Right as Rain (19 page)

Quinn looked around Erika’s. He recognized Al Smith, sitting on his usual stool, and a patrolman named Effers he’d played cards with once, and an ugly, friendless cop he knew by sight only, Adonis Delgado, who was pushing away from the bar.

“You miss it,” said Franklin, “don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Listen, Terry …”

“What?”

“That thing Strange was talking about, the group I joined — Concerned Black Officers, I mean.”

“I knew about it already.”

“Didn’t have anything to do with how I felt about you, or whether you were right or wrong on the Wilson thing. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“We’d been asking for radios for off—duty officers for years, so that if you did get into a situation when you were in street clothes, you could call it in, let the dispatcher know that you were a cop and you were on the scene.”

“I know it.”

“If Chris Wilson had had that radio that night, and we had known who he was when we pulled up on him, he’d be alive today.”

“Y’all got your radios now. I read about it, that the issue finally went through.”

“It took that last shooting, and the threat of a protest, to get it done. And Chief Ramsey, he’s toughened the firearms instruction requirements, instituted retraining. Got a whole lot of new initiatives drafted, with new hiring standards on the way, too.”

“You tryin’ to tell me it was a good thing that Wilson died? Don’t go blowin’ smoke up my ass, man, ’cause I’ve known you too long.”

“I’m tellin’ you that some good came
out
of it. Whatever I thought about what happened that night, it was on me to get involved, make sure that somethin’ like that couldn’t happen again.”

“I bet it was good for your conscience, too.”

“There was that.”

“Don’t worry, Gene. I don’t blame you for anything. I would have liked to hear from you once in a while, but I don’t blame you for a thing.”

“I thought about calling you,” said Franklin. “And then I thought, Outside of our shift, me and Terry never hung out, anyway. I don’t recall us speaking on the phone more than once or twice when we were riding together, do you?”

“You’re right. We never hung out.”

“We got different things. Different kinds of lives, interests, different friends. You and me used to talk about it, remember? Ain’t no kind of crime for people to want to hang with their own kind.”

“It’s a shame,” said Quinn. “But it’s no crime.”

“Anyway,” said Franklin, “I gotta bounce.”

“Go ahead. Nice seeing you, Gene. Stay away from the fuglies, hear?”

Franklin blushed. “I’m gonna try.”

They stood, hugged again, and broke apart awkwardly. Franklin did not meet Quinn’s eyes before walking away. Franklin passed Strange on his way back from the head but did not acknowledge him at all.

“Friendly place they got here,” said Strange as he arrived at the table.
“Your
boy Eugene is a card—carrying member of my fan club, and some Carl Eller-lookin’ sucker back in the bathroom was wantin’ to take my head off.”

“You know cops,” said Quinn. “They like to stick to their own kind.”

“I’VE got a couple more stops today,” said Strange. “I’d take you home, but it’s not on my way.”

“Drop me at the Union Station Metro,” said Quinn. “I’ll catch the Red Line uptown.”

Strange pulled the Caprice away from the curb.
“Nevada Smith
is on TNT tonight. You know that one?”

“Uh—huh. That’s a good one. McQueen was the real thing.”

“That’s the one ends with that old guy from
Streets of San Francisco,
with the nose —”

“Karl Malden.”

“Yeah, him. McQueen shoots him a couple of times, but he doesn’t kill him. Gets off of that revenge trip he’s been on right there, finds his humanity, and leaves Malden in the river. McQueen’s riding away on his horse, and Malden’s yellin’ at him to finish him off, screaming, over and over, 'You’re yella… . you haven’t got the guts!’ I get the chills thinkin’ about it, man.”

“You gonna watch it?”

“I’m takin’ a woman to the fights.”

“Your
girlfriend?”

“More like a friend kind of thing, the woman who runs my office, Janine Baker. I been knowin’ her for a long time. Nothin’ all that serious.”

“Friend kind of thing’s the best kind, you ask me.”

“Yeah, I believe you’re right. What about you?”

“I got a date myself. Girl named Juana I been seeing.”

Strange looked across the bench. “Y’all got specific plans?”

“We were just going to go out, figure it out then.”

“Why don’t the two of you come with me and Janine? I got extra tickets, man.”

“I wouldn’t mind. But I have to see if Juana’s into it.” “Check it out with her and give me a call. My beeper number’s on that card I gave you.” “I will.” Strange turned onto North Capitol. Quinn said, “Here’s good,” and opened the door as Strange slowed the car to a stop. “Hey, Terry. Thanks again for the record, man.” “My pleasure,” said Quinn. They shook hands. Quinn walked toward Union Station.

Strange drove north.

Chapter
18

S
TRANGE
stood in chris wilson’s bedroom, examining the objects on his dresser. There was a cigar box holding cuff links, a crucifix on a chain, a Mason’s ring with a black onyx stone, ticket stubs from the MCI Center and RFK, and a pickup stub from Safeway. There were shoehorns and pens in a ceramic police—union mug. A small color photograph of Wilson’s sister, pretty and sharply dressed, had been slipped beneath the mug. A nail clipper, a long—lensed camera, a pearl—handled knife, a bottle of CK cologne, and a crystal bowl holding matches from various bars and restaurants sat atop the dresser, as did a well—used, autographed hardball, scuffed and stained by grass and mud.

Beside the dresser mirror, hung on the wall, was a framed photograph of Chris Wilson as a boy, standing under the arm of Larry Brown, with a message from Brown and his signature scrawled across the print. Team photographs of the Redskins going back fifteen years and posters, mounted and framed cheaply, of college and professional basketball players, local boxers, and other athletes and sporting events were hung on the walls as well. The room reflected an unsurprising blend of boy and man.

“I’ve left it exactly as it was,” said Leona Wilson, standing behind Strange. “He was so proud of that picture we took with Larry Brown.”

“I’ve got a signed photo of Larry myself,” said Strange. “Proud to have mine, too.”

“I remember one time I was straightening the picture, and Chris walked in and just got so upset, told me to leave it alone. Of course, he hardly ever raised his voice to me.”

“Some things special to a man might seem trivial to others. I got this Redskins figure on my desk, got a spring for a neck —”

“Chris grew up in this room. He never lived anywhere else. I suppose if he had moved out and gotten his own place, his new room wouldn’t have looked like this. He kept it much the same way as he did when he was a boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I never asked him to stay, Mr. Strange. After his father died, he took it upon himself to become the man of the house. He felt it was his role, to take care of me and his sister. I never asked him to do that. He took it upon himself.”

Strange looked around the room. “Chris keep any kind of journals? He keep a diary, anything like that?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“You don’t mind, I’d like to take these matchbooks from this bowl here. I’ll return them, and anything else I take.”

Leona Wilson nodded and wrung her hands.

“Chris had a girlfriend at the time of his death, didn’t he?” said Strange. “I’m talking about the one gave the statement to the newspapers.”

“That’s right.”

“Think it would be possible to talk to her?”

“She’s been wonderful. She has dinner with me once or twice a month. She and her little girl, a lovely child she had before she met Chris. I’ll call her if you’d like.”

“I would. Like to meet with her as soon as possible, matter of fact. And I’d like to speak to your daughter, too.”

Leona lowered her eyes.

“Mrs. Wilson?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how I can get ahold of your daughter?”

“I don’t.” Leona shook her head. “We lost her to drugs, Mr. Strange.”

“What happened?”

“How can anyone know? She was in college out at Bowie State and working as a hostess in a restaurant downtown. She was a beautiful girl. She was doing so well.”

“She was living here then?”

“Sondra had gotten her own place, and that’s when we began to lose touch. Chris and I saw her less and less frequently, and when we did see her … she had changed, physically, I mean, but also her attitude. I didn’t recognize her, couldn’t confide in her the way I always could before. It was Chris who finally sat me down and told me what was wrong. I didn’t believe it at first. We were so watchful of her during her high school years, and she had gotten through them fine. After she got in trouble, it was as if she had forgotten everything she had learned, here at home and in church. I didn’t understand. I still don’t understand.

“The day of the funeral, she showed up at the cemetery. I hadn’t seen her for a month or so. Her phone had been disconnected, and she had been fired from herjob. She had dropped out of college, too.”

“If you hadn’t seen her, then how did you know all of those events had taken place?”

“Chris knew.”

“He was in contact with her?”

“I don’t know how he knew. He was close to her… . He was very upset, Mr. Strange. But in the end, even he had lost track of her. We didn’t know if she had a roof over her head, if she was eating, where she lived, where she slept. We didn’t know if she was living or dead.”

“So she was at the funeral.”

“She looked barely alive that day. Her eyes, even her steps were without life. I hadn’t seen her for so long. I haven’t seen her since.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If Chris were here, he’d find her.” Tears broke and ran down Leona’s sunken cheeks. “Excuse me, Mr. Strange.”

She turned and walked quickly from the room.

Strange did not follow. After a while he heard her talking on the living room phone. He went to the dresser and emptied the crystal bowl of matchbooks, transferring them into the pockets of his leather. He slid the photograph of Sondra Wilson out from beneath the mug and placed it in his wallet. He paced the room. He sat on Chris Wilson’s bed and looked out the window.

Strange could imagine Wilson as a boy, waking up in this room, hearing the songbirds, recognizing the bark of the same dogs every morning. Looking out that same window and dreaming about catching the winning pass, knocking one out of the ballpark with the bases full, a pretty girl he sat near in class. Smelling breakfast cooking, maybe hearing his mother humming a tune in the kitchen as she prepared it, waiting for her to poke her head through the door, tell him it was time to get up and off to school.

Strange heard Leona Wilson’s sobs from out in the living room. Trying to stifle it, then crying full on.

“You all right, Derek,” said Strange under his breath, feeling useless and angry at himself for having given the Wilson woman false hope.

He walked out to the living room and stood beside her where she sat on the couch, clutching a cloth handkerchief. Strange put a hand on her bony shoulder.

“It’s so hard,” she said, almost a whisper. “So hard.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Strange.

She wiped her face and looked up at him with red—rimmed eyes. “Have you made any progress?”

“I’ll have a report for you very soon.”

Leona handed Strange a slip of paper off the coffee table. “Here’s Renee’s address. She’s going to pick her daughter up at day care, but she’ll be home soon. She’ll see you if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” said Strange.

He patted her shoulder impotently again and walked away.

“Will I see you in church this Sunday, Mr. Strange?”

“I hope to be there,” said Strange, keeping his pace.

He couldn’t get through the door fast enough. Out on the sidewalk, he stood for a moment and breathed fresh air.

RENEE
Austin lived in a garden apartment complex set behind a shopping center in the Maryland suburbs, out Route 29 and off Cherry Hill Road. Strange waited in the parking lot, listening to an old Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, as Renee had not yet returned from picking up her daughter. Strange was singing along to “Pretty Flower,” closing his eyes and trying to mimic Teddy’s growl, when Renee’s red Civic pulled into the lot.

They sat at her kitchen table, drinking instant coffee. Renee’s daughter, a darling little three—year—old named Kia, sat on the linoleum floor. Kia had a dark—skinned doll in one hand and a freckly faced, cartoonish—looking white baby in the other, and she was pressing their faces together, loudly going, “Mmm, mmm, mmm.”

“Honey,” said Renee, “hush, please. We are trying to talk, and it’s hard to hear ourselves with those sounds you’re makin’.”

“Rugrat kissing Groovy Girl, Momma!” said Kia.

“Yes, baby,” said Renee. “I know.”

Renee was a good—looking, dark—skinned young woman with long painted nails and a sculpted, lean face. Her hair had been chemically relaxed and she wore it in a shoulder—length, fashionable cut. She worked as an administrative assistant for an accounting firm on Connecticut and L, and she stayed there, she said, not for pay or opportunities but for the firm’s flexible schedule, which allowed her more time with Kia.

She was a tired—looking twenty—one. Renee told Strange that she had planned to register for community college courses but that Kia’s arrival and the father’s subsequent departure had dimmed those plans. Strange noticed all the toys, televisions, and stereo equipment spread about the apartment, and Renee’s Honda had looked brand—new. He wondered how far she was overextended, if she had dug a credit hole so deep that she couldn’t even see the light from where she stood.

“Maybe when she gets into a full day of school,” said Strange, “you can go after that college degree.”

“Maybe,” said Renee, her voice trailing off, both of them knowing that it would never happen that way.