Free Right as Rain by George P. Pelecanos

hole. Didn’t his father think of that?
    But Ray was tired of pressin’ it. Once he had made the mistake of calling that girl common nigger trash, and his father had risen up, told him to call her by her name. Hell, he could barely
remember
her name. It was Sandy Williams, somethin’ like that.
    Ray Boone flipped open the top of his box and shook another smoke from the deck.
    Sondra
Wilson.
That’s what it was.

Chapter
7
    T ERRY Quinn was behind a display case, sitting beside the register reading a book, when he heard a car door slam. Quinn looked through the plate glass window of the store and out to the street. A middle—aged black guy was locking the door of his white Chevy. Then he was crossing Bonifant on foot and heading toward the shop.
    The car looked exactly like a police vehicle, and the gray—haired, gray—bearded black guy looked like a plainclothes cop. He wore a black turtleneck under a black leather, with loose—fitting blue jeans and black oilskin work boots. It wasn’t his clothes that yelled “cop,” but rather the way he walked: head up, shoulders squared, alert and aware of the activity on the street. The guy had called, said he was working in a private capacity for Chris Wilson’s mother, asked if Quinn would mind giving him an hour or so of his time. Quinn had appreciated the direct way he had asked the question, and he’d liked the seasoning in the man’s voice. Quinn said sure, come on by.
    The chime sounded over the door as the guy entered the shop. Just under six foot, one ninety, guessed Quinn. Maybe one ninety—five. All that black he was wearing, it could take off a quick five pounds to the eye. If this was the guy who had phoned, his name was Derek Strange.
    “Derek Strange.”
    Quinn got out of his chair and took the man’s outstretched hand.
    “Terry Quinn.”
    Strange was looking down slightly on the young white man with the longish brown hair. Five nine, five nine and a half, one hundred sixty—five pounds. Medium build, green eyes, a spray of pale freckles across the bridge of his thick nose.
    “Thanks for agreeing to see me.” Strange drew his wallet, flipped it open, and showed Quinn his license.
    “No problem.”
    Quinn didn’t glance at the license as a gesture of trust. Also, he wanted to let Strange know that he was calm and had nothing to hide. Strange replaced his wallet in the back right pocket of his jeans.
    “How’d you find me here?”
    “Your
place of residence is listed in the phone book. From there I talked to your landlord. The credit check on your apartment application has your place of employment.”
    “My landlord supposed to be giving that out?”
    “Twenty—dollar bill involved,
supposed to
got nothin’ to do with it.”
    “You know,” said Quinn, “you get your hands on the transcripts of my testimony, you’ll be saving yourself a whole lot of time. And maybe a few twenties, too.”
    “I’m gonna do that. And I’ve already read everything that’s been written about the case in the press. But it never hurts to go over it again.”
    “You said you were working for Chris Wilson’s mother.”
    “Right. Leona Wilson is retaining my services.”
    “You think you’re gonna find something the review board overlooked?”
    “This isn’t about finding you guilty of anything you’ve already been cleared on. I’m satisfied, reading over the material, that this was just one of those accidents, bound to happen. You got two men bearing firearms, mix it up with alcohol on one side, emotion and circumstance, preconceptions on the other —”
    “Preconceptions?” You mean racism, thought Quinn. Why don’t you just say what you mean?
    “Yeah, you know, preconceptions. You mix all those things together, you got a recipe for disaster. Gonna happen from time to time.”
    Quinn nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Strange.
    Strange cleared his throat. “So it’s more about exonerating Wilson than anything else. Wiping