“Finishing up at Coolidge. Just applied to Maryland. He’s a good boy. A knucklehead sometimes, like all boys tend to be. But he’s doing all right.”
“You see Westbrook the other night?”
“Boy made some catches.”
“Uh-huh. Still makin’ that first-down sign when they move the sticks. That drives the defenders crazy. He is cocky.”
“He’s got a right to be,” said Strange. “Some call it cocky; I call it confidence. Westbrook’s ready to have the season of his career, George. Gonna bust loose like Chuck Brown and all the Soul Searchers put together.”
“He ain’t no Bobby Mitchell,” said Hastings. “And he sure ain’t no Charley Taylor.”
Strange smiled a little. “No one is to you, George.”
“Anyway,” said Hastings. He reached inside his lightweight sport jacket. Strange figured from the material that the jacket went for five, six hundred. Quiet, with a subtle pattern in there. Good quality, and understated, like all George’s possessions. Like the high-line, two-year-old Volvo he drove, and his Tudor-style house up in Shepherd Park.
Hastings dropped a folded sheet of paper on Strange’s desk. Strange picked it up, unfolded it, and looked it over.
“I got what you asked for,” said Hastings.
Strange read the full name of the subject: Calhoun Tucker. Hastings had provided the tag number for the Audi S4 that Tucker owned or leased. Mimeographed onto the sheet of paper was a credit card receipt from a nightspot that Strange recognized. It was located on U Street, east of 14th. Hastings had scribbled a paragraph of other incidental character details: where Tucker said he’d lived last, where he’d last worked, like that.
“How’d you get the credit card receipt?” said Strange.
“Looked through my little girl’s purse. They went to dinner, he must have said, Hold on to this for me, will you? Didn’t like going through her personal belongings, but I did. Alisha’s getting ready to step off a cliff. I mean, young people, they decide to get married, they never do know what it means, for real.”
“I heard that.”
“My Linda, God love her, she’d be doing the same thing, she was still with us. She was harder on Alisha’s boyfriends than I ever was, matter of fact. And here this boy just rolls into town six months ago — he’s not even a Washington boy, Derek — and I’m supposed to just sit on my hands while everybody’s world gets rocked? I mean, I don’t even know one thing about his family.”
Strange dropped the paper on the desk. “George, you don’t have to justify this to me. I do this kind of background check all the time. It’s no reflection on your daughter, and as of yet it’s no reflection on this young man. And it damn sure is no reflection on you. You’re her father, man, you’re supposed to be concerned.”
“I’d do this even if I thought the boy was right.”
“But you don’t think he’s right.”
Hastings ran a finger down his cheek. “Somethin’ off about this Tucker boy.”
“You sure the off thing’s not just that some young man’s getting ready to take away your little girl?”
“Sure, that’s a part of it; I can’t lie to you, man. But it’s somethin’ else, too. Don’t ask me what exactly. You live long enough, you get so you know.”
“Forget about exactly, then.”
“Well, he’s drivin’ a luxury German automobile, for one. Always dressed clean, too, real sharp, with the gadgets that go with it: cells, pagers, all that. And I can’t figure out what he does to get it.”
“That might have meant somethin’ once. Used to be, you had to be rich or a drug dealer to have those things. But look, any fool who can sign his name to a lease can be drivin’ a Benz these days. Twelve-year-old kid can get his own credit card.”
“Okay, but ain’t no twelve-year-old kid gonna march my baby girl down to the altar. This here is a twenty-nine-year-old man, and he’s got no visible means of support. Says he’s some kind of talent agent, a manager. Puts on shows at the clubs around town. He’s got this business card, says ‘Calhoun Enterprises.’ Anytime I see ‘Enterprises’ on a business card, way I look at it, might as well print the word ‘Unfocused’ next to it, or ‘Doesn’t Want No Real Job,’ or just plain ‘Bullshit,’ you know what I’m sayin’?”
Strange chuckled. “Okay, George. Anything else?”
“I just don’t like him, Derek. I plain do not like the man. That’s somethin’, isn’t it?”
Strange nodded. “Let me ask you a question. You think he’s into somethin’ on the criminal side?”
“Can’t say that. All I know is—”
“You don’t like him. Okay, George. Let me handle it from here.”
Hastings shifted in his seat. “You still gettin’ thirty an hour?”
“Thirty-five,” said Strange.
“You went up.”
“Gas did, too. Been to a bar lately? Bottle of beer cost you five dollars.”
“That include the two dollars you be stuffin’ in their G-strings?”
“Funny.”
“How long you think this is gonna take?”
“Don’t worry, this won’t take more than a few hours of my time. Most of it we do from right here, on computers. I’ll have you happy and stroking checks for that wedding in a couple of days.”
“That’s another thing. This reception is gonna cost me a fortune.”
“If you can’t spend it on Alisha, what you gonna do with it? You got yourself a beautiful girl there, George. Lovely on the outside, and in her heart, too. So let’s you and me make sure she’s making the right decision.”
Hastings exhaled slowly as he sat back in his chair. “Thank you, Derek.”
“Strictly routine,” said Strange.
chapter 4
STRANGE dropped the paper Hastings had given him on Janine’s desk.
“You get time, run this information through Westlaw and see what kind of preliminary information you can come up with.”
“Background check on a . . .” Janine’s eyes scanned the page. “. . . Calhoun Tucker.”
“Right. George’s future son-in-law. I’ll pick up Lionel and swing him back with me after practice.”
“Okay.”
“And, oh yeah. Call Terry; he’s workin’ up at the bookstore today. Remind him he’s coaching tonight.”
“I will.”
Lattimer looked up as Strange passed by his desk. “Half day today, boss?”
“Need a haircut.”
“Next door? You ever wonder why they got the butcher and the barber so close together on this block?”
“Never made that connection. One thing I don’t need is to be spending forty dollars on a haircut like you.”
“Well, you better get on over there. ’Cause you’re startin’ to look like Tito Jackson.”
Strange turned and looked into a cracked mirror hanging from a nail driven into a column in the middle of the office. “Damn, boy, you’re right.” He patted the side of his head. “I need to get my shit correct.”
STRANGE dropped a couple of the kids off at their homes after practice. Then he and Lionel drove up Georgia toward Brightwood in Strange’s ’91 black-over-black Cadillac Brougham, a V-8 with a chromed-up grille. This was his second car. Strange had an old tape, Al Green Gets Next to You, in the deck, and he was trying hard not to sing along.
“Sounds like gospel music,” said Lionel. “But he’s singing it to some girl, isn’t he?”
“‘God Is Standing By,’” said Strange. “An old Johnny Taylor tune, and you’re right. This here was back when Al was struggling between the secular and the spiritual, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
“You mean, like, he loves Jesus but he loves to hit the pussy, too.”
“I wasn’t quite gonna put it like that, young man.”
“Whateva.”
Strange looked across the bench. “You got studies tonight, right?”