Free What It Was by George P. Pelecanos

in her gaze. Also, concern for her man.
    “You gettin bold,” she said.
    “My name’s ringing out in this town,” said Jones. “People talkin about me in barbershops, on the stoops. Young motherfuckers steppin aside when I walk into the club. They all wanna be like me.”
    “More you get known, bigger chance you gonna get taken down.”
    “Then I’ll go down,” said Jones.
    “What about us?”
    “You’re my bottom, girl.”
    He leaned forward and kissed her full mouth. He put his hand behind her neck to keep her in. Her tongue snaked around his. Sometimes her mouth was as good as her box, to him. Sometimes.
    “How you fixin to cool things down?” said Coco.
    “I made a mistake with Roland Williams. He’s in D.C. General right now, but when he comes out? I’m gonna take care of it. My man from back home will see to some other problems we got, too.” Jones double-dragged on his cigarette, let the smoke out slow. “What’s your girl’s name, got the mark on her face?”
    “That’s a mole, Red. You talkin about Shay.”
    “She been hangin with that dude come out of Lorton premature. Right?”
    “Dallas Butler. You had a drink with him yourself, right here in this room.”
    “
Dallas,
yeah. Boy’s custard. What was he in for?”
    “He was doing sixteen on an armed robbery when he busted out.”
    “We gonna make him a murderer, too. But I’m gonna need your help.”
    Coco stubbed her Viceroy out in the ashtray after a hungry last drag. “What you want me to do?”
    “Ask Shay to hook up a meet. Tell her I want to talk to her boy, but I want it to be a surprise. Not so she’d have cause to be suspicious. You know how to do it. Me and Fonzo will take care of the rest.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Pick up the phone,” said Jones.
    He gave her instructions. She dialed the Third District station house and asked for Detective Vaughn. The voice on the other end of the line told her Vaughn was not in.
    “Let me leave a message, then.”
    “What’s your name and location?”
    “Never mind that,” said Coco. “This about the Robert Odum murder, over there at Thirteenth and R. I know who downed the dude. The killer’s name is Dallas Butler. Dallas like the football team, Butler how it sounds.”
    She hung up the phone.
    Jones smiled and got up out of his seat. “You did good.”
    “Where you goin?”
    “Out.”
    “Don’t forget about the show. It’s comin up.”
    “What show’s that?”
    “Donny and Roberta at the Carter Barron. You copped the tickets, fool!”
    “Oh, yeah.” He wasn’t excited about it. Music for females and pretty boys. It was weak.
    “Come here.”
    He bent into her kiss. Standing to his full height, he patted the side of his unkempt natural and let her admire him.
    “I’ll be around, Coco.”
    “I know you will.”

 
    F RANK VAUGHN and Derek Strange sat at a lunch counter on Vermont Avenue owned and operated by a Greek named Nick. The diner seated twenty-seven: fifteen stools covered in blue vinyl and three blue vinyl booths that each fit four. Old photographs of the village were hung on the blue-and-white tiled walls, as well as formal-suit portraits of the owner’s immigrant parents. Near the front door stood a D.C. Vending cigarette machine with copies of the
Daily News
tabloid set upon it. Beside the machine was a pay phone.
    Nick Michael was born Nick Michaelopoulos in Sparta, came to America as a toddler, and was a veteran of the infamous Battle of Peleliu in the Pacific theater. Like many marines who had fought, Nick had settled into a peaceful life of hard work during the day and quiet relaxation at night. He had shot and bayoneted many Japanese soldiers, and seen the deaths of many friends, but except for the USMC tattoo on his inner forearm, there was nothing about his manner or appearance to suggest his violent war experience. He hadcome out of the Corps at a lean 145, was now fifty-one years old, went 180, and had a respectable paunch that was