What It Was

by George Pelecanos

  Vaughn stopped just shy of the porch steps. “Ma’am. I’m looking for a Monique Lattimer.”

  Her eyes went from his head to his feet, slowly. “What kind of police are you?”

  “Homicide. The name’s Frank Vaughn.”

  “I ain’t see no badge.”

  Vaughn showed her his shield and slipped the case back into his jacket. He could tell from her manner that courtesy would be a waste of time. Like the lawyers said, he’d have to just go ahead and treat her as hostile.

  “Are you Monique?”

  “Monique is me,” she said, and took a swig of beer. “You got a cigarette?”

  Vaughn produced his deck, shook two out of it, and made a chin motion to her porch. “I can’t light you from down here.”

  “Come on up, then.”

  He took the steps to her porch. Used his lighter to fire up her cigarette, then his own, and snapped the Zippo shut. He carefully leaned his weight against a wood post that seemed to be rotting at its base.

  Monique took a drag off the L&M and as she exhaled looked at the cigarette with distaste. Making it obvious that it wasn’t her brand.

  “According to the DMV,” said Vaughn, “you’re the registered owner of a sixty-eight Buick Electra.”

  “Yeah, it’s mine.”

  “Gold deuce-and-a-quarter. Drop-top, right?”

  “Hard.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “That’s ’cause it’s not here.”

  “Where is it, Miss Lattimer?”

  She stared at the cigarette burning between her long fingers. “My brother took it this morning for a brake job.”

  “Took it where? A garage, something?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Said he had a friend was gonna work on it.”

  “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Orlando.”

  “Lattimer?”

  “Roosevelt. Like the high school.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Huh?”

  “Does your brother have an address?”

  “He stays with a girl over in Seat Pleasant, but I don’t know where she live at, exactly.”

  “He got a phone number?”

  “I expect he does.”

  “Okay,” said Vaughn, taking a deep breath. “Where’s your place of employment?”

  “I’m between jobs at the present.”

  “How long you been out of work?”

  “Two years, somethin like that.”

  “High-end Electra will run you, what, five, six thousand?”

  “I bought it secondhand.”

  “Four grand, then. Where’d you get the bread for that much car if you’re not working?”

  Monique shrugged and smiled a little, as if he had said something stupid. “I got a good deal on it.”

  “Where?”

  “Used-car lot.”

  “Where?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. Marlow Heights?”

  “The dealership name would be on the title.”

  “Damn if I know where I put that piece of paper. It’s in the house somewhere.”

  “Maybe I could come in and help you find it.”

  “If you had a warrant, you could.”

  “I can get one.”

  “Then get one.”

  Vaughn dragged on his cigarette and blew smoke toward Monique. It shattered when it reached her, and she did not blink.

  “You know an Alfonzo Jefferson?” said Vaughn.

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “How ’bout Robert Lee Jones? Tall, light-skinned fella, goes by Red.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what this is about?”

  “I would if I gave a fuck.”

  Vaughn grinned, took a last hit off his cigarette, and flicked it out onto her yard. “See you around, Monique.”

  “Any time.”

  Vaughn, energized, went back to his car and got in the driver’s seat. He had a look around the street, the woods, a makeshift playground with rusted equipment, the apartment buildings on the other side of the creek. Wouldn’t be hard to set up a stakeout here, but the watcher would have to be a black officer in plainclothes to blend in. Man or woman, didn’t matter, but it could be done.

  Vaughn smiled at Monique as he drove away, and damn if she didn’t smile back. God, did he love his job.

  STRANGE WENT over to Park View, drove his Monte Carlo down an alley, and parked behind the kitchen entrance to Cobb’s, the fish place on Georgia. Cobb, in his bloodstained apron, was sitting on an overturned milk crate, smoking a cigarette. Strange walked through the long shadows of late afternoon, noting with satisfaction that he had put much work in today.

  He approached the aged but still hard proprietor and stood beside him.

  “Mr. Cobb. My name’s Derek Strange. You remember me?”

  Cobb squinted against the low sun. “Refresh my memory.”

  Strange said that he was the detective who had recently visited Cobb and asked about his former dishwasher, Bobby Odum, now deceased. Strange was wondering if Odum had ever been visited on his job site by a young woman. When Strange described her, Odum’s eyes came alive.

  “Yeah, that young lady came by a couple a times.”

  “When I stopped by before, you said you didn’t recall any of his relatives or friends.”

  “You ain’t mention her, though,” said Cobb, flicking his hot ash toward a feral cat that was crossing in front of him in the alley. The cat, keeping low to the ground, darted away. “Girl like that’s hard to forget.”

  “What do you remember about her?”

  “Her bumps. The way she walked. How her big ass jumped around in her dress.” Cobb chuckled at Strange’s amused expression. “That’s right, young man. I might have some years on me, but that right there was choice.”

  “What else?”

  “I saw Odum kissin on her one day, right here, outside the back door. She was lettin him, but you know, any fool could see that she wasn’t into it. What I was thinking was, how’d a little man like Bobby get so much woman? ’Cause a girl like that has needs. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “I do indeed,” said Strange. Something rustled inside him, like a snake in dry leaves.

  He, too, had needs.

  VAUGHN ENTERED the offices of the Third District headquarters and went to his desk. He found a memo slip taped to his phone. Martina Lewis had called and asked that he get back to him.

  Vaughn visited with Detective Charles Davis, who was on the bubble, waiting to catch his next case. Davis was a young, stylish guy, one of the few blacks in this house who had been promoted to Homicide. Vaughn felt he was friendly enough with him to ask for a favor. Davis agreed to stake out Monique Lattimer’s house in exchange for something in return.

  “I got you, Hound Dog,” said Davis. “But I’m gonna bank this one.”

  “Count on it,” said Vaughn.

  Their supervisor, Lieutenant David Harp, tall, white, whippet thin, middle-aged, and blue-eyed, with black slicked-back hair, came into the room and told Vaughn he wanted to see him in private.

  “Right now,” said Harp.

  Vaughn wiggled his eyebrows at Davis before following Harp back to his office. The white shirts rarely bothered him, and when they did he didn’t let it get under his skin. He wasn’t bucking for promotion. He already had the job he wanted. The only way they could hurt him was to fire him, and they’d never do that. Vaughn’s closure rate was top-shelf.

  Harp was already behind his desk when Vaughn walked into the office. Vaughn took the hot seat, a hard chair set in front of Harp’s desk. He removed his hat, held it in his lap, and waited.

  “Where you been, Detective?”

  “Working my case. The Odum homicide.”

  “The suspect is Robert Lee Jones, correct?”

  Vaughn nodded. “Street name Red. We just need to put the bracelets on him. Charles Davis is gonna stake out a woman who’ll lead u
s to Alfonzo Jefferson, Jones’s partner. We’re close.”

  “I’ve been tryin to get hold of you. You take your personal car today?”

  “I’m more comfortable in my own vehicle, sir.”

  “It has a two-way in it, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Vaughn. “But sometimes I forget and leave it off.” Truth was, he didn’t like to be bothered with the constant crackle of the radio while he was doing his job. The talk over the police frequency almost never had a thing to do with him.

  Harp drew a pencil from a leather cup and tapped it on his desk. “Your boy Red and his partner robbed Sylvester Ward in his own house. Happened this morning. Y’know that?”

  “First I heard of it,” said Vaughn. He was intrigued, but he tried not to let his emotions play out on his face.

  “Know who Ward is?”

  “That would be Two-Tone Ward. The numbers man.”

  “Correct. He reported the crime soon as it happened. But Ward didn’t call the MPD. He called his city councilman. And the mayor, for all I know. And then I got calls. More than one. Matter of fact, these politicians have been up my ass all day. They want to know when we’re gonna get this joker off the street.”

  “I’m sorry about the trouble it caused you, sir. If you want me to explain the progress of my case to any of those gentlemen—”

  “Fuck them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Vaughn smoothed out the brim of his hat. “It’s unusual for a guy like Ward to call the authorities, even after he’s been victimized. I mean, there’s a code.”

  “They broke it. Red and his partner beat Ward like an animal before they left his house. From what I hear, Ward wasn’t even resisting.”

  “Sounds like my man.”

  “What’s this guy’s problem?”

  “Red Jones isn’t looking forward to retirement or old age, Lieutenant. He’s living for this summer. Today. People all over the city are talking about him. The notoriety pours gasoline on his fire. That’s what he wants.”

  Harp slipped the pencil back into its cup. He relaxed his shoulders and sat back in his chair. “Bring the motherfucker in.”

  “Bet it,” said Vaughn.

  “And keep your radio on, Detective.”

  Walking out of the offices, Vaughn put his hand in his pocket and touched a slip of paper. It was the message from Martina Lewis.

  STRANGE STOOD on a landing in an apartment building on 15th Street, located across the road from Malcolm X Park. He made a fist and prepared to knock on the door before him. He hesitated, knowing he could still go back down the stairs. Knowing he was wrong. There were many ways a young man could ruin things with a good woman, and this was the most thoughtless. But he was here, right now, and he had come here deliberately and with determination. Later, if confronted, he would make excuses, but there weren’t any valid ones, none for real. He wanted what he wanted. He had been thinking on it since the woman had walked into his office, swinging her hips.

  Strange recalled the day he had sat at the Three-Star Diner when his father, Darius, was still alive and working the grill. Seeing a moment pass between his father and the Three-Star’s longtime waitress, Ella. Recognizing the familiar look between them that suggested intimacy and maybe even love. He had always thought that his mother and father had shared an unbreakable, sacred bond. To realize, at that moment, that his father had cheated, and had done so, perhaps, for many years, had dropped Strange’s heart. But it hadn’t ruined Darius in Strange’s eyes.

  Much as he loved his mother, Strange couldn’t bring himself to righteous anger or to hate his father for his transgression. Yes, he was disappointed. Also, he understood. His father, like all mortals, was a sinner, fallible. In matters of the flesh he was downright weak.

  I am my father, thought Strange, as he knocked on Maybelline Walker’s door. No better than any other man. Just a man.

  VAUGHN BOUGHT a ticket at the Lincoln box office and went through the lobby to the auditorium. The 5:30 show was about to begin. Buck and the Preacher had been held over, but first the projectionist was running a reel of trailers for the current features playing at other District Theaters, a chain whose bookers programmed films for black audiences in black neighborhoods. Vaughn let his eyes adjust and watched the promo for The Legend of Nigger Charley, currently running down at the Booker T. How the West Was Rewritten, thought Vaughn, as he spotted Martina in one of the middle rows and made his way to a seat beside him.

  “Just got your message, baby,” said Vaughn, leaning close to Martina so he could keep his voice low and still be heard.

  “You weren’t followed or nothin, were you?” Martina was wearing a dress, heels, and red lipstick.

  “No. This about Red Jones? ’Cause I already know about the Sylvester Ward robbery.”

  “That’s not why I called you.”

  “I gotta find Red. Get me his location and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Money,” said Martina huskily, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Cash ain’t gonna do nothing for me unless you got a lot of it.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  In the light coming from the screen, Martina’s features were angular, masculine, and troubled.

  “Tell me,” said Vaughn.

  “Hitter name of Clarence Bowman came into the diner earlier today. Was talkin to Gina Marie.”

  “I know Gina.”

  “Many do. Bowman had Gina Marie call some woman up on the phone and ask her when her man was gonna be home tonight. I had the impression that Bowman was about to put work in.”

  “What man?”

  “A prosecutor. Cotch-somethin.”

  “Cochnar?”

  “That’s what it was.”

  Vaughn wrapped a hand around Martina’s forearm, hard as wood. “What’s Bowman look like?”

  “Tall, dark, and cut. Like that actor, used to be an athlete.”

  Vaughn looked at the screen, saw Fred Williamson, and said, “Him?”

  “Nah, one of them Olympic dudes.”

  “I gotta get out of here.”

  “Wait a minute, Frank.”

  “We’ll settle up later.”

  “It’s not about that,” said Martina, looking at him straight on. “I’m scared.”

  “Keep it together,” said Vaughn. “I’ll work it out. You’ll be fine.”

  Vaughn rose abruptly and rushed up the auditorium aisle. Martina’s head jerked birdlike around the house. He was trying to see if anyone had been watching or listening to their conversation. Half-believing that they had not been observed, Martina slouched in his seat and got low.

  DEREK STRANGE sat in a big cushiony armchair in the living room of Maybelline Walker’s apartment, the last of the day’s sun coming in through her west-wall windows. Maybelline sat on a matching sofa, so close to him that her bare knee almost touched his. She was in her strapless dress and she had removed her shoes. Her big natural was lifted by the wind of a floor fan set near the furniture. It was warm running to hot in her pad. Both of them were drinking Miller High Lifes out of bottles. Beads of sweat had formed on Maybelline’s forehead and across her chest, where the tops of her breasts were exposed. Strange could smell her perspiration and that sweet strawberry scent he remembered from the time she had visited his office.

  Maybelline had put the Staple Singers’ Be Altitude: Respect Yourself, their new one on the Stax label, on her compact system, and Mavis was belting out “This Old Town (People in This Town),” the last track on side one.

  Strange and Maybelline were deep into their conversation. It had become a confession for her. She claimed it felt good to get it out. Now that the horse had been let out the barn, Maybelline had begun to drop her finishing-school manner of speech, and her G’s.

  “Hallie Young phoned me just after you gave her a call,” said Maybelline, giving Strange a wicked eye, “askin for references.”

  “That was kind of lame of me,” said Strange. “And then I really messed up when
I met that Rosen gal. Told her I was looking for a tutor for my ten-year-old daughter.”

  “Your look doesn’t say ‘devoted father.’ Or husband.”

  “I’m too young,” said Strange. “Ain’t nobody gonna tie me down to a marriage. Not yet.”

  They both sipped at their beers.

  “How’d you find the ring?” said Strange.

  Maybelline wiped a bit of foam from her full mouth. “Dayna Rosen used to leave me with her son alone in that house for, like, two hours at a time.”

  “She barely knew you.”

  “Derek, she didn’t know me at all. But white folks like her, they just overdo that ‘I feel for your people’ thing. Tryin so hard to be right. Like, Look at me, I got an actual black person in my home, and I’m gonna trust her enough to leave her there with my child while I run errands around town. If I had a kid, I wouldn’t leave it with a stranger, would you?”

  “We already established I don’t have one, so I can’t answer that.”

  “Dayna used to call me girl, sister, all that jive. Shoot, she was no kin to me.”

  Strange, trying to redirect her, said, “Back to the ring.”

  “Dayna had showed it to me, and then I saw it again in a jewelry box in their master bedroom one day while she had gone out and Zachary had disappeared. I was always having to go and look for him. Boy couldn’t sit still and work on math to save his life.”

  “Six years old, he’s not supposed to sit still.”

  “I didn’t steal that ring,” said Maybelline.

  “I know,” said Strange. “Bobby Odum did.”

  Maybelline’s eyes went to the beer bottle in her hand. “I had got to know Bobby. Used to go into Cobb’s for my fish sandwich, and he’d come out from the kitchen every time he saw me walk through the door. We went out for a drink, and he mentioned his history…”

  “Odum was a second-story man, among other things. You put him up to the burglary, right?”