“Like last night,” said Strange.
“I heard. Four dead—over nothing, most likely. A hard look, or someone walked down the wrong street, whatever. Just another war story to tell around the campfire. Like boys coming home from battle, wearing the medals and the uniforms, getting the eyes from the ladies. That little window of glory. Something to show that they were here. That’s all this is, you know? It doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with drugs.”
“In my time,” said Strange, “they would have met somewhere and gone with their hands to see who could take who.”
“Guns make the man now,” said Stefanos.
“Nothing wrong with guns,” said Quinn. “It’s the ones using them make the difference.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” said Stefanos. “I’m a man. I like the way a gun feels in my hand and I like the way it feels when I squeeze the trigger. I’ve used guns when I had to. But we’re not talking about hunting or target practice, and this isn’t the open country. It’s an East Coast city with plenty of poverty. Guns don’t belong here.”
“That’s why they’re illegal in D.C., I guess.”
“You’d never know it, with all the pieces on the street. All these fat-shit congressmen, blaming culture and rap music for the murder rate while they got their hands out to the gun manufacturers and their lobbyists. Don’t you think that’s wrong?”
“I guess we’ve got a difference of opinion.”
Strange cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to Dewayne Durham. Dewayne’s got an older brother. Little guy, looks like a beaver, goes by Mario?”
“I don’t know him,” said Stefanos.
“We’re kinda lookin’ for him on something else,” said Strange. “No one’s gonna help us out, on account of who his brother is, and I figure by now Dewayne has put him underground.”
“The cops’ll get him.”
“We want to get to him first. It’s crazy, I know. But it’ll make us feel better if we do.”
“Go out and find some rumors, then,” said Stefanos. “You guys ever used to congregate at a liquor store or a beer market when you were younger, to find out where the action was for the night?”
“Country Boy in Layhill,” said Quinn.
“For me it was Morris Miller’s,” said Stefanos. “In Anacostia it’s Mart Liquors, at Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. Or any bank of pay phones. The gas stations are good for that. Bring plenty of cash, and don’t forget the diplomacy. And humility, too.”
“Fuck humility,” said Quinn.
“Suit yourself. Me, I want to be around at the end of the race.” Stefanos looked from one man to the other. “You guys are busy.”
“The gun in that shooting last night,” said Strange, “it matches a gun used by Mario Durham in another killing.”
“Like I say, I don’t know him.” Stefanos shrugged. “My advice would be to follow the gun.”
“I’ve been thinking the same way.”
Stefanos picked up his pack of ’Boros, then put it back down. He looked at Quinn, back at Strange, and back at Quinn once more, squinting his eyes. “You’re the cop who shot that other cop a couple of years ago, aren’t you?”
“I got cleared,” said Quinn, his own eyes narrowing. “You’re pretty direct, aren’t you?”
“People say I am. To a fault sometimes.”
Quinn leaned back in his seat. “It’s better that way, I guess.”
“You look like you could use a smoke,” said Strange to Stefanos.
“I’ve got to get going anyway.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
Stefanos slid out of the booth and shook Quinn’s hand. “Nice meeting you, man.”
“You, too.”
Stefanos stopped and looked at the photograph mounted on the wall by the front door. In it, a tall black man stood by the grill beside a short Greek, both of them in aprons. Stefanos saw the resemblance of the Greek to his larger son behind the counter; in the tall man he saw Derek Strange.
“That’s him,” said Strange. “That’s my father right there.”
“Yasou, Derek,” said Billy Georgelakos from across the store.
“Yasou, Vasili,” said Strange, pointing to the booth where Quinn still sat. “Give the check to my son over there, hear?”
“You speak Greek?” said Stefanos.
“A few key phrases. I know what you folks call a black man—the nice word, I mean. I know how to call someone a jerkoff, and I know the word for, uh, pussy.”