Lenny Claypole and his wife, Theresa, rent a small, two-story older brick home in Suitland, Maryland. It has an unattached garage and a tiny square patch of a front yard that’s nothin’ but weeds and dirt. His Ford F-250 truck—already dusty from his weeks away—is parked in front. I pull behind it. I notice an older-model light blue Ford Fiesta parked in the driveway.
I met Lenny Claypole’s wife a couple of times a few months back, when I was working his case for Costello. She answers the door when I ring the bell. She looks about the same—simple, attractive, even without makeup. Her hair is dark. She wears it just below her ears in a bob cut. There’s some darkness under her eyes, as if she’s got too much stress or puts in long hours at work. Probably both. I can understand why Claypole doesn’t want to fuck it up. She’s a sweet, unpretentious woman. The two of them are an odd couple, though.
She greets me with a smile and says, “Come in, Mr. Marr.”
“Thank you, I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
The small home can’t be more than eight hundred square feet. I walk through a little foyer that leads into a living room area and a smaller connected dining room with a round table and four wooden chairs. She keeps it tidy. The living room is sparsely furnished—a love seat with two mismatched armchairs at each end, and a glass-top coffee table.
“Have a seat. I’ll get the paperwork.”
I sit on the armchair with faded floral patterns. She walks through the dining room and into the kitchen, returns shortly thereafter with a few papers and hands them to me.
Loan documents.
“So, you said I won’t be responsible for having to make any more loan payments?”
“Yes. It’s a service provided for families in need. It’ll all be taken care of, and once Lenny gets out, he’ll resume the payments with no added interest. Really, nothing for you to worry about.”
“That’s such a blessing.”
“Please keep this between you and Lenny. It’s not something that is offered to everyone, and I’d rather the word not get out. If you ever have any additional questions, you just call me. Don’t bother Ms. Costello.”
I grab a business card out of the inner sleeve pocket of my jacket and hand it to her. She looks at it briefly, then sets it on the glass-top table.
“This is all legal, right?”
“Of course it is. What would make you think otherwise, Mrs. Claypole?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just used to—”
“I’ll take care of everything, so you don’t have to worry. After today, it shouldn’t even be a discussion.”
“Okay.”
“I will need to park the truck in the garage, though.”
“That’s usually where he kept it parked, anyway, because he didn’t want the toolbox broken into. I always park in the driveway.”
“We’ll take care of that on the way out.”
I glance over the loan documents.
“Desta Used Cars.”
It’s from one of those questionable corner-lot used-car dealerships that probably has a small lot with about thirty cars, and a trailer for an office. Spots like this one are all over DC and Maryland, and are usually the only place a person like Lenny could go to get a vehicle with no credit and a few hundred dollars down. The interest is outrageous, but I don’t see anywhere in the document that there’s a penalty for paying off the loan early. He already owes a couple hundred more than the eight grand, though. I got some walking-around money on me, so that won’t be a problem.
After I manage to squeeze the truck into the tiny garage, Theresa Claypole gets in my car and directs me to the dealership. I was pretty much spot-on about the dealership. It takes up a corner lot, surrounded by a chain-link fence that’s over six feet in height. A small mobile office trailer is across from where the used cars are parked.
The sign bearing their name, Desta Used Cars, is a large canvas banner stretching across the chain-link fence to the left of the open gate. A smaller banner is on the right side of the gate and it reads: “We Buy Used Cars for Cash $$$.”
I back into a curb parking spot between two cars, near the entrance. I grab my briefcase and exit. We walk to the trailer and enter.
A thin, dark-skinned, and well-groomed man is sitting behind a small wooden desk cluttered with papers and an older-model desktop computer. He stands to greet us. The suit he’s wearing isn’t cut right for his small frame and looks like one of those suits you’d buy at a designer knockoff spot on M Street.
“How can I help you?” he says with a heavy accent—more than likely Ethiopian. “You need a car today?”
“Not today,” I advise him. “I’m here to pay off a car for an associate of mine.”