“I’m D.C. born and bred. Grew up in Park View, on Princeton. Went to high school at Roosevelt, right across the street from where we sit. I was Four-F ’cause of a knee injury I got while playing football for the Rough Riders. My knee is good now, and as you can see I’m perfectly fit. I was an officer with the MPD until the riots, at which time I left the force. Kicked around some, doing a little bit of this and that, until I figured out that I dug detective work but not a uniform. So I copped a license and opened up my own place. I like soul and funk, the Redskins, good-looking women, Western movies, half-smokes, nice cars, puppy dogs, and long walks on the beach. Hot oils, too, if the situation calls for it.”
This time Maybelline blushed full. She smiled and said, “I guess that almost covers it.”
“Almost?”
“Why have a storefront here when you could operate out of your car? What
“It’s an odd question.”
“I’d like to know if my money is going to your overhead or to shoe leather.”
“Fair enough. Kids in this neighborhood watch me open that front door every morning. I think it’s important for them to see a young black man going to work each day, building his own thing. Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So there it is. Now tell me something about you.”
“If you’re looking to know more about me, here’s not the time or place.”
“Okay, then,” said Strange. “The ring?”
“It has a large center stone, looks like a diamond, with eight smaller stones circling around it. The arrangement is called a cluster. The ring it’s mounted on has the Grecian key design engraved on its shoulders on a background of black enamel.”
As she spoke, Strange drew a version of the ring, based on her description. When he was done he turned the notebook around and let her look at it.
“Close?”
“Something like that,” she said. “What do you charge?”
“I get eight dollars an hour. My hours are straight and I’ll account for all of them. I ask for a fifty-dollar retainer at the start.”
“I can give that to you right now if you’d like.”
“That would be good.”
She reached into the small rectangular purse and counted out some bills. She handed Strange his fee across the desk.
“What do you do, Maybelline, you don’t mind my askin?”
“I’m a tutor,” she said. “Mathematics.”
“Which school?”
“In-home. I work by the hour, just like you.”
“Let me get your contact information right quick.”
She took the notebook and pencil, and wrote down her phone number and home address. As she did it, “Mr. Big Stuff” came from the clock radio on the desk. Strange saw her nod her head to the rhythm and the syncopated shake of one of her feet.
“You like this one?”
“Hard to get it out of my head. OL doesn’t help, either. They play it all the time.”
“All groove, no melody,” said Strange. “But what a groove.”
Jean Knight, he thought, from New Orleans. Stax single number double-0dthber dou-88. Originally recorded for the Malaco/Chimneyville label out of Jackson, Mississippi. Strange still catalogued this arcane data in his mind.
“The singer is a southern girl, right?”
“Uh-huh. But this radio does her no justice. I need to get a real stereo in here.”
“All in time.”
Maybelline got up out of her seat. Strange did the same.
“Have you reported the missing ring to the police?”
“Please. I’m not even trying to waste my time.”
Strange nodded. “I’ll be in touch. Thanks for your confidence.”
“That ring is dear to me. My mother passed last year and it’s what I have left of her.”
“I’ll do my best to find it.” As he walked her to the front door, he said, “Do you know if the MPD has a lead on Odum’s killer?”
“The homicide policeman I spoke with barely told me anything.”
“You recall his name?”
“Frank Vaughn,” said Maybelline. “White man, on the old side. Do you know of him?”
“Heard tell of him, yes.”
In fact, Strange knew Vaughn well.
THREE
He wore his hair a little bit longer now, just over his ears. What they called the dry look. No more flattop, no more Brylcreem. Even Sinatra’s hair was on the long side, though that Hail Caesar thing he’d tried for a while was all wrong for his face and age. That was around the time he’d married that skinny young actress. Vaughn reckoned that Sinatra was just scared. Scared of death, like all sane men and, worse, scared of being irrelevant. At least Frank Vaughn had not made those kinds of mistakes. An updated hairstyle, sure. But no leisure suits, no Roman Empire cuts, no May-December romances. Vaughn knew who he was.
He studied himself in the mirror as he straightened his black tie and smoothed out the lapels of his gray Robert Hall suit. A bit more jowly in the face, some baggage under the eyes, but not too gone for fifty-two years old.
Vaughn smiled, displaying his widely spaced, crooked teeth. The younger cops called him “Hound Dog,” on account of his look. He’d heard one of the uniforms say, “Vaughn looks like a animated canine,” trying to be fancy with it, when all he meant was, he looked like that big dog in the cartoons, the one with the scary choppers and the spiked collar. Vaughn preferred to think of himself as a less pretty Mitchum. Or Sinatra on the cover of that record No One Cares, seated at the bar in raincoat and fedora, staring into his shot glass. A night wolf, wounded and alone.
“What’re you grinning at?” said Olga, who had entered their bedroom, her hands on her pedal-pushered hips, watching him appraising himself in the full-length. Olga’s hair, as black and dead as a stuffed raven, had been newly coiffed at the Vincent et Vincent in Wheaton Plaza. Et. Vaughn always wondered why they didn’t just say “and” on the sign.
“Just admiring my good looks,” said Vaughn.
“Lord, you’re vain,” said Olga, smiling crookedly, her bright-red lipstick screaming out against her mime-white face.
“When you got it,” said Vaughn.
“Got what?”
“This.” Vaughn turned, brought her into his arms, and pushed his manhood against her, to let her know he was still there. They kissed dryly.
“What have you got today?” she said, as he broke away and walked over to the nightstand by his side of the bed.
“Police work, Olga,” he said, his usual reply. He withdrew his holstered service revolver, a.38 Special, from the nightstand drawer, checked the load, and clipped the rig onto his belt line. “Ricky home?”
Ricky, their college graduate, pacing himself as a bartender at a little live music venue in Bethesda. Vaughn had always feared Ricky would be a swish, with his long hair and mania for music, but the kid got more pussy than a hetero hairdresser. These days he was shacked up with a broad somewhere more often than he was in their house.
“He didn’t make it back last night,” said Olga. “But he called so we wouldn’t worry.”
“Loverboy,” said Vaughn, with sarcasm and pride.
“Stop.”
He kissed her again, this time on her cheek, wondering idly what she was going to do all day. He left their master bedroom and headed down the stairs, noticing a line of dirt along the baseboards of the living room as he grabbed his raincoat out of the foyer closet. Olga tried, but she wasn’t much for housekeeping. Their place hadn’t been spick-and-span since they’d lost their maid, Alethea Strange, just after the ’68 riots. He’d driven her to her row home in Park View, right through the thick of it as the city burned, and though it was unsaid, he knew she would never return to their house as a domestic. It had been so. Vaughn bringing her up in his mind, feeling a stir, thinking, That was some kind of woman.
He left their house, a split level off Georgia Avenue between downtown Silver Spring and Wheaton, and drove toward D.C., his mood brightening considerably as he rolled over the District line, nearing the action, the final passion that moved his blood.