“Does it make a difference to you if he’s guilty or innocent?”
“No. I defend them all the same way, Nick. I thought it might make a difference to you.”
Stefanos hit his smoke. “What else makes you think Weston’s telling the truth? Besides, you know, his eyes.”
“Around the time of the murder, a kid who works in one of those neighborhood Chinese grease pits, place called Hunan Delite, says he was closing up his parents’ shop, heard shots and tires screeching on the road, then saw an old vehicle speeding past on Kennedy.”
“What kind of an old vehicle?”
Elaine peered inside the folder. “A red Tempo, I think. No, here it is… a red Ford Torino.”
“What’s Weston drive?”
“A Legend.”
“Color?”
“Red.”
“Even if you find the driver of the Torino, and even if he has something to do with the crime, the prosecutors will bring up the sameness of color in court.”
“You’re talking about two cars with over twenty years’ difference in terms of style.”
“Maybe.” Stefanos looked around the cafeteria. “But I’m not interested.”
“You’re interested. I can see it -”
“In my eyes?”
“Thought you might want to pick this one up, see what you can do with it.”
“I told you the first time you hired me -”
“I know. You no longer get involved in, how did you put it, ‘murder gigs or other kinds of violent shit.’”
“I said that?”
“Something like it.”
Stefanos dragged on the filter of his Camel. “Get that big Indian you use. Nobody fucks with that guy.”
“He’s busy on another case.”
“What about Joey A.?”
“Joe A.’s tied up, too.” Elaine pushed the folder across the table until it touched Stefanos’s hand. “Look, I need your help, Nick. I’ve got another one of these files in my office. Take this one with you, okay?”
“I don’t think so.” Stefanos moved his hand and dropped his cigarette into the half inch of coffee left in the cup.
“Right. Let’s put that aside for now, then, and shift gears.”
“What, you’ve got something else?”
“Well, yes.”
“Go ahead.”
“I mentioned that I was working with you to my husband last night. Marcus said he thought you might know his friend Dimitri Karras. You remember Dimitri, don’t you?”
“Sure. I haven’t seen him for over ten years. But I was just thinking about him on the way over here. The Post ran their quarterly Pizza Parlor Murders piece in this morning’s paper.”
“Dimitri’s been in a real bad way.”
Stefanos nodded, drew a fresh cigarette from the pack, tamped it on the table. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers.
“There can’t be anything worse than to lose a child, Nick.”
“Wasn’t he with your husband in those record stores?”
“Yes. Marcus cashed out ten years ago, went back to school and got his M.B.A. In the meantime, Dimitri met his future wife, Lisa, in rehab. Dimitri and Lisa got married and had a child straight away. Marcus and a friend named Clarence Tate created a retail consulting business designed to help African American startups and brought Dimitri in as a partner, despite the fact that Dimitri’s -”
“Greek Like Me?”
“Dimitri was always good with people, so that didn’t seem to matter all that much when all was said and done.” Elaine spread her hands out on the table. “But when Jimmy was killed, he pretty much fell apart. After a year or so, Marcus and Clarence couldn’t carry him anymore. And Dimitri didn’t want them to. It just didn’t work out.”
“What about Karras and his wife?” “They didn’t make it. She’s still at their old house, pretty much a shut-in. He’s living in an apartment on U at Fifteenth, still making do on what’s left of his inheritance.”
“Marcus feels guilty.”
“Yes. He feels like, if Dimitri can get himself into a work environment – get around people again, every day – he can start that healing process he needs. It would be like, you know, placing him with some kind of family.”
Stefanos cleared his throat and slid the unlit cigarette back in its pack. “I’ll ask around. If I hear of any job openings around town I’ll let you know.”
“I was thinking of that place you work.”
“The Spot? Elaine, you ever seen the place? It’s just a shitty little bar in Southeast.”
“They serve food, don’t they?”
“Yeah, we serve food. In fact, we just hired a couple more people for the kitchen. The owner expanded the menu. He’s trying to beef up the lunch business.”
“Well, there you go. Dimitri could do kitchen work part-time. Wash dishes, anything. With you there, he wouldn’t be walking into a nest of strangers. Marcus was thinking -”
“Marcus?”
“Okay, it would be a personal favor for me, too. Look, I didn’t think you’d mind if I asked.”
“I don’t mind.” Stefanos stood. “Like I said, I’ll ask around, Elaine. How’s that?”
“Thanks, Nicky.” She wrote down a phone number, tore off a piece of paper, and handed it to Stefanos.
Stefanos reached into the side pocket of his leather, pulled out a CD, and put it in front of Elaine. “Here you go.”
Elaine’s face brightened. “What’s this?”
“ Live Evil. It just got reissued on domestic disc. I knew you were an electric Miles freak, so…”
“You know, I’d always see the Japanese pressing of this in the stores, but I never wanted to spring for it.”
“I heard a couple of tracks at the listening station. Some of the pieces were recorded right here at the old Cellar Door in 1970. Johnny McLaughlin on guitar, Michael Henderson on bass – it’s a boss band. It doesn’t cut Agharta, but it’s pretty hot.”
“Nick, that was so sweet.”
Stefanos winced. “A woman shouldn’t ever call a guy sweet, Counselor. It’s like calling him dickless or something.”
“But it was sweet.”
“Yeah, okay, it was sweet.” Stefanos shuffled his feet.
“You all right? You’re looking a little run-down.”
“I’m fine. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, hear?”
“Soon.”
They smiled at each other, and Stefanos turned to go. She watched him walk from the cafeteria and disappear into the crowd gathered at the entrance.
“Who was that?” said the young attorney at the table to her left.
Elaine turned to face the man who’d been a CJA attorney for less than a year. “Nick Stefanos. An investigator I use.”
“From his appearance, I’d say that guy’s been around the block a few times.”
“I suspect he has.”
“He looks like some kind of ghost.”
More like a street angel, she thought, as the voice from the loudspeaker called the young attorney’s name.
“That’s me,” he said. “Show time.”
“Don’t forget your client,” said Elaine.
“There he is. He’s coming now.”
Elaine looked at the kid, thought immediately of her own son, Marcus Jr., now sixteen years old. The kid’s shirt was out and his boots were unlaced. M. J. had begged her to buy him that same brand of boots this Christmas past.
“You might want to tell him to tuck in his shirt,” said Elaine. “Lace up those Timbies, too. He’s liable to trip on his way up to the bench.”
“Timbies?”
“His boots.”
The attorney stood from his chair and collected his papers. “That Stefanos guy,” he said. “You mind if I borrow him sometime?”
Elaine shook her head. “Sorry.”
“He does good work, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does good work. But he’s mine.”
FOUR
The group gathered once a week in the basement of a Presbyterian church at 23rd and P. A social worker with the police department had set up the support sessions originally and assigned the group a freelance shrink, who, after three weeks, was politely asked to leave. Two and a half years had passed, and the group continued to meet.
Ernst, the church’s live-in custodian, stood near the group, seated in a disjointed circle in the middle of the common room. “Please,” said Ernst. “Pull the plug on that coffee urn when you’re done.”