Clay stopped twisting the napkin in his hand. He’d heard that name Chief before and not so long ago. Probably one of the kids who shopped in his store.
“George,” said Clay. “Don’t ever feel that what you’re doin’ out there isn’t important. ’Cause it is. I’ve always admired you for that.”
“Thanks, Marcus. But it’s hard. I got fifteen years in already. Another ten and I’ll have my twenty-five. I’m thinkin’, much as I love this city, when I got twenty-five in, I’m gone.”
“Lot of people I talk to thinkin’ the same way.” Clay looked at his watch. “Got to go, buddy. We open at noon.”
They signaled the waitress and reached for their wallets.
“Good food, right George?”
George Dozier winked and said, “Make you cry.”
Marcus Clay kept seeing Denice, standing next to him on the U Street sales floor. Someone honked behind him, and he moved on the green.
It was the conversation he’d had with Denice about Alan Rogers, that’s what it was. Something about driving by them Friday night, seeing them all standing in the street. He could hear Denice’s voice now, see her lips moving slow—
Tutt and Short Man were arguing...
Clay swerved to the curb.
...over some kid named Chief.
Okay, there it was. Didn’t prove anything, though. So Short Man knew Chief. Didn’t mean he killed that boy.
Short Man dealt drugs for Tyrell Cleveland. The dead kids were dealing on Tyrell’s turf.
Tutt and Short Man were arguing over some kid named Chief.
Tutt and Short Man.
“Tutt,” said Clay under his breath.
Tutt wasn’t just a mean cop. Tutt was dirty, too.
Twenty-Two
Cootch had Young, Gifted and Black, his Sunday morning LP, going on the house stereo, Aretha’s otherworldly voice filling the room, when Marcus Clay entered the store. Dimitri Karras leaned against the front racks, sipping a cup of coffee.
Clay went directly to Karras and clapped him on the shoulder. Karras did the same. Twenty-five years of friendship had made preliminaries unnecessary. Something was happening; seeing each other would make their thoughts complete.
“Good to see you, man,” said Clay.
“Been waitin’ on you.”
“Cootch?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“We’ll be in the back.”
Clay poured coffee into a WHUR mug and settled into his swivel chair. Karras had a seat on the edge of Clay’s desk.
“You first,” said Karras.
“All right,” said Clay. “Just had breakfast with George Dozier. Those kids got killed last night? He’s workin’ the case. Told me one of the kids went by the name of Chief. Denice was with Rogers and Short Man the other night when Tutt, Murphy’s partner, came up on ’em. Denice said Short Man and Tutt were arguing over a kid named Chief.”
Karras sipped his coffee. “You think Short Man did the kids.”
“George said the kids were small-time dealers on Tyrell Cleveland’s turf. Short Man enforces for Tyrell.”
“What about Tutt?”
“Tutt’s dirty.”
“Denice tell you that, too?”
“No. Got a strong feeling about it is all.”
“Murphy?”
“Just ’cause he rides with the man don’t mean he knows.” Clay looked into his mug. “Ought to call George Dozier right now, let him and IAD sort it out.”
“Why haven’t you, then?”
“’Cause I’m not sure.”
“Right. And there’s something else, Marcus.”
“I thought of that,” said Clay. “There’s the money. And your girl.”
“That’s right. But there’s more you don’t know. Something’s happened to Donna’s boyfriend, Eddie.”
“The one took off Tyrell?”
“Yeah. I went by where he parks his car. A mechanic takes care of his tools, and his were lying around on the ground. He either left in a big hurry or he got taken real fast. He never phoned her last night, and he’s not the type to blow Donna off, not when he’s got her close to where he wants her, the way he does now.”
“You think Tyrell might have Eddie?”
“It’s possible. Sending in the cavalry, it might be a good way to get him killed.”
“They might go on and kill him anyway, they don’t get what they want. Gonna be on your head if they do.”
“I don’t think so. They need him alive, long as they don’t know where the money is. I just hope he’s smart enough to know that.”
“You saw the money?”
“In a pillowcase at Donna’s apartment.”
“If they’re after it, it means she’s in real trouble, too.”
“Yes.”
“Bet you took her mind off it real good last night, Dimitri.”
“Not the way you think.”
“No?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Clay set his mug down on the desk. “All of the sudden you goin’ all Galahad on me. Why?”
“Just trying to do something right.”
“Been a while. Proud of you, man.”
Karras said, “Thanks.”
“So, what’re we gonna do?”
“Maybe we should talk it over with Murphy.”
“He’s off today. Said he was comin’ in to see the Maryland game with us. But I want to be sure about Tutt before I start settin’ off the alarms.”
“How would you do that?”
“Tutt’s off today, too. If Tutt’s in bed with Tyrell, and Tyrell had anything to do with those murders, then you know the two of them have got to hook up to talk about damage control. Or maybe Tutt’s gonna meet with one of Tyrell’s boys.”
“Follow Tutt, see where he goes?”
Clay nodded. “Not us, though. He’s seen us up too close. You know anybody’d want to follow a cop around for a couple of hours today? I’d make it worth his while.”
“You know where Tutt lives? You know his street vehicle?”
“Lives in Silver Spring Towers. Drives a baby blue Bronco. Seen it myself.”
Karras thought it over. “There’s this one guy I know.” He drained his coffee and dropped the Styrofoam cup in the trash. “I’ll give him a call.”
Nick Stefanos chewed on a breath mint and leaned on the cashier’s counter, watching his buddy Johnny McGinnes pitch a nineteen-inch Sharp to a young Indian couple with a baby boy. They had come in for the Sony — a prediction McGinnes had made in his most cartoonish accent as they’d walked into the store — and McGinnes had tried to step them off the Trinitron to the Lynitron, a profit piece carrying a ten-dollar spiff. The couple was slowly edging toward the front door.
Stefanos looked at McGinnes: hair combed diagonally over his forehead in a Hitler hang, polyesters crisp as sheets blowing in a spring breeze, his hands working the air for punctuation. When he worked the floor, McGinnes was the happiest, most content man Stefanos had ever known. Stefanos envied him for that.
“What’s goin’ on, Country?” said Andre Malone, the store’s stereo salesman. Malone glided gracefully between the glass cases and drew a Newport from his Italian-cut sport coat.
“McGinnes is losing them.”
“Can see that. Where’s our illustrious manager at?”
“Louie’s up at the Van Ness apartments, visiting his girlfriend.”
Malone lit his smoke, blew the match out on the exhale. “Brother Lou gonna gyrate, huh?”
“I guess.”
Malone eyed Stefanos’s jacket. “Where’d you cop those threads, man, Salvation Army?”