“Where this man stay at?” said Brock.
Fishhead Lewis passed a slip of paper over the bench. Brock took it, read it, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his rayon shirt.
“How you get the address?” said Gaskins.
“Our man ran his name through the database, somethin. Parked on the street, watched him go in and out his house. He stayin in a detached in a residential area. Real quiet around there, too.”
“Not too smart, let yourself get seen so easy.”
“What I’m sayin. Man that sloppy can get took.”
“Where he get the money?” said Gaskins, thinking it through.
“By turning his inventory,” said Fishhead, now improvising but trying to sound as if he knew. “This here can’t be the first buy the man done made.”
“I’m askin, how we know this Tommy Broad-ass fella ain’t bein bankrolled by someone with power?”
“’Cause my man at the cut house said he was braggin on the fact that he all alone.”
Gaskins looked at Brock. He could see from his eager look that Brock had already decided to go. He was looking at the money, feeling it between his fingers, spending it on women and clothing, a suit in red. What he wasn’t doing was thinking it through.
“What’s he look like?” said Gaskins.
“Say what?”
“Wouldn’t want to take the wrong man.”
“My friend say he fat. Too old for the game, but I guess he startin late. Came to the cut house with a woman, had it all in the right places. Had a mouth on her, too. They was arguing over shit the whole time they was in there.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not that my man said.”
“You gonna earn somethin serious, this plays out,” said Brock. “Buy yourself a mermaid or sumshit.”
Fishhead forced a smile. His teeth were rotted, and there were scabs on his face.
“I been wonderin,” said Brock. “Do it smell like fish to a fish?”
“All day,” said Fishhead, who hadn’t had a clean woman in years.
“Get the fuck out. We’ll take it from here.”
Fishhead got out of the car, hiking his pants up as he moved along. Brock and Gaskins watched him walk down the alley, a pit bull barking at him furiously from behind chain-link as he passed.
Brock turned to Gaskins. “What you think?”
“I think we don’t know shit.”
“We know enough to park ourselves outside this man’s house and see what we can see.”
“I ain’t stayin out late. I gotta be at the shape-up spot at dawn.”
Brock punched a number into his cell.
R
AMONE, RHONDA WILLIS,
Garloo Wilkins, and George Loomis methodically canvassed the residents living on the short block of McDonald Place, interviewing those who were home during a workday and leaving contact cards for those who were not. Ramone recorded the pertinent details of his conversations in a small Mead spiral notebook, the same type he had been using for many years.
Nothing significant came from the interviews. One elderly woman did say that she had been awakened by what she thought was the snap of a branch during the night but did not know the time, as she had not bothered to look at her clock radio before falling back to sleep. No one they spoke to had seen anything suspicious. Except for the woman, all, apparently, had slept soundly.
The Baptist church on the end of the block, where South Dakota came in, was unoccupied at night.
Wilkins and Loomis had spoken with the night crew at the animal shelter by phone. They would talk to these workers face-to-face later in the day. But the preliminary conversations indicated that no one at the shelter had heard or seen a thing relative to Asa Johnson’s death.
“That ain’t no surprise,” said Wilkins. “All those fuckin Rovers in there, barking their asses off.”
“You can’t think in that motherfucker,” said George Loomis, “much less hear.”
“Still some folks we haven’t talked to on McDonald Place,” said Rhonda. “They’ll be comin home from work later on.”
“I suppose the city, or the community organization, or whoever runs this garden’s got a list of the people who work all these plots,” said Ramone.
“I doubt they do gardening in the middle of the night, Gus,” said Wilkins.
“Doubtin ain’t knowin,” said Rhonda, repeating of one of her most used homilies.
“No stone unturned,” said Ramone, adding one of his.
“I’ll get that list,” said Wilkins.
Rhonda looked at her watch. “You gotta get downtown for that arraignment, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Ramone. “And I need to call my son.”
Ramone walked down a path cutting through the center of the garden. He passed plots decorated with lawn ornaments and homemade crosslike signs with sayings like “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” “Let It Grow,” and “The Secret Life of Plants” painted on the horizontal planks. He passed things that twirled in the breeze and miniature flags like the kind displayed in used-car lots, and then he was out of the garden and near his car.
Ramone got in the Impala and stared through its windshield. That had been Dan Holiday in the monkey suit, standing by his Town Car. Wasn’t any question about it. Ramone had heard over the MPD telegraph that Holiday had started some kind of drive-for-hire business after he’d resigned. His appearance had changed very little since the both of them had been in uniform. A comical little belly on him, but other than that, he looked pretty much the same. Question was, why was he here? Holiday did love being police. He was probably one of those sad ex-cops who listened to the scanners long after they’d turned in their badge and gun. Maybe Holiday was having trouble getting the blue out of his system. Well, he should’ve considered that before he fucked up.
Holiday’s image faded. Ramone thought of Asa Johnson and the extreme fear he had probably experienced in his last moments. He thought of what Asa’s parents, Terrance and Helena, were facing. He saw Asa’s name and he turned it around and saw it the same way. He sat there for a while, thinking of that. Then Ramone thought of his son.
He cranked the ignition and headed downtown.
HOLIDAY STARED AT HIS
drink. He took a sip of it and, before putting the rocks glass back on the bar, another. He shouldn’t have gone to that crime scene. He was curious, was all it was.
“Tell us a story, Doc,” said Jerry Fink.
“I’m fresh out,” said Holiday. He could not even remember the name of the woman he had done the night before.
Bob Bonano came back from the jukebox. He had just dropped quarters into it, and now he was strutting as mournful harmonica and the first solemn bars of “In the Ghetto” came into the room at Leo’s.
“Elvis,” said Jerry Fink. “Trying to be socially relevant. Who blew smoke up his ass and told him he was Dylan?”
“Yeah,” said Bonano, “but who’s doing this version?”
A woman began to sing the first verse. Fink and Bradley West, seated beside Holiday, closed their eyes.
“It’s that ‘Band of Gold’ broad,” said Jerry Fink.
“Nope,” said Bonano.
Holiday wasn’t hearing the song. He was thinking of Gus Ramone, standing over the body of the boy. Some cosmic fucking joke that Ramone had caught the case.
“She did that Vietnam song, too,” said West. “ ‘Bring the Boys Home,’ right?”
“That was Freda Payne, and I don’t care what she did,” said Bonano. He blew into a deck of Marlboro Lights and watched as the filtered end of one popped out. “She didn’t do this.”
Holiday wondered if Ramone had noticed that the boy’s first name, Asa, was the same spelled backward as it was forward. How the name was one of those palindromes.
“Then who is it, smart guy?” said Fink.
“Candi Staton,” said Bonano, lighting his smoke.
“You only know ’cause you read the name off the juke,” said Fink.
“Now for a dollar,” said Bonano, ignoring Fink, “what was Candi Staton’s big hit?”
Holiday wondered if Ramone had connected the boy with the other teenage victims with palindrome names. How all of them were found shot in the head, in community gardens around town.
Ramone was a good enough cop, though he was stymied, Holiday believed, by his insistence on following procedure. He wasn’t anywhere near the cop that he, Holiday, had been. He lacked that rapport with citizens at which Holiday had excelled. And those years Ramone had spent in IAD, working mostly behind a desk, hadn’t done him any favors as police.
“No clue,” said Fink.
“ ‘Young Hearts Run Free,’” said Bonano with a self-satisfied grin.
“You mean ‘Young Dicks
Swing
Free,’” said Fink.
“Huh?”
“It’s one of them disco songs,” said Fink. “Figures you’d like it.”
“I didn’t say I liked it. And you owe me a dollar, ya fuckin Jew.”
“I don’t have a dollar.”
Bonano reached over and pushed down on the back of Fink’s head. “How ’bout a dollar’s worth of this, then?”
Holiday killed his drink and put cash on the bar.
“What’s your hurry, Doc?” said West.
Holiday said, “I got a job.”
RAMONE ATTENDED THE TYREE
arraignment, returned to the crime scene, took part in some more interviews with potential witnesses, ran Rhonda Willis back to the VCU lot, called Diego on his cell, then went back uptown in his own car, a gray Chevy Tahoe. He drove into his neighborhood but did not go home. He was off the clock, but his workday was not done.
The Johnson house was a modest brick colonial, well maintained, on Somerset, west of Coolidge High School. Cars filled the spaces on both sides of the street. Visitors had been cautiously dropping in, bringing food and condolences to the family, leaving just as quickly as they had arrived. A formal wake and church service would come later, but relatives and close friends felt a more immediate response was necessary. No one could really know what was proper in situations such as this. A casserole or a dish of lasagna in hand was an impotent but safe bet.
Ramone was let into the house by a woman he did not recognize after he identified himself as a family friend first and a police officer second. There were folks sitting in the living room, some with their hands in their laps, some talking quietly, some not talking at all. Asa’s little sister, Deanna, was sitting on the hall stairway with a couple of young girls, cousins, Ramone guessed. Deanna was not crying, but her eyes showed confusion.
“Ginny,” said the woman, shaking Ramone’s hand. “Virginia. I’m Helena’s sister. Asa’s aunt.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m awful sorry.” He saw Helena in her sister, the same strong, mannish figure, the perpetually worried look, as if she carried the weight of knowing that something awful was bound to happen, that to enjoy the moment would be a waste of time. “Is Helena back from the hospital?”
“She’s upstairs in bed, sedated. Helena wanted to be with her daughter.”
“What about Terrance?”
“He’s in the kitchen. My husband’s with him.” Ginny put her hand on Ramone’s forearm. “Have you people found anything yet?”
Ramone barely shook his head. “Excuse me.”
He went through a short hall to a small kitchen located at the rear of the house. Terrance Johnson and another man, light as Smokey Robinson, were seated at a round two-person table, drinking from cans of beer. Johnson got up to greet Ramone. Their hands clasped and they went shoulder to shoulder, Ramone patting Terrance Johnson’s back.
“My sympathies,” said Ramone. “Asa was a fine young man.”
“Yes,” said Johnson. “Meet Clement Harris, my brother-in-law. Clement, this is Gus Ramone.”
Clement reached out and shook Ramone’s hand without getting up from his chair.
“Gus’s boy and Asa were friends,” said Johnson. “Gus is a police officer. Works homicide.”
Clement Harris mumbled something.
“Get you a beer?” said Johnson, his eyes slightly crossed and unfocused.
“Thanks.”
“I’m gonna have one more myself,” said Johnson. He tilted his head back and killed what was left in the can. “I ain’t tryin to get messed up, understand.”
“It’s okay,” said Ramone. “Let’s have a beer together, Terrance.”
Johnson tossed the empty into a garbage pail and grabbed two cans of light beer, a brand Ramone would never normally buy or drink, from the refrigerator. As the door swung closed, Ramone saw magnetized photos of the Johnson children: Deanna playing in the snow, Deanna in a gymnastics outfit, an unsmiling Asa in uniform and pads, holding a football after one of his games.
“Let’s go outside,” said Johnson to Ramone, and when Ramone nodded, they left Clement at the kitchen table without further conversation.
A door from the kitchen led to the narrow backyard, which stopped at an alley. Johnson was not interested in gardening or landscaping, apparently, and neither was his wife. The yard was weedy, cluttered with garbage cans and milk crates, and surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence.
Ramone cracked his can open and drank. The beer had little more taste than water and probably as much kick. He and Johnson stopped halfway down a cracked walkway that led to the alley.
Johnson was a bit shorter than Ramone, with a beefy build and a square head accentuated by an outdated fade, shaved back and sides with a pomaded top. Johnson’s teeth were small and pointy, miniature fangs. His arms hung like the sides of a triangle off his trunk.
“Tell me what you know,” said Johnson, his face close to Ramone’s. The smell of alcohol was pungent on his breath, and it came to Ramone that Johnson had been drinking something other than this pisswater to get him to where he was now.
“Nothing yet,” said Ramone.
“Have ya’ll found the gun?”
“Not yet.”
“When are you going to start knowing things?”
“It’s a process. It’s
methodical,
Terrance.”
Ramone was hoping his choice of words would help placate Johnson, an analyst of some kind for the Census Bureau. Ramone generally did not know what people did, exactly, when they said that they worked for the federal government, but he knew Johnson dealt with numbers and statistics.
“You, what, tryin to find a witness?”
“We’re interviewing potential witnesses. We have been all day, and we’ll continue to conduct interviews. We’ll talk to his friends and acquaintances, his teachers, everyone he knew. Meantime, we’ll wait on the results of the autopsy.”
Johnson wiped his hand across his mouth. His voice was hoarse as he spoke. “They gonna cut up my boy? Why they got to do that, Gus?”
“It’s hard to talk about this, Terrance. I know it’s hard for you to hear it. But an autopsy will give us a lot of tools. It’s also required by law.”
“I can’t…”
Ramone put his hand on Johnson’s shoulder. “With that, the witness interviews, the lab work, the tip line, what have you, we’ll start to build a case. We’re going to attack this thing on all fronts, Terrance, I promise you.”
“What can I do?” said Johnson. “What can I do
right now?
”
“Next thing you have to do is come to the morgue at D.C. General tomorrow between eight and four. We need you to make the formal identification.”
Johnson nodded absently. Ramone placed his beer can on the walk and pulled his wallet. He withdrew two cards and handed them to Johnson.
“We offer grief counseling if you want it,” said Ramone. “Your wife’s eligible, of course, and your daughter, too. The Family Liaison Unit—their number’s on that card right there—is always available to you. The people on staff work with us in the VCB offices. Sometimes it’s difficult for the detectives to stay in touch with you, and the FLU folks can give you progress reports and answers, if any are available. The other card is mine. My work number and cell are on it.”