LEO’S HAD A BIT of a crowd, and the music from the juke was turned up loud. Holiday got a couple of head nods as he crossed the floor toward an empty stool back near the kitchen doors. He was known here, so there wasn’t that stare thing that went with a white guy walking into an all-black neighborhood bar. It had gotten around the Leo’s regulars that he had been a cop who’d been forced out under a cloud. It wasn’t entirely true, since Holiday had resigned rather than face the official inquiry, but he let them think what they wanted. Dirty cop did hold a certain mystique. But he hadn’t been dirty. He had never been on the take, nor had he worked both sides of the game, like some of those cops who’d come onto the force during that sloppy hiring binge in the late ’80s. Hell, he had just been helping out a girl he knew. All right, she was a whore. But still.
“Vodka rocks,” said Holiday to Charles, the night tender. Leo was gone or in the back counting out the day.
“Any flavor, Doc?”
“Rail’s good.” This deep into it, the shelf juice was a waste.
Charles served Holiday his drink. The juke was playing a cover of “Jet Airliner,” done in a truly smoking soul-rock fashion. The two gentlemen to the right of Holiday were arguing about the song.
“I know this is Paul Pena,” said the first man. “He did it first. I’m askin you, who was the white boy who took it and made it into a big hit?”
“Johnny Winters or sumshit like him,” said the second man. “I don’t know.”
“It was one of them Almond Brothers,” said the first man.
“Say it was the Osmand Brothers?”
“Almond, and five says it’s true.”
“Steve Miller Band,” said Holiday.
“Say what?” said the first man, turning to Holiday.
“This song’s a killer, man.”
“Damn sure is. But can you tell my boy who made it a hit?”
“No clue,” said Holiday. Pride had made him blurt out the answer, but now that he had, he didn’t want to get further involved.
Holiday beat the last-call lights with one more drink. He fired it down and walked from the bar unsatisfied. Thinking about his old life and how he’d left it had blackened his thoughts.
HE DROVE EAST. HE lived in a garden apartment out by Prince George’s Plaza, off East-West Highway, and the way to get there from Leo’s was south to Missouri and then over to Riggs Road. But he got confused down near Kansas Avenue, trying to cut time on the back streets, and going along Blair he realized he needed to turn back. He made a left onto Oglethorpe Street, thinking he could take it through to Riggs.
He knew as soon as he got onto Oglethorpe that he’d fucked up. He remembered too late from his cop days that this stretch of Oglethorpe dead-ended at the Metro and B&O railroad tracks. He recognized the Washington Animal Rescue League on his left and the printing company below it down by the tracks. And on the right, one of those community gardens, which were fairly common around D.C. This one covered several acres of land.
His cell, mounted in a kind of holster set below the dash, went off. It was Jerome Belton, calling to tell him about his night. Holiday pulled over to the right shoulder of the road, on sand and gravel, and cut the engine. Belton told him a story about a wannabe player he had taken to the Tyson-McBride fight at the MCI Center a few months back, and something about the man’s phony gators, which had been flaking off in the backseat of the car.
It was a funny if too familiar story. Holiday had a laugh with Belton and ended the call. Then, on the quiet dead-end street, parked beside the community garden, Holiday leaned his head back and rested his eyes. He wasn’t drunk. He was tired.
A light swept across his face, waking him. He opened his eyes. He made out an MPD blue-and-white topped by an inactive light bar, approaching his car from the turnaround at the railroad tracks. The patrolman behind the wheel had a passenger, a perp or a suspect, in the backseat of the car. He wondered where his breath mints were as the Crown Victoria slowly came his way. Holiday did not look directly into the car, though one darting glance registered white police. In silhouette and shadow, Holiday saw the backseat passenger, thin of shoulder and neck. His instinct said adult female or teenager. In his side vision he saw a number on the lower portion of the car’s front quarter panel. The police officer passed without stopping, obviously seeing Holiday parked there but not bothering to check him out. The image of the numbers left Holiday’s mind, and he thought, “Let it grow,” and as this thought came to him he chuckled without apparent reason and drifted back to sleep.
When he woke sometime later, his head was still fogged. He looked out into the garden, which held the black shapes of hastily constructed arbors, staked plants, and low rows of vegetables. A person of indeterminate age, medium height, walked across the landscape. Number One Male, thought Holiday, studying the walk with squinted eyes. Holiday blinked slowly. His vision blurred, and he went back to sleep.
He woke again, confused, but this time only for a short period of time, as the passing hours had granted him sobriety. The sky had lightened a shade, and swallows dipped and sailed through the sky above the gardens and sang out, announcing the morning yet to come. He checked his watch: 4:43 a.m.
“Christ,” said Holiday.
His neck was stiff. He needed to get to bed. But first he had to relieve himself. He grabbed a small Maglite from the glove box and stepped out of the car.
Holiday walked onto a path, using the flashlight to guide him. He put the mini Mag in his mouth as he loosed his meat and let piss stream onto the ground. He looked around at his surroundings, turning his head as he urinated. The light landed on what looked to be a human figure lying unconscious or asleep on the edge of a vegetable garden holding staked tomato plants long since harvested. Holiday tucked himself in and zipped his fly. He went to the figure and turned the light directly on it.
Holiday chewed his lip and got down on his haunches. The light was close in now and made the subject clear. A young black man, perhaps in the middle of his teens, in a winter-weight coat, T-shirt, jeans, and Nike sneaks. A bullet wound, beginning to congeal, starred his left temple. The top of the young man’s head was pulped from the bullet’s exit, his blood and brain matter thick as chowder. His eyes were bugged from the jolt. Holiday let the light play over the ground. He lighted a wide area on the path and in the garden itself. He did not see any shell casings or a gun.
He focused the light again on the young man. A chain holding some sort of card hung around his neck. It lay flat on the T, face out, between the folds of the coat. It was some sort of identification badge. Holiday squinted and read the name on the badge.
He stood and turned, trying to put as little weight as possible on his feet as he walked back to his car. There was no one on Oglethorpe, and he quickly ignitioned the Town Car and swung it around, going up to Blair Road with his headlights off and then waiting until Blair was completely clear before firing the headlights and going right, toward the 7-Eleven on Kansas. There was a pay phone there, but the parking area was too public and lit, and he went on to the shuttered liquor store up the road, which also had a pay phone in an empty lot that sat in near darkness. There he dialed 911 with his back to the road and got a dispatcher on the line. He did not give his name or location when asked but instead talked right through the dispatcher’s repeated requests and reported a body in the community garden at Blair and Oglethorpe. The woman was still talking to him, demanding personal information, as he cradled the phone. Holiday quickly returned to his car, sped out of the liquor store lot, and lit a cigarette. There was something both familiar and unidentifiable about the body that left him energized and on edge.
Once in his apartment he slipped into his bed but did not fall asleep. As sunlight began to bleed through his venetian blinds, he stared at the ceiling. But he did not see the ceiling. Rather, he saw himself as a young man in uniform, standing in a community garden very much like the one he had just left. In his memory, the homicide police T. C. Cook was there, working in his coat and brown hat. He saw the crime scene lit by strobing colors coming off the light bars of the cruisers and the occasional flashes of cameras.
It was like he was looking at a photograph in his mind. He could see the lights, the white-shirt commanders, that reporter from Channel 4, and, clearly, himself and Detective T. C. Cook. Also in the photograph, young and in uniform, he saw Gus Ramone.