Strange circled the block in his car, then widened his search to the adjacent streets. He spotted Robert Gray standing around with a group of boys, most of them older, on the corner of another apartment complex. The boys, some wearing wife-beaters with the band of their boxer shorts showing high above the belt line of their jeans, studied Strange as he got out of his curbed Chevy. Gray said something to one of the boys, got on his bike, and rode it over to Strange, now leaning against the front quarter panel of his car out in the street.
“How you doin’, Robert?”
Gray’s eyes went past Strange to somewhere down the street. “I’m all right.”
“Look at me when I talk to you, son.”
Gray fixed his gaze on Strange. He had intelligent eyes, and he was polite enough. But Strange could not recall ever seeing him smile.
“How’s school going?”
Gray shrugged. “We nearly out. Ain’t all that much left to do.”
“Your aunt and them treating you okay?”
“I get along with ’em.”
“The boyfriend, too? He’s not eatin’ up your share of the food, is he?”
“Him and my aunt don’t eat all that much, you want the truth.” Gray cocked an eyebrow. He was a handsome boy, one of those who already had the features of a man. “You see Granville?”
“Saw him today. He was asking after you.”
“They gonna kill him?”
“I don’t know. Whatever happens, it doesn’t look like he’s ever gonna come out of jail. It’s important you know this. All that bling-bling you and your friends always talking about and lookin’ up to, the whips and the platinum and the Cristal, you get in the life, it always goes away. Forever, you understand?”
Gray half nodded and quickly looked off to the group of boys standing on the corner. Strange felt impotent then. To Gray he wasn’t much more than a fool, and an old man in the bargain. This much he knew.
“Look here,” said Strange. “You still up for my football camp?”
“Yeah, I’ll play.”
“I hear you can play.”
“You know I can.”
“We’re gonna start the camp in August. Now, all the boys who play for me, they need to show me their last report card from the school year. So I want you to finish up strong.”
“I’ll do all right. But how I’m gonna get over there to where y’all practice?”
“I’ll work that out,” said Strange, realizing that he hadn’t figured it out yet. But he would. “All right then, why don’t you get on home before it gets dark.”
“I will, in a little while.”
“Take care of yourself, young man.”
Gray wheeled off on his bike and joined his friends. Strange got back in his car.
Strange phoned Quinn from his cell as he drove across Anacostia. Quinn told him that he was outside the address given on Olivia Elliot, and he was getting ready to confirm. He asked Strange for the son’s name. Strange gave it to him and told Quinn that if he needed him he could reach him at Janine’s house, which he had not yet gotten used to calling home.
Strange was looking forward to holding his woman and talking to his stepson, sitting at the dinner table, just being with the ones he loved. Seeing the things he saw out here every day, he figured he deserved a couple of hours of that kind of peace.
He turned the radio on and moved the dial to PGC. The Super Funk Regulator was on the air, talking to a woman who had called in from her car.
“Where you at right now?” asked the DJ.
“I’m on Benning Road, headed home from work.”
“Who you goin’ to see?”
“My son Darius,” said the woman giggling, obviously hyped to be on the radio and live. “He’s ten years old.”
“You have a good one,” said the DJ. “Thanks for rollin’ with a brother.”
“Thanks for lettin’ a sister roll.”
Strange smiled. He did love D.C.
chapter 10
IT was Terry Quinn’s habit to keep a paperback western on the car seat beside him when he was on a job, since there were often long stretches during surveillance when he found himself with little to do. Today he had brought along They Came to Cordura, an out-of-print novel by Glendon Swarthout, from the used-book store where he worked in downtown Silver Spring. Sitting in his vintage hopped-up Chevelle, looking at the group of boys playing outside the building where Olivia Elliot had apparently settled, he didn’t think he’d have that extra reading time to kill.
He was on a street numbered in the high fifties, in the neighborhood of Lincoln Heights, a residential mix of single-family homes and apartments at the forty-five-degree angle of border close to the Maryland line. This portion of the city, on the east side of the Anacostia River, was called Far Northeast, just as Anacostia was known as Far Southeast by many who lived in that part of town.