today.”
“I
was,
” said Strange, frowning as if accused. “Workin
all
the time. Even when I sleep, I work.”
“Go on, Derek.” Carmen smiled. “What are we gonna see tonight?”
“
Culpepper Cattle Company
?”
“Please.”
“I’m playing with you.” But he really did want to see it.
“What about
Georgia, Georgia
? It’s playing at the Langston.”
“All the way in Northeast?”
“Benning Road’s not far.”
“What’s it about?”
“Diana Sands plays this singer, falls in love with an army deserter in Sweden.”
“Might as well give me a sleeping pill instead.”
“So? You tryin to take me to a cow movie.”
“Cow
boy
.”
“Same thing, to me.”
“How about this? I got some of that wine you like in the fridge. Let’s have a glass or two, then go out and catch a little dinner.”
She walked toward him. “I guess we could.”
Strange put
Al Green Gets Next to You
on his stereo and poured some Blue Nun as “Are You Lonely for Me Baby” set the mood. It was Al’s deep-soul record, full of grit and fire. They drank the too-sweet white by the open French doors on the south wall, Carmen sitting close to him, his arm around her shoulders as they talked about their day, looking down on the city lights below. His place was on the edge of the Piedmont Plateau, a low-rent district, but no rich man had a better view of D.C.
“You hungry?” said Strange.
“Not really.”
“Come here, girl.”
STRANGE WOKE naked in his bed. Carmen, nude atop the sheets, was sleeping beside him. Though they had made love twice that evening, the sight of her body made his mouth go dry. She’d been working toward medical school, but financial issues had steered her to nursing. Now an RN at the Columbia Hospital for Women, she had the beginnings of a solid, meaningful career. He was proud of Carmen and, despite his failings, wanted to do her right. He covered her, put on his drawers, and left the bedroom.
He went to the living room, where soul records were scattered around his stereo, his expensive Marantz tube amplifier the center of the space. On the wall was an original one-sheet poster of the Man With No Name, tall in hisponcho, a prize possession that Strange had gotten from a friend who’d worked at the Town theater on 13th and New York Avenue. Also, a Jim Brown lobby still from
The Dirty Dozen,
copped from the same dude. Wasn’t any mistaking it: a man lived here.
Strange picked up the phone, dialed the number for the Third District station, and got the desk man on the line. He gave the sergeant his home and office numbers, and left a message for Frank Vaughn.
C AN I get that cup , Detective?”
Vaughn lifted a plastic cup off a tray and put it in Roland Williams’s outstretched hand. Williams sipped water from a straw that was hinged at a ninety-degree angle. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and kept the cup in hand.
“You had some luck,” said Vaughn.
“Do I look lucky to you?”
Williams, weak and thin, was in a hospital bed in D.C. General, hooked up to an IV, his shoulder and arm in a blue sling, bandages and dressing beneath it. The slug had entered his upper chest and exited cleanly through his back, so the close-range shot had been a kind of blessing.
Williams’s luck was not of the lottery-winning variety, or that of an ugly man going home with the prettiest girl in the bar, but it was something to be thankful for.
“Tell us what happened,” said Rick Cochnar, the young man who was standing beside Vaughn. He did not look like many of the assistant prosecutors in his office. He was stateschool educated, with longish hair and the build of a fullback. He was short, with big hands. He was wearing a charcoal-colored suit with thin chalk stripes.
Williams turned his head and looked at his attorney, Tim Doyle, a Jesuit school graduate and baseball-playing standout in his day, now in love with drink. He was seated in the guest chair of the room.
“You have
“I
was,
” said Strange, frowning as if accused. “Workin
all
the time. Even when I sleep, I work.”
“Go on, Derek.” Carmen smiled. “What are we gonna see tonight?”
“
Culpepper Cattle Company
?”
“Please.”
“I’m playing with you.” But he really did want to see it.
“What about
Georgia, Georgia
? It’s playing at the Langston.”
“All the way in Northeast?”
“Benning Road’s not far.”
“What’s it about?”
“Diana Sands plays this singer, falls in love with an army deserter in Sweden.”
“Might as well give me a sleeping pill instead.”
“So? You tryin to take me to a cow movie.”
“Cow
boy
.”
“Same thing, to me.”
“How about this? I got some of that wine you like in the fridge. Let’s have a glass or two, then go out and catch a little dinner.”
She walked toward him. “I guess we could.”
Strange put
Al Green Gets Next to You
on his stereo and poured some Blue Nun as “Are You Lonely for Me Baby” set the mood. It was Al’s deep-soul record, full of grit and fire. They drank the too-sweet white by the open French doors on the south wall, Carmen sitting close to him, his arm around her shoulders as they talked about their day, looking down on the city lights below. His place was on the edge of the Piedmont Plateau, a low-rent district, but no rich man had a better view of D.C.
“You hungry?” said Strange.
“Not really.”
“Come here, girl.”
STRANGE WOKE naked in his bed. Carmen, nude atop the sheets, was sleeping beside him. Though they had made love twice that evening, the sight of her body made his mouth go dry. She’d been working toward medical school, but financial issues had steered her to nursing. Now an RN at the Columbia Hospital for Women, she had the beginnings of a solid, meaningful career. He was proud of Carmen and, despite his failings, wanted to do her right. He covered her, put on his drawers, and left the bedroom.
He went to the living room, where soul records were scattered around his stereo, his expensive Marantz tube amplifier the center of the space. On the wall was an original one-sheet poster of the Man With No Name, tall in hisponcho, a prize possession that Strange had gotten from a friend who’d worked at the Town theater on 13th and New York Avenue. Also, a Jim Brown lobby still from
The Dirty Dozen,
copped from the same dude. Wasn’t any mistaking it: a man lived here.
Strange picked up the phone, dialed the number for the Third District station, and got the desk man on the line. He gave the sergeant his home and office numbers, and left a message for Frank Vaughn.
C AN I get that cup , Detective?”
Vaughn lifted a plastic cup off a tray and put it in Roland Williams’s outstretched hand. Williams sipped water from a straw that was hinged at a ninety-degree angle. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and kept the cup in hand.
“You had some luck,” said Vaughn.
“Do I look lucky to you?”
Williams, weak and thin, was in a hospital bed in D.C. General, hooked up to an IV, his shoulder and arm in a blue sling, bandages and dressing beneath it. The slug had entered his upper chest and exited cleanly through his back, so the close-range shot had been a kind of blessing.
Williams’s luck was not of the lottery-winning variety, or that of an ugly man going home with the prettiest girl in the bar, but it was something to be thankful for.
“Tell us what happened,” said Rick Cochnar, the young man who was standing beside Vaughn. He did not look like many of the assistant prosecutors in his office. He was stateschool educated, with longish hair and the build of a fullback. He was short, with big hands. He was wearing a charcoal-colored suit with thin chalk stripes.
Williams turned his head and looked at his attorney, Tim Doyle, a Jesuit school graduate and baseball-playing standout in his day, now in love with drink. He was seated in the guest chair of the room.
“You have
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