Right as Rain

'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.

18

Strange 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, framed cheaply and mounted, 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 her job. 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.'