off the paper.
“It’s Cotch-ner,” said Bowman. “Ain’t no k in that name.”
“What you want me to do?”
“Go to that pay phone over there and call his place. Make your voice like a salesgirl or somethin. Ask to speak to the man of the house. I already know he won’t be there.”
“So why am I calling, then?”
“Listen to me. Whoever you talkin to gonna tell you that Cochnar’s at work. So you ask what time he gonna be in.” Bowman dropped a dime and a nickel onto the counter. The dime spun and then rolled down flat. “Can you do that?”
Gina Marie picked up the change. She jumped down off the sdowht="0em" tool and strutted, quick and cocky, to the phone. Even in her heels, she wasn’t more than five-foot-nothing.
While she made the call, Bowman looked at Martina Lewis. “Hey,” he said, and chuckled low.