Clockers (53 page)

Rocco smiled, did a little spin himself, breathing in the cool night air. “So you don’t think this kid runs with Rodney at all?”

“Rodney Little?” Thumper made a face. “I doubt it, Roc. The kid’s pretty well legit. I mean, Strike, if you think this was drug-related, yeah, Strike and Rodney, if they were involved I’d say look into
that.
But shit, even Strike, he’s not a shooter, he’s just a snake. How do you know this kid did it?”

“He came in and gave it up. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Really,” Thumper said. “What he say?”

“Nothin’. Some bullshit about self-defense. I really don’t know what happened. What would
you
think?”

“Hey, that’s why you’s be the Homicide and me’s be the Housing. Fucked if I know. Could be … maybe he’s telling the truth?” Thumper winced, the word “truth” halfhearted and faint, as if it wasn’t worth the breath it took to say.

Rudy’s was beer-damp, dark, long and narrow. A radio station blared music over the speaker system, drowning out the TV. To Rocco it seemed a peaceful enough place, most of the customers looking to be either on the other side of thirty-five or prematurely aged by a hard life. Taped to the mirror behind the liquor stock was a sign-up sheet for a charter bus trip to Virginia Beach; next to it was a hand-drawn announcement for a special night honoring the women cooks of Rudy’s, featuring a spaghetti and crab dinner.

Mazilli wouldn’t go much past the front door. Leaning against the unplugged juke box, he folded his arms across his chest and stared out across the street to Ahab’s. Rocco left him there and walked up to the bar, sliding between a heavyset woman talking to an old man in a Count Basie skipper hat, and a red-eyed security guard, his cap and nightstick lying next to his drink.

The bartender, a tall bald man with a mustache and a gold earring, came up and nodded hello. Rocco immediately sensed the guy would be straight with him. There was no attitude in the air, no stiffness, the bartender reading “police” and patiently waiting for the questions to begin.

“What you got cold?” Rocco shouted over the music.

“Miller, Bud…”

“Miller sounds good.” Rocco turned and called out to Mazilli. “How about you, Cheech?”

Mazilli shook his head and looked back out to the street. Rocco caught a few sidelong glances from the regulars, but the vibrations were more of curiosity than hostility. Rocco found it a little strange to think of Victor Dunham drinking in here: he would have been the youngest by about ten years. Rocco imagined the kid coming in, hanging out by himself, getting a little buzz on, start talking to his shots after a while, everybody just leaving him be.

The bartender came back with the Miller but no glass. Rocco flapped out his badge and offered his hand. “I’m Rocco Klein from the prosecutor’s office. You Rudy?”

The bartender’s answer was lost in the music.

Rocco squinted as if in pain. “Could you turn the music down a little? My hearing’s for shit.”

The bartender shrugged and clicked off the radio, the sudden silence making everybody sit up straight.

“Come again?” Rocco said.

“Rudy’s my father. I’m Lamar.”

“Lamar…” Rocco waited. “Lamar McCoy.”

“Lamar, I wonder if you can help me out.” Rocco pulled a photo out of his jacket and handed it over. “Did you ever see this kid around?”

The bartender took a long time to study the picture, and the security guard leaned forward on his elbows to catch a peek. During the post-arrest interview, Victor had said he was a regular here; why was it taking this long for these people to ID him?

Finally the bartender nodded. “Yeah, he was in here once. I don’t know him, though—you know, his name.”

”
Once?
Do you happen to remember when that was?”

“Yeah. He was in here like, last week.”

“You wouldn’t know what day last week, would you?”

“Thursday, Friday, something like that.”

“Both nights?”

“One or the other, I forget which. Now wait, it had to be Friday because I wasn’t working Thursday. Yeah, it was Friday.”

“Can I ask you something?” Rocco leaned forward on his elbows. “I used to tend bar over in Jersey City, and after a while? Unless the guy’s a regular I would never in a million years remember a one-time customer. It was just bodies and beers, bodies and beers, unless the guy had something memorable about him, acted some way unusual. I assume you got to be like that too, so how come you remember him?”

“He asked for something, some drink, and I had to go down to the cellar to see if we had it.”

“No kidding.” Rocco thought Victor had said he drank scotch. “What the hell was it, Ovaltine?”

“Nope. Coco Lopez, straight out of the can, no alcohol.”

“Like a Shirley Temple piha colada?”

“Yeah. That was like a first for me. Plus he was a young guy, and like we don’t get young people in here that much.”

“So he wasn’t drunk?”

“Nope. He just had that one Coco Lopez, straight out of the can.”

“Was he with anybody?”

“I think he came in by himself. He might have held conversation, but I can’t tell you that for sure.”

Rocco looked away for a moment, thinking back on all that time in the interrogation room. He believed the bartender’s version of Victor’s evening in here—why would the bartender lie?—which meant that the kid had been sober, come in for the one time only. Which meant that Victor must have bullshitted him about everything, right down to his choice of drink. Rocco gestured for Mazilli to come over and listen in.

“You know that shooting last Friday across the street?” Rocco asked.

“Yeah, the detectives came around. I was the one who called the police.”

“Would you remember what
time
the kid was here? You know, was it before or after that incident over there?”

The bartender got a look of slow fascination on his face. ”
That’s
who you looking for?” He studied the picture again, and the security guard and some other customers leaned closer too. “I would have to say he was in here before, because after, all hell broke loose with the situation over there, people runnin’ in and out, and I doubt I would have remembered him in all that. But it was pretty quiet before, so I would have to say before.” He tapped the picture with a long finger, nodding. “Yeah, he was in here before.”

“Before. OK, good, before. And how about when he
left.
Was that before or after the thing across the street?”

“I couldn’t say.” The bartender sucked his teeth. “Like I said, all hell broke loose.”

“Yeah, he was in here,” the security guard joined in. “He was all
jumpy
like. He wasn’t sitting down or nothing.”

Rocco was only mildly intrigued by the guard’s comment. Now that the cat was out of the bag, the guy might be giving it some extra color.

“So
this
the guy?” The bartender shook his head and dropped the picture on the bar. “Huh.”

Rocco absently looked down at the photo lying next to his beer, then reared back and muttered, “Jesus Christ.” He had handed over the wrong one. The mug shot of Victor Dunham was still in his pocket; on the bar was the photograph of his brother, Strike.

Rocco swallowed his shock and calmly switched pictures, Strike going back in his pocket, Victor going down in front of the bartender. “What about this guy?”

“Oh yeah,” the bartender said. “This guy’s in here all the time. What
he
do?”

“When was the last time he was in here?” Rocco could feel his heart flapping in his shirt: Strike was in here the night of the murder too.

“Well, I don’t think he was in here Saturday.” The bartender flashed the picture to a few regulars on either side of Rocco, the people grunting negatively.

“Friday, I would say. That’s like the last time I saw him,” the bartender added.

“Yeah, he was in here Friday,” the red-eyed security guard piped up, looking a little self-conscious about talking to real police.

Rocco tried to calm down. “Is he usually in here on Saturdays too?”

“I’d say so, yeah. Saturdays, Sundays,” the bartender said. “He’s here like most every night of the week, has like two, three drinks and goes out.”

“What’s he drink?”

“Scotch, scotch and soda.”

“Does he get drunk?”

“Nah, he gets up shaky sometimes but nah, he’s like internal—you know, quiet style.”

Rocco turned to the security guard. “How come you remember him Friday night?”

The guard gathered himself up to answer. “‘Cause he come in in this brown and orange uniform from Hambone’s? Then sometime later he goes into the bathroom and comes out dressed in normal clothes.”

“So he doesn’t usually do that?”

“Well, sometimes he do, sometimes he don’t.” The guard was sounding a little more confident, warming up to the job.

“But he doesn’t change into his street clothes every night in here?”

“Just some of the time. But he definitely did
that
night because I’ll tell you, anytime somebody sit down next to me in one set a clothes go in there, come out in another? It’s gonna make an impression on me.”

“So you caught that, huh?” Rocco smiled admiringly.

“Also, when he does change clothes? He never goes right in there to change. He always has a drink or two first.”

“Do you remember what he came out wearing Friday night?”

The guard hesitated, then looked a little depressed, his streak over. “Not really.”

“What did he carry his clothes in?” Mazilli asked, speaking up for the first time since joining Rocco.

“He always carrying this little bag,” the bartender said.

“What kind of bag?” Mazilli took a sip of Rocco’s near-empty beer.

“Like a little valise, like a gym bag.” The bartender held his hands apart about twelve inches.

“You think he was involved too?” the guard said. He signaled for another drink, gestured toward Rocco’s empty beer and the bare space in front of Mazilli’s crossed arms.

Rocco shrugged evasively and took over the questioning again. “Do you remember if he was with anybody Friday night?”

“He always by himself.” The bartender slid two fresh ones in front of Rocco and Mazilli, and they both nodded thanks to the security guard.

“Did he talk to anybody that night?” Rocco said.

The guard narrowed his eyes. “I think he was talking to that other young guy, the jumpy one.”

Rocco kept his voice neutral. “You hear anything of what they said?”

“Naw,” the guard said. “I’m not even sure if they were together. I think they were for a time.”

“So they didn’t come in together?”

“Naw, I don’t think so.”

“Did they leave together?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you remember who left first?”

The guard squinted into the distance, then shook his head. “Unh-uh.”

Rocco was disappointed, but it sounded honest at least. He wanted to buy the next round but he thought the guard was too excited, would drink too fast and get fucked up on him.

“Now wait a minute, wait a minute.” The bartender repeatedly snapped his fingers. “It was definitely the other guy, the one-time guy, that left first. You know how I know?”

“Hit me.”

“Because Friday night? There was this movie on the TV that I wanted to watch, and before I turn off the music in here, I like to ask everybody if it’s OK, and I remember I had to wait for him to come from the back.”

Mazilli and Rocco turned their heads toward the back: a skittles game, a phone booth and the bathroom.

“Wait for who? Which one?” Rocco asked.

“The guy that comes here regular, this one,” the bartender said, tapping Victor’s picture.

“What was he doing back there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he on the pay phone?”

“I didn’t notice. He might’ve just gone to the bathroom. But I do remember asking him if it was OK if I turned up the TV and turn down the music and like, the other guy must have been gone by then because I would’ve asked him too, because, you know, my philosophy is this bar belong to the customers, as long as everybody acts right.”

“What was the movie?”

”
Thunderbolt and Lightfoot.
”

“With Clint Eastwood?”

“Yeah, uh-huh, and Jeff Bridges. I must’ve seen that like five times.”

“That’s the one where the bank money’s stashed in the blackboard?”

“Yeah, uh-huh, the blackboard.”

“So what time did the movie go on?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“So the other guy, the one-time guy, was gone by nine o’clock?”

“I guess so.”

“And how about the regular guy, this guy, did he stay for the whole movie?” Rocco asked, thinking that would take him to eleven, roughly forty-five minutes past the murder.

“I couldn’t say. I tell you though, nobody was watching the movie after that
thing
happened. I can tell you that much.”

“Well, let’s put it this way—do you remember if the regular guy was still here when the shooting happened?”

“I tell you, I really couldn’t say. He might’ve or might’ve not.”

“OK, let me put it another way. Would you remember what was going on in the movie when the guy tabbed out for the night?”

The bartender shrugged.

“OK. This guy.” Rocco held up Victor’s picture, opening his questions to the bar. “Do you remember anything else about him Friday night? Did he seem different in any way? Did he say anything unusual?
Do
anything unusual?”

The security guard nodded. “Yeah. He had two more drinks than normal.”

“Really, you remembered that? How the hell did you remember that?” Rocco tried to sound awed.

“I always watch him to see if he’s gonna change his clothes, go in the bathroom after one drink, two drinks…”

“Yeah, and…”

“He had two drinks.”

“So?”

“But when he came out? He had three more. Most times, he just has one more, for the road.” Mazilli grunted but made no comment.

“So he
never
has that much?” Rocco looked back at the bartender.

“Sometimes he do, most times not, though. He’s right on that.” The bartender slid a bottle in front of Rocco, ice chips clinging to the side. Rocco didn’t even remember drinking the last one.