Crime Song

by David Swinson

  “What’s up?” he says, obviously not remembering my name but still saying it in a tone that suggests familiarity.

  “Dropped by to ask you something. You got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  He sets the papers on the counter. Beneath it are band stickers, buttons, and pins.

  “How’s business?” I ask him.

  “Store’s slow, but nothing to complain about. I do most of my business online, so all is good.”

  “Whatever keeps the doors open, right?”

  “You got that right.”

  “Listen, man. My house got burglarized couple of days ago—”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, well, they took my whole vinyl collection, a lot of which I bought from you, and my CDs, too. I thought since you sell used records, maybe you’d keep a lookout for them. I know most of these burglars try to turn the property over fast for a quick buck.”

  “Yeah, they do, and I don’t mind helping you out, but I don’t buy what I think might be stolen. Most of the used records here I find at garage or estate sales. If someone comes in off the street, he has to have a driver’s license or some form of real ID. Not that fake shit. Excuse the language.”

  “Doesn’t bother me.”

  I try to scan the area behind the counter. There are crates with records in them, some new and some that look used, but nothing I can make out as belonging to me. I notice the kid looking our way, then moving to look at another row of music.

  “I hate to say it because it feels like profiling, but I know drug addicts when I see them, and they usually have ID that looks like they got it made at Staples or on someone’s home computer. I always send ’em off. I think the word got out that I’m not the place for that. Last guy tried it was over a month ago.”

  I pull a piece of paper out of the inner pocket of my suit jacket, unfold it, and hand it to him.

  “Nevertheless, here’s a list of all the titles I can remember. It’s pretty diverse, as you can see, and so an easy collection to note. Lot of the older records belonged to my deceased mother.”

  “Hell.”

  “Yeah, so it’s, ah…it means something. Probably too late now, but if anyone does come in with a collection like this, do me a solid and buy it. I’ll reimburse you for everything, including your time.”

  I again catch the kid through the corner of my eye. He seems a little too interested in what we’re saying.

  “I’ll keep a lookout for you,” the owner says while looking at the titles. “But like I said, anything we buy from someone off the street—someone legit, that is—we have to keep a record of for the police. That’s another reason I don’t do it anymore. It’s too much of a hassle.”

  “Any other places you know of that buy and sell used vinyl and CDs?”

  “Sure. Two pawn shops down the street, probably. You also might want to check out some of the thrift stores around here. I don’t know the names.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Sorry for your loss, man.”

  And I wonder if he means my mother or my music. Doesn’t even know about my cousin. I smile.

  Before I head out, I check some of the records in the “Used” bin, including those under B for Bread.

  Nothing.

  I look over to the kid and decide to casually approach.

  I glance down at the bin of CDs he’s shuffling through. He turns to me but doesn’t seem nervous. Tough-looking kid.

  I notice a Funkadelic CD and take it out.

  “These guys are great. I used to have Maggot Brain,” I tell him without looking at him.

  “What the fuck?” he says like I insulted him.

  “Maggot Brain’s the name of their CD. Great shit. You should listen.”

  “I don’t fuckin’ know you.”

  “You know any other spots around here that sell used vinyl?”

  He looks at me hard, up and down, giving me that familiar glare like he knows I’m a cop.

  Once a cop, always a cop.

  He backs up, then suddenly yanks at the bin of CDs, which crashes onto my leg.

  “Fuck!”

  I step forward, and he pulls down another bin, CDs spilling to the floor and over my shoes—the kid’s already bolted out the door.

  “What in the hell?” Oscar yells as I take off.

  Fourteen

  I trip over the few stairs right outside the door. He’s already made it up to the sidewalk.

  At street level I see him hoofing it toward 14th. Fucking fast. No way I’ll catch him, especially wearing a suit and in this heat. I’ll drop within half a block.

  I run to my car.

  By the time I start it and get it around he’s out of sight. I’d see him if he was still running on U, so I’m thinking he made that left on 14th. I drive there as fast as the cars ahead of me allow, which isn’t fast enough.

  I signal to make a left on 14th, creep into the intersection so I can see south on 14th, and sure enough, there he is, near the corner of 14th and Wallach Place. He’s looking back, taking a breath because he sprinted all the way there.

  He strides east on Wallach. I’m thinking he bolted ’cause he’s either holding or there’s a warrant on him and he thinks I’m the police.

  I want to see where he goes. Might be good for something.

  I make the left and gun the engine to Wallach.

  “Damn.”

  I forgot it’s one way going westbound.

  I see him. He’s walking. Casually.

  Car honks behind me.

  He looks over his shoulder, but he’s about half a block up the road and doesn’t make me. Car honks again.

  “Fuck off!” I yell, like the honking ass is going to hear me.

  There’s a couple of cuts in Wallach that he might take or just walk through to 13th. Wallach is a long, narrow road, so I’m betting on the cuts. I drive south on 14th to T, the next street down, and when traffic eases I make a quick left. I slow down toward the cut that extends from T to Wallach.

  He’s walking, looks like he’s coming this way. There’s a car behind me, so I can’t back up. I pull forward and park behind a car that puts the rear of my car partway into the cut he’s walking. I turn the engine off and recline the seat. I adjust the rearview so I can see from my position.

  He steps out of the cut, looks both ways, and walks behind my car to cross the street.

  I watch him cross, get ready to enter the next alley, heading south. I start thinking this ain’t nothin’ but a waste of my time. I open the door and step out, close it quietly, walk to the rear of my car, then cross the street. I manage to get right up on him, and by the time he turns his head it’s too late, because I grab him tight from behind by the neck of his T-shirt.

  He struggles but doesn’t fight.

  “What the fuck! You got no cause,” he squeaks out.

  “What the hell you run from me for? I was being polite.”

  “Didn’t do nothin’! You got no cause to stop me. Fucking let me go.”

  “What you holding? I know that’s why you ran.”

  He struggles and squirms and worms his way out of his double-XL T-shirt. His skinny chest; wide, angular shoulders. His pants are almost below his ass. He pulls them up and runs in the alley.

  “Shit. C’mon, now, little man.”

  I see a small group of people has gathered at the corner. Couple of them have their iPhones out.

  “Oh, that’s fucking great,” I say to myself.

  But like a hungry dog I turn back to my prey and run after him.

  I chase him through the alley to the next street.

  He runs east, toward 13th, but even holding his pants up with his right hand he’s still like an antelope. I ain’t no cheetah, especially in the heat. I’ve already run a block, and my shirt’s soaked through. Fuck it.

  He looks back when he hits 13th. I swear he’s mocking me ’cause he walks at a slow pace when he crosses to the other side, looking my way.

/>   I toss his T-shirt in the gutter. Fucking little young punk.

  What the hell was I even chasing this kid for?

  I make my way back to the car. I need a shower and a change of clothing. After that I’m going to call Hurley, ask him about the secondhand dealers that my boy, Record Store Oscar, told me about.

  Fifteen

  Hurley was at a witness conference when I called him earlier, but he suggested meeting at the Fraternal Order of Police lodge. It’s on 4th Street, about a block from the US attorney’s office. I used to be a frequent flyer in this spot. Long time ago. Back when I had court almost every day.

  Couple of young uniforms are standing on the sidewalk just before the glass double-door front entry. I’ve already worked up a bit of a sweat on the short walk here. Seeing them standing there talking in this humidity makes me want to sweat more. Don’t know how they can be out here chatting it up and put up with the discomfort that comes with trapped sweat under those Kevlar vests. Conditioning, I guess. Personally, I never got used to it.

  Just before I ring the buzzer to announce myself, I hear one of them say, “How can they tell me without any notice that I got to work twelve hours? How do they get away with that shit?”

  “That is some bullshit,” the other responds.

  “Well, my witness conference just got a lot longer. I’ll be parking my ass at the Nickel for the remainder. Fuck those protesters.”

  I chuckle to myself. The Nickel. That’s the US attorney’s office, ’cause the address is 555. I used to call it the Triple Nickel.

  “Ching-ching, baby. That’s how you have to look at it,” the other says.

  I push the button for the intercom, announce myself.

  I pull the door open when I hear the lock click, walk up a short flight of stairs, then make a right through an open door to the restaurant and bar. Fortunately, it’s not that crowded. They’ve cleaned it up. Looks more like a regular commercial establishment than the dingy old hiding spot it once was. The tough, scratchy-voiced waitress who used to work behind the bar and at the tables seems to have been replaced by a younger, friendlier woman.

  A couple of old-timers, more than likely retired, sit on stools, upper halves bent over the wooden bar, propping themselves up with an elbow while nursing something mixed. Their faces weather-worn, with smiles like “those were the days.” Same framed photos, maybe a couple of new ones, hanging on the walls. Lot of history there.

  I see Hurley sitting alone at a table by the window drinking soda from a straw. Fresh-looking male and female uniform officers a couple tables in front of his sip coffee out of white mugs. The young girl’s cute. Both of them glance over as I make my way to Hurley, probably wondering what unit I’m from. Or maybe they saw me on the news.

  I shake hands with Hurley and take the chair across from him.

  “I just got here a second ago,” he says and raises his hand to summon the waitress.

  “So you hungry?” he asks.

  What do I say to that? No, I’m not. I never am, but I gotta play the part.

  “This humidity fucks up my system, but I can manage something.”

  I grab the menu.

  The cute waitress shows up.

  “I’ll have the FOP club and another soda, please.”

  I give the menu a quick look-over. Definitely not the same menu.

  “Shit, the Kojak? You serve a lollipop with that?” I ask the waitress with a smile.

  “Tootsie Pop,” she says.

  “Damn, the Columbo? What happened to this place?”

  “Trust me, it’s an improvement,” Hurley says.

  “I’ll also have the FOP club. Water and coffee, too.”

  “Self-serve coffee right over there,” she says, pointing to the wall across from me, where there’s a table, stacks of mugs, and a couple of full coffeepots. Some things never change.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Will that be all, gentlemen?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah, sweetie. Thanks,” Hurley says, shooting her a goofy smile.

  I pull my chair out to stand. “Be right back.”

  I walk to the table and pour myself a cup of coffee, then return to sit.

  “So I went to this record store I used to frequent.” I sit back down. “It’s on U Street, near where I live.”

  He looks at me with interest. I decide to leave out the kid that bolted out of the store, ’cause what good would it do for me?

  “You know anything about that spot?”

  “Sure, and the owner there plays by the rules,” Hurley says.

  “Happy to hear that. He told me about some secondhand dealers who might not play by the rules, though.”

  “I’m on that, too. First thing I did was check the pawn database. Couple CDs here and there, but nothing like your collection. Checked out a few laptops and some stereo equipment, but it was negative.”

  “You gonna hit those secondhand dealers soon?”

  “Once I finish up with this witness conference. Should be done tomorrow.”

  “Witness conference have anything to do with the homicide?”

  “No. Something else my unit was involved in. A narco-fencing case. But we have a lot of pressure with the homicide. You ever call your cousin’s parents?”

  “They’re divorced. I talked to his mother” is all I say.

  “Well, it might be best to stay clear, buddy. She has it in her head that you’re to blame.”

  “She’s my aunt,” I tell him like he insulted me. “We were close for a lot of years.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest anything by that.”

  “I know.” Sip some coffee. “Fuck, I taught him how to swim. Aunt Linda has a pool at their house in Ohio. I took a couple weeks’ leave from the department after she got divorced to be with him. He was more like my little brother than a cousin. Gotta tell ya, there were moments when I was surveilling him that I wanted to break off and try to pull him outta all that shit. Maybe that’s all he needed.”

  “You can’t question yourself like this, what you should’ve done. Probably wouldn’t have made a difference. You know that.”

  “He wasn’t a criminal, Joe.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Fuck. I gotta get out from under this,” I say and realize how it sounds.

  “Well, hopefully we’ll get to the bottom of it soon.”

  “Hopefully?”

  “Frank, listen. The case we just wrapped up took a year. I was surprised they didn’t pull the plug on it months ago. They sure as hell would have now because of this case. I don’t want to be stuck on this. I like my world of burglary, not bodies.” He looks like he realizes how that sounds. “I’m sorry. It’s your cousin. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

  “No worries. Anything on that kid at the club, the one with the dreadlocks?”

  “We’re working all the leads, Frank.”

  For obvious reasons he’s keeping me out of the loop. For all I know they already picked him up and he’s in the box getting drilled by Millhoff. I leave it alone.

  Hurley seems like he cares and loves the job. That’s rare these days, especially with all the shit the guys go through both departmentally and with the general population. Sometimes when you’re dealing with cases that involve robbery, burglary, or narcotics, a whole new level of crime can come out of one arrest. Organizations like MPDC don’t like that kind of thinking because it usually involves a long-term investigation, which is a dirty combination of words. It’s a wrap-it-up culture now. It’s about numbers, about procedure. Think outside the box, and you’ll end up being like the redheaded stepchild. Come to think of it, Hurley has reddish-blond hair.

  I know how difficult burglary cases are to close. It’s even harder to recover whatever was stolen. Hurley seems to have mastered it. That alone gives me hope.

  Sandwiches finally arrive. Another thing that hasn’t changed. If you’re gonna eat here, you’d better make sure you have the time. It doesn’t
matter if it’s crowded or if there are just a few people, like now. The orders come slow.

  I take a bite of the sandwich. It’s good, but I’ve got serious cotton mouth and no appetite, making it hard to swallow. I drink water, lots of it. Force it down, just like I’ll use a few pills to force myself to sleep. Gotta try to live normal somehow.

  “I’ll check the database again for those secondhand dealers, see if anything shows up. Still might be too early. We depend on the shopkeepers to enter the items, and you know how that can be.”

  “Yeah. Most of them are nothing but legalized fencing operations.”

  “You got that right. They serve a purpose, though—for us, I mean.”

  “No problem with me stopping in some pawn shops or other record stores, right?”

  “Of course not, but if you see what you suspect is yours, call me. Don’t talk to them. I’ll stop by, and if it’s good to go I’ll put a police hold on it.”

  “And none of this fucking getting lost at Property Division, right?”

  “It is going to be a bit different because it involves a homicide. Usually I just take a few photos of the property and get you to sign a release form and it’s yours. I’ll see what I can do, though—I mean, if we ever get to that point.”

  “I got faith in you, my new best friend.”

  “Ha! You’d better readjust that thinking.” And he finishes off one of the sandwich’s quarters.

  “Thinking about it now, I might even have someone else’s stolen shit in my collection.”

  “Most of the secondhand guys are all right. Mostly it’s the pawn shops and those rickety old corner thrift stores that make it hard on us.” He holds back on taking another bite, looks over at me like something’s been on his mind. “But seriously, Frankie, what’s with this PI shit? The work you did at Narcotics Branch? You could’ve been a consultant somewhere, one of those guys who interviews employees for major corporations or something like that. Six-figure shit.”