Free Right as Rain by George P. Pelecanos Page A

out the shadow that got thrown across his name, what with everything got written and broadcast about the case.”
    “I didn’t have anything to do with that. I never talked to the press.”
    “I know it.”
    “Even his own mother should be able to see that.”
    Quinn spoke quietly, in a slow, gravelly way, stretching his vowels all the way out. Out—of—towners would guess that Quinn was from somewhere south of Virginia; Washingtonians like Strange knew the accent to be all D.C.
    “Have you spoken with his mother?” asked Strange.
    “I tried.”
    “She’s single—minded. Probably didn’t make it too easy on you.”
    “No. But I can understand it.”
    “Course you can.”
    “Because I’m the guy who killed her son.”
    “That’s a fact. And she’s having a little trouble getting beyond that.”
    “The finer points don’t matter to her. All those theories you read about, whether or not I was doing my job, or if I made a bad split—second decision, or if it was the lack of training, or the Glock … none of that matters to her, and I can understand it. She looks at me, the only thing she sees is the guy who killed her son.”
    “Maybe we can just clear things up a little,” said Strange. “Okay?”
    “There’s nothing I’d like more.”
    Quinn put the paperback he had been reading down on the glass top of the display case. Strange glanced at its cover. Beneath it, in the locked case, lying on a piece of red velvet, he saw several old paperbacks: a Harlan Ellison with juvenile—delinquent cover art, a Chester Himes, an
Ironside
novelization by Jim Thompson, and something called
The Burglar
by a cat named David Goodis.
    Strange said, “The owner of the shop, he into crime books?”
    “She’s
into selling first editions. Paperback originals. It’s not my thing. The collecting part, and also those types of books. Me, I like to read westerns.”
    “I can see that.” Strange nodded to Quinn’s book. “That one any good?”
    “Valdez Is Coming.
I’d say it’s just about the best.”
    “I saw the movie, if I recall. It was a little disappointing. But it had Burt Lancaster in it, so I watched it through. That was a man, right there. Not known especially for his westerns, but he was in some good ones.
Vera Cruz, The Professionals
—”
    “Ulzana’s Raid.”
    “Damn, you remember that one? Burt was a scout, riding with some wet—behind—the—ears cavalry officer, played by that boy was in that rat movie … yeah,
Ulzana’s Raid,
that was a good one.”
    “You like westerns, huh?”
    “I don’t read the books, if that’s what you mean. But I like the movies, yeah. And the music. The music they put in those is real nice.” Strange shifted his weight. For a moment, he’d forgotten why he’d come. “Anyway.”
    “Yeah, anyway. Where do you want to talk?”
    Strange looked over Quinn’s shoulder. There were three narrow aisles of wooden, ceiling—high shelves that stretched to the back of the shop. In the far right aisle, a thin man in a textured white shirt stood on a step stool and placed books high on a shelf.
    “He work here?”
    “That’s Lewis,” said Quinn.
    “Lewis. I was thinking, you had the time, maybe
Lewis
could cover the shop and we could take a drive to the spot where it went down. It would help me to see it with you there.”
    Quinn thought it over. He turned around and said, “Hey, Lewis!”
    Lewis stepped down off the stool and walked to the front of the store, pushing his black—framed glasses up on his nose. His eyes were hugely magnified behind the thick lenses of the glasses, and his hair was black, greasy, and knotted in several spots. There were yellow stains under the arms of his white shirt. Strange could smell the man’s body odor as he arrived.
    “Lewis,” said Quinn. “Say hello to
Detective
Strange.”
    Strange ignored Quinn’s sarcastic tone and said, “How you doin’, Lewis?”
    “Detective.” Lewis did not look at Strange. At least