“I can’t say, but I promise I’ll catch these people. You have my word.”
Popeye took another drink, placed the bottle in his lap, and swung the wheelchair around. “What makes you think you can, and not get somebody else killed?”
“I don’t,” said Robert. “These people play for keeps. You’ve been in a war. You know how cheap life can get when the stakes are high.”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Popeye repeated.
Robert’s patience thinned. “I don’t have time to go back and forth with you. I need to know where Charlie spent most of his time. Where he laid his head.”
Popeye glared. “Does this have anything to do with the C-I-A?” His eyes narrowed, cat-like, sly.
“Maybe,” Robert answered. “What makes you think that?” Popeye pulled a crumpled pack of Newports from his jacket and lit one, the bottle snuggled firmly between his stumps. “Charlie used to mumble things sometimes,” he said. “CIA, FBI. It really seemed to upset him, gave him nightmares. We’d get drunk and he’d say he’d fucked with history.”
“Did he ever go into detail?”
“No, he just said he’d done some pretty fucked up things in his lifetime. I told him we all did. He just shook his head and walked off.”
“I need to know where Charlie hid out Popeye. It’s important.”
“On the street with the rest of us,” fired Popeye, squirming in his chair.
“I need direction, clues, something, anything. I need you to come clean. Where did Charlie hole up?”
Popeye took a deep drag on the Newport. Smoke streamed from his mouth and nose. “The Shaw Hotel over on R Street NW,” he said. “It’s about ten minutes from here.”
Robert repeated the name and location.
“Most of the hotels take vouchers over there,” Popeye continued.
“We call it the suburbs. Charlie moved around on the streets most of the time, but that’s where he went when he didn’t want to be bothered. He registered there under the name C. R. Peace.” Robert gave his thanks. Popeye downed the last bit of wine and tossed the bottle across the alley into a dumpster. “He had a friend he’d hole up with sometimes,” said Popeye, rolling his wheelchair closer to Robert.
“Who?”
“Jules,” Popeye said. “His closest friend.” Robert’s pulse quickened. “Where can I find him?”
“Her,” corrected Popeye. “Haven’t seen her in quite a while. Charlie told me she wanted to move to a warmer climate. She wanted him to go with her. Winters can be pretty brutal here you know.”
“Why didn’t he go?”
“Said he wanted to put things right, and that he could only do it here.” Robert stroked his chin. “Do you know Jules’ full name?”
“Julie. Julie Rice,” Popeye answered. “From Georgia, or somewhere down south.”
Robert thanked him again. “Can I get you anything?”
“More wine,” Popeye said, without hesitation, “and some smokes.” Robert pulled some bills from his pocket and placed them firmly in Popeye’s hand. “If you hear anything or need anything, get in touch with me. You still have my card?”
Popeye slid the now smudged card from his front pocket. “Will do,” he said, rolling out of the alley. “Think I’ll crack a bottle of the good stuff this time. MD Twenty-Twenty. We call it Mad Dog. Been drinkin’ it since Nam and that shit still got plenty of kick.” Popeye aimed his wheelchair at a liquor store up the street. “Think I’ll give the towel-heads my business this time,” he said. “Gotta spread the wealth, you know?”
“I know what you mean,” said Robert. “Listen, take care of yourself.
I’m being watched, so they probably know we’ve talked.” Popeye held up a chrome-plated. 357 Magnum. “I can take care of myself.” He put the gun away and faced Robert. “Mr. Veil. Whatever’s goin’ on, I sure hope it’s worth it.” He sped away, whistling as he wheeled.
Relieved, Robert jogged back to his car and headed for the Shaw Hotel.
His phone buzzed. Thorne. He filled her in. Since Jules lived on the streets, finding her was a long shot, but they’d run a national trace.
“You’re gonna need those stones between your legs before this is over,” said Thorne.
“I’m locked and loaded,” he said, laughing.
“So am I big boy. So am I.”
Robert remembered Fiona, and cleared his throat. “Thorne.”
“I know,” she said. “We gotta baby-sit a judge.”
“How?”
“Barbara tracked me down and filled me in. Said she’s worried about you and drilled me about our cases. I knew she’d talk you into something. I’m just glad you didn’t tell her about Rothschild, or I’d be kicking your ass as we speak.”
Robert laughed. Thorne didn’t.
“I started the setup at Judge Patrick’s house,” she continued. “The government boys weren’t very happy, but we have a hot line to the Secret Service, D.C. police, and Emergency Medical on the way.”
“I couldn’t have done it better.”
“No shit.” Thorne also informed him about a reception scheduled for the judge by the White House, to take place the following night at the Ritz Carlton hotel. “I told’em it’s a bad idea, but the White House insisted. Assholes.”
“My thoughts exactly, but we’ll deal with it later.” Robert parked across the street from The Shaw, rehashed a few details with Thorne, hung up, and stepped out into a nightmare.
Drunks and addicts zombied in front of the hotel, mumbling to imaginary friends, scratching sores, searching for the next hit of black-tar heroin or crack cocaine. Gunshots crackled in the air. Nobody flinched or moved.
A man more skeleton than human offered Robert fellatio in exchange for ten dollars. He ignored the proposition and made a beeline for the hotel.
Barely audible men begged for change, blocking the hotel’s front door. A bright red No Vacancy sign flashed in a cloudy plate glass window, just above a large cardboard sign warning drug dealers and thieves to stay away.
Inside, the hotel looked worn, but surprisingly neat and clean. Aged couches and lounge chairs, with discolored, faded patterns, centered the lobby. Wood grain coffee and lamp tables, chipped, scratched, and beaten, stood sentry. A well-trodden flower-patterned rug covered most of the lobby, and the odor, not nearly as nauseating as outside, reeked of locker-room funk and urine, still too pervasive to ignore.
Even close to midnight, men, women and a few small children, sat around the lobby, some chatting away about the goings-on outside, while others honed their attention in on him. An obvious clear difference jumped out between these folks and the zombies outside. Their clothes bore the requisite Salvation Army feel, common on the streets, but with fewer wrinkles and much less grime. They wore socks and decent shoes, a rarity for the homeless.
“Can I help you honey?” asked a firm female voice behind him.
The voice belonged to a heavyset, dark-skinned black woman, sporting a bright smile and motherly aura. She easily weighed three hundred pounds, and her good-natured disposition assured him he’d found a friendly face. He introduced himself. She gently cupped his hand in both of hers. “My name’s Josephine,” she said. “But around here they call me Aunt Josie. I run this place.”
“Nice to meet you Aunt Josie. Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for information on one of your residents.” Josie’s demeanor changed. She put her hands on her bountiful hips.
“You the police? Cause if you the police, I told ya’ll before, no warrant, no information. We don’t have trouble in here and I don’t want none.” Robert understood why the inside of the hotel differed from the chaos outside. “I’m not the police,” he told her. “I’m just looking for information on a friend who died. I need to handle some of his personal business.”
“I’m sorry to hear that honey,” said Aunt Josie, concerned. “You got a name?”
“Charlie Ivory,” said Robert. “But he stayed here under the name C.R. Peace.”
Aunt Josie stared for a moment, studying him, taking stock. “You say Charlie’s dead?”
“Yes,” Robert continued. “He died a few days ago. Did you know him?”