Part 12 (1/2)

A few feet from the wheelchair, he caught a whiff of Popeye's cologne-cheap wine and salty urine. Robert opened his mouth. The wheelchair jerked into an alley before he could speak. He followed, but could barely get a fix on Popeye among bodies, some standing, most sleeping next to piles of garbage.

”Ten bucks'll get ya a real good time honey,” said a hoa.r.s.e smoker's voice.

Robert looked down at a smiling heavyset black woman wrapped in a filthy, faded blanket; most of her teeth rotted, her feet plastered with sores.

”I used to suck a mean one in my day, still can honey. Step up!”

”Not today,” said Robert, pulling out a twenty. ”Maybe next time.” The woman looked at the money. Her eyes widened. ”I'll be right here honey, jus' ask for Mona, I'll hook you up.”

”I bet you would Mona,” he whispered, peering down the alley.

He spotted Popeye swigging away at a bottle snuggled in a paper sack. Robert stood behind him.

”I wondered how long it would take you,” said Popeye, without turning around. ”Where's Charlie?”

Robert hesitated. ”He's dead.”

Popeye took a long swig and said nothing.

”I'm sorry about Charlie and Miller,” said Robert. ”But I had nothing to do with either death.”

”Sounds like a crock to me,” said Popeye, in a raspy voice. He swigged again, his hand quivering. ”They were my only friends. As much as you can have friends in this place.” Robert took a deep breath and looked around the alley, searching for nothing in particular. ”I understand, and again, I'm sorry,” he said, his voice sincere and steady. ”I'm sorry I couldn't prevent their deaths. All I can do now is go after the ones who did it.”

”Why did they kill Charlie?” Popeye asked. ”What's so important Charlie and Miller had to die? We live on the streets. What could anybody possibly want with a hobo and the director of a homeless shelter?”

”I can't go much into detail. Let's just say it's big and very complicated.”

”How big?” Popeye pressed. ”My friends are dead. I have a right to know. It's the least you can do.”

”I can't say, but I promise I'll catch these people. You have my word.”

Popeye took another drink, placed the bottle in his lap, and swung the wheelchair around. ”What makes you think you can, and not get somebody else killed?”

”I don't,” said Robert. ”These people play for keeps. You've been in a war. You know how cheap life can get when the stakes are high.”

”I want to know what's going on,” Popeye repeated.

Robert's patience thinned. ”I don't have time to go back and forth with you. I need to know where Charlie spent most of his time. Where he laid his head.”

Popeye glared. ”Does this have anything to do with the C-I-A?” His eyes narrowed, cat-like, sly.

”Maybe,” Robert answered. ”What makes you think that?” Popeye pulled a crumpled pack of Newports from his jacket and lit one, the bottle snuggled firmly between his stumps. ”Charlie used to mumble things sometimes,” he said. ”CIA, FBI. It really seemed to upset him, gave him nightmares. We'd get drunk and he'd say he'd f.u.c.ked with history.”

”Did he ever go into detail?”

”No, he just said he'd done some pretty f.u.c.ked up things in his lifetime. I told him we all did. He just shook his head and walked off.”

”I need to know where Charlie hid out Popeye. It's important.”

”On the street with the rest of us,” fired Popeye, squirming in his chair.

”I need direction, clues, something, anything. I need you to come clean. Where did Charlie hole up?”

Popeye took a deep drag on the Newport. Smoke streamed from his mouth and nose. ”The Shaw Hotel over on R Street NW,” he said. ”It's about ten minutes from here.”

Robert repeated the name and location.

”Most of the hotels take vouchers over there,” Popeye continued.

”We call it the suburbs. Charlie moved around on the streets most of the time, but that's where he went when he didn't want to be bothered. He registered there under the name C. R. Peace.” Robert gave his thanks. Popeye downed the last bit of wine and tossed the bottle across the alley into a dumpster. ”He had a friend he'd hole up with sometimes,” said Popeye, rolling his wheelchair closer to Robert.

”Who?”

”Jules,” Popeye said. ”His closest friend.” Robert's pulse quickened. ”Where can I find him?”

”Her,” corrected Popeye. ”Haven't seen her in quite a while. Charlie told me she wanted to move to a warmer climate. She wanted him to go with her. Winters can be pretty brutal here you know.”

”Why didn't he go?”

”Said he wanted to put things right, and that he could only do it here.” Robert stroked his chin. ”Do you know Jules' full name?”

”Julie. Julie Rice,” Popeye answered. ”From Georgia, or somewhere down south.”

Robert thanked him again. ”Can I get you anything?”

”More wine,” Popeye said, without hesitation, ”and some smokes.” Robert pulled some bills from his pocket and placed them firmly in Popeye's hand. ”If you hear anything or need anything, get in touch with me. You still have my card?”

Popeye slid the now smudged card from his front pocket. ”Will do,” he said, rolling out of the alley. ”Think I'll crack a bottle of the good stuff this time. MD Twenty-Twenty. We call it Mad Dog. Been drinkin' it since Nam and that s.h.i.+t still got plenty of kick.” Popeye aimed his wheelchair at a liquor store up the street. ”Think I'll give the towel-heads my business this time,” he said. ”Gotta spread the wealth, you know?”

”I know what you mean,” said Robert. ”Listen, take care of yourself.

I'm being watched, so they probably know we've talked.” Popeye held up a chrome-plated .357 Magnum. ”I can take care of myself.” He put the gun away and faced Robert. ”Mr. Veil. Whatever's goin' on, I sure hope it's worth it.” He sped away, whistling as he wheeled.

Relieved, Robert jogged back to his car and headed for the Shaw Hotel.

His phone buzzed. Thorne. He filled her in. Since Jules lived on the streets, finding her was a long shot, but they'd run a national trace.

”You're gonna need those stones between your legs before this is over,” said Thorne.

”I'm locked and loaded,” he said, laughing.

”So am I big boy. So am I.”

Robert remembered Fiona, and cleared his throat. ”Thorne.”

”I know,” she said. ”We gotta baby-sit a judge.”

”How?”

”Barbara tracked me down and filled me in. Said she's worried about you and drilled me about our cases. I knew she'd talk you into something. I'm just glad you didn't tell her about Rothschild, or I'd be kicking your a.s.s as we speak.”