Presently they brought us our soup. I didn’t know that I liked Hungarian Goulash Soup until I tasted theirs. I could have made a whole meal of it. We consumed our soup in silence. I ate some bread. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable by this point.
The salmon was small enough to be perfect. I was close to being full on bread, cheese and soup. I enjoyed the salmon. It wasn’t my fish of choice, but then I hadn’t planned this little get-together.
“Just like old times,” he finally said.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Just sittin’ ‘round eatin’ fish together,” his voice changed dramatically. He sounded like a far away memory, nearly forgotten.
“Rosey?”
“That would be Roosevelt Drexel Washington, ma’am. At your service.”
Rosey and his mother, Mary Louise Jenkins Washington, had come to live in my home town from Mountain City, North Carolina. They had come to live with Joe after Mary had lost her job and needed some support. Joe willingly took them in. Joe Jenkins, my friend.
I stood up and walked around the table. He stood, and we hugged. I had found an all-but-lost friend from the days of my youth. I could feel my eyes beginning to water.
“My, oh my, you have changed,” I said.
He smiled and gestured for me to take my seat.
“You, too, Clancy.”
“But I swear, I didn’t recognize you at all. I see some lines that are familiar, but… wow, the years have changed you.”
“You keep saying that. I hope you mean for the better.”
“Oh, yes indeed. For the better. You weren’t handsome in the seventies.”
I think he blushed.
“I was roughneck teenager. A skinny hick from the mountains of Carolina.”
“You seem to have come a long way since then.”
“A ways. Some good, some not so good.”
“Sounds familiar.”
The waiter filled our water glasses and left. I didn’t want to eat anymore. I wanted to talk and find out all about Roosevelt Drexel Washington.
“It’s been over twenty years, Rosey. Fill me in.”
I nibbled at my salmon.
“Twenty-eight years, to be exact. After high school, I used some of that trust fund set up for me to go to college.”
I remembered, but I acted like it was news to me. It was my Great Aunt Nona who had anonymously set up the trust fund for Rosey after we had become friends. I didn’t know if Rosey ever found out that it was my crazy Aunt Nona who had left that small fortune to him when she died his senior year in high school.
“I remember you being excited about going to college.”
“It was Aunt Nona.”
“How’d you find out?”
“You’re not the only detective. I have sources.”
“Sounds mysterious,” I said and took a small bite of salmon.
“Not really. Uncle Joe and I talked a lot, you know. He guessed it was her. He used to say she was the only white woman crazy enough to leave money to a black boy. And since you and I had our adventures together in the mid-70’s, it was a logical deduction.”
“You still reading Sherlock Holmes?”
“I finished them all. I don’t reread.”
“So you took that money and entered UVA, as I recall. I lost track of you after I went to Boston.”
“I know. I kept up with you through Joe. For some reason he seemed to take a liken’ to ya.”
I smiled. Joe had become a surrogate father to me after daddy was killed. I did plenty of stupid things, but Joe kept me from really jumping off the deep end.
“Your uncle was a good man.”
“The best. He taught me a lot. Major changes in my life after we moved in with him. You had a part in that, too.”
“So what happened after UVA?”
“I was accepted at Harvard Law School. Studied two years and then decided I needed to travel some. So, I went to Oxford to study.”
“England or Mississippi?”
He smiled and downed his last bit of salmon.
“Across the water, that way,” he pointed east. “I ain’t no lackey, and my mama didn’t raise no fool.”
“Evidently not. What did you study at Oxford?”
“English Lit.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Don’t act so surprised. It’s not that far a jump from law to literature.”
“It is for some of us. I was a biology, chemistry person.”
“And now you be a legal-eze person,” he said in the style of what has become street language for some youth.
“I be whatever it takes to help people,” I answered in kind.
I observed him while we sat in silence for a few moments. He seemed to be willing to let the conversation just lie there as if there were plenty of time to finish his story.
“Did you finish?” I asked.
“I always finish.”
“Did you graduate from Oxford?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“I traveled. I wanted to see the world. So, I saw the world.”
“Leftovers from the trust fund?”
“Something like that.”
“You haven’t been traveling for … what, twenty years, have you?”
“I still travel a lot. But I mostly stay in one city and travel.”
“Which city would that be?”
“D.C.”
“Work?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are you always so cryptic with your answers?”
“In my line of work, it pays to be cryptic. I can be evasive, too.”
“Well, let me see. You started in law, then went to English literature. You finished that, whatever that means. Then you traveled the world. Now you live in D.C. You only work sometimes. And you are cryptic. Did I miss anything?”
“I’m handsome and have good friends who own a very good restaurant.”
“True. You dress nice, too.”
“That be part of handsome. So, tell me about you.”
“You probably know about me. You found me. I didn’t find you.”
He finished off his water and then sat back.
“You need a toothpick or something?” I said.
“You remember the toothpick?” His smile was broader this time.
“You always had one, as I recall. You used to say it helped you think.”
“Memory’s a wonderful thing.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“When it works,” I said.
I stared at him without meaning to. He had changed so much, it was hard to imagine that I was talking to the same gangly teenager I once knew.
“You’re staring at me.”
“Can’t get over the changes.”
“You’ve changed as well. The years have been kind to you.”
“Don’t flatter me. I work hard at staying in shape. You’re none too flabby yourself.”
“I do the gym at least five times a week, sometimes everyday if business is slow.”
“What is your business?”
“I’m into, uh, … consulting.”
“Anything in particular you consult on?”
“People consult me.”
It was clear he was evading nicely my inquiries. It was time to change directions.
“I want you to meet some friends of mine,” I said after the waiter checked on us for the last time. “You do have time, don’t you?”
“My time is your time, at least for today.”
“Good. Let’s go to my place.”
He smiled that Michael Jordan winner for me once more.
“Let me say goodbye to Anna and Adolf.”
“I’ll call us a cab.”
“Not necessary. Wheels are across the street in the lot,” he gestured with his chin. It was an unusual movement. People I had met from the Dominican Republic did it, but not usually folks who grew up in Clancyville, Virginia.
&nbs
p; He paid and we crossed the street to the parking lot. The black derby fit him like it belonged.
“You wear the hat everyday?”
“I dressed up for you, missy,” he chuckled.
Some old memories came flooding back at the use of that term. Old Joe used to call me that, especially after my father was gone.
“No one has called me that in years, Rosey.”
“Few, if any, call me Rosey.
3
Roosevelt Washington took his car keys from his pocket, pressed the button on his remote, and the doors to a black BMW clicked loudly as we approached. It looked brand new.
“Recent acquisition?”
“Last year. Nothing new this year. Hope you don’t mind. The Jag’s in the shop.”
He laughed but somehow I didn’t think he was kidding. The inside of his BMW was as immaculate as the outside. The interior was all red, except for the chrome and the wooden dash.
“Hard to find red leather these days?”
“Not if you be nice when you ask.”
We cruised along in silence for several blocks. The ride was impeccable. I tried not to drool on his seats. I was breaking the tenth commandment with little effort. Comfort and luxury. It was a combination foreign to me.
“Uncle Joe died in 1987,” he said finally.
“Yeah. I still miss him.”
“Make it to the funeral?”
“I don’t like funerals. Never did, never will. I sent your mother a note.”
“Yeah, well… mama and I stopped talking.”
“Sounds painfully familiar.”
“You and your mammy likewise?”
“We talk, but nothing beyond civility. I think I’m too much like my dad, and she is still angry with him for getting himself killed that summer. I’m the closest scapegoat since Scott moved to Boston.”
Roosevelt Washington drove his black BMW straight to my apartment without benefit of my directions.
“You can park this luxury model in my slot there,” I pointed to the parking space number twelve.
“Hard times?”
“Just a setback or two. My car’s in the shop and I keep my Hog under lock and key in another location.”
We entered the elevator and I momentarily waited to see if he would push the right button for my floor. Great detectives always know when they are on to something.
He pushed number two and we headed up. It could have been a reflex action on his part, but I was suspicious. I decided to be a step or two slower to see what else he knew about me.
The elevator door opened and he gestured for me to exit ahead of him. I paused long enough for him to catch up with me before making any decision to turn left or right, hoping that he would show me the way. He moved left without so much a hint from me.
He stopped in front of my door. I never trust coincidences in my line of work. I had been under surveillance before he had contacted me.
“What is it they say in the movies, ‘you’ve cased the joint’?”
“Sounds Bogey to me. Surveillance. I went to Oxford.”
“So you did. Did they teach you clairvoyance at Oxford?”
“No.”
“So you’ve been following me?”
“Nope. Watching.”
“No phone taps?”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why the watching?”
“To make sure it was you.”
“I’m me. Now what?”
“I’m here. We’re together.”
“That was it?”
“So far.”
I opened the door and two black Labs were seated obediently in front of us, resting on their hind legs. They both looked suspicious, but neither of them uttered one growl or moved one inch as Rosey entered behind me.
He looked around the room. He appeared to be searching for something or someone.
“Roosevelt Washington, meet Sam Spade. Sam, Rosey.”
Sam raised his right paw in Rosey’s direction. Rosey shook his paw with great enjoyment.
“Now, Roosevelt Washington, meet Boston Blackie. Blackie, Rosey.”
He extended his left hand to Blackie as she raised her left paw to shake. Southpaw dog. He shook it vigorously.
“I didn’t know you had two dogs, Clancy.”
“Nothing that a little B&E couldn’t help you uncover,” I said a little sarcastically. I was still miffed that he had been watching me.
“No reason for that. I saw you running with one dog. Never got close enough to hear you call a name. Some really strong binoculars are made these days.”
“Well, it’s nice that I can surprise you with some things about my life.”
“What matters is what’s in there,” he said pointing toward my heart, “and not what’s in here,” he said sweeping his hand around my apartment.
I gestured for him to sit down while I made some coffee. He sat in my blue reading chair by the window. Sam and Blackie followed him at a safe distance and then sat down on their haunches facing him. Despite the difference in their ages, they looked like twins.
“They not used to black people in your apartment?” he said.
“They probably think you’re related to them.”
“Not funny. My skin is brown. They be black. With fur.”
“Don’t think you call that fur. But they don’t know the difference.”
“They smart?”
“Ask them,” I said.
“You two smart or something?” he said to them.
They both barked on cue. He laughed.
“You teach them that?” he said.
“Nope.”
“You teach them anything?”
“Work in progress. I’m trying to teach them how to be good detectives. Sam is doing well. Blackie likes food too much. She stays home most of the time waiting for a meal. Sam is my shadow.”
“So, Sam is the runner.”
“Only because I run and he has to run to keep up. He’d prefer to walk.”
“And you know this because….”
“Woman to dog bonding. Intuition. Deduction. Whatever. Ask him if you don’t believe me.”
“How do I do that?”
I brought two mugs of coffee into the living room. I handed one to Rosey and sat down on the sofa.
“One bark is for yes and two barks is for no.”
“And you did not teach him this?”
Sam barked twice.
“Right,” Rosey said incredulously.
“Okay, ask him now. He’s ready. He knows the rules.”
Rosey stared at me in disbelief.
“Obviously they didn’t teach you everything at Oxford or Harvard.”
“I didn’t learn this at UVA either,” he added.
“Go ahead. Ask him.”
“I feel stupid talking to a dog.”
“Probably not the only time you felt stupid, right?”
“No comment. I’m an educated businessman. I do not need to talk to dogs.”
“Fine. This way you’ll never know if he likes to run or to walk. You’ll just have to accept my word.”
He gazed suspiciously at me again, and then addressed Sam.
“Okay, dog, tell me–”
“Don’t call him dog. It’s Sam. And since you and I have difficulty discerning the nuances of his grunts, growls and groans, I suggest you make it yes and no questions.”
Rosey smiled at me, but looked doubtful of this procedure.
“Sam, do you like to run?”
Sam barked twice.
“So, that means you are a walking dog, correct?”
Sam barked once.
Rosey laughed. He seemed to be enjoying this, despite his skepticism. I started to praise Sam but Rosey raised his hand before I could speak.
“Wait, wait. I smell a trap here. Okay, Sam, try this. Sam, do you like to walk?”
Sam looked at him without answering. Then he cocked his head, shook it a few times, and then looked at Rosey once more.
&nb
sp; “Go ahead, Sam. Humor him.”
Sam barked once.
“So, you’re not a running dog?”
Sam barked once again.
“Aha. See?”
“See what? You asked a trick question. Here, let me show you. Sam, do you like to run?”
Sam barked twice.
“Sam, do you ever have to run?”
Sam barked once.
“But you don’t like to run when you can walk, right?”
Sam barked once.
Rosey drank his decaf and refused to smile at our little show. I think he was still sizing us up.
“What about her?” he said finally.
“Oh, Blackie? She doesn’t talk to strangers.”
Rosey laughed heartily again. We drank our coffee and talked about general pleasantries for several minutes. There was a lull in our conversation. My hand fell on the copy of the book I had been reading that morning when he had called me.
“You read Baldacci?” I said.
“No.”
“Know of him?”
“Used to be a lawyer, now a writer. Novels. Best seller list. Makes good money. What else you want to know?”
“You ever read his work?”
“No.”
“So how is it you know so much about him?”
“I read about him. Remember, I do research.”
“Do you ever read for pleasure?”
“Often.”
“What?”
“Poetry.”
“That English lit background comes to the fore, huh?”
“Maybe. I like American, too.”
“But not novels.”
“Nothing against novels. Time is the issue. Gym, poetry, Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Washington Post, and business. They keep me occupied. Matter of priorities.”
“Investigators must have more time on their hands.”
“Must.”
“Speaking of time, do you ever go back to Clancyville?”
“No reason to.”
“Your mother,” I said.
“I already told you we stopped talking,” he said.
“I figured you meant that metaphorically.”
“Literally.”
“Come on now. That’s not the kid I knew in high school back when.”
“She died, Clancy. Mama died in ’95. I tried to see her, you know, talk before she died. The Big C did her in. The last time we spoke she told me that she didn’t want me comin’ ‘round.”
One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1) Page 2
