Part 12 (2/2)

Robert laughed. Thorne didn't.

”I started the setup at Judge Patrick's house,” she continued. ”The government boys weren't very happy, but we have a hot line to the Secret Service, D.C. police, and Emergency Medical on the way.”

”I couldn't have done it better.”

”No s.h.i.+t.” Thorne also informed him about a reception scheduled for the judge by the White House, to take place the following night at the Ritz Carlton hotel. ”I told'em it's a bad idea, but the White House insisted. a.s.sholes.”

”My thoughts exactly, but we'll deal with it later.” Robert parked across the street from The Shaw, rehashed a few details with Thorne, hung up, and stepped out into a nightmare.

Drunks and addicts zombied in front of the hotel, mumbling to imaginary friends, scratching sores, searching for the next hit of black-tar heroin or crack cocaine. Gunshots crackled in the air. n.o.body flinched or moved.

A man more skeleton than human offered Robert f.e.l.l.a.t.i.o in exchange for ten dollars. He ignored the proposition and made a beeline for the hotel.

Barely audible men begged for change, blocking the hotel's front door. A bright red No Vacancy sign flashed in a cloudy plate gla.s.s window, just above a large cardboard sign warning drug dealers and thieves to stay away.

Inside, the hotel looked worn, but surprisingly neat and clean. Aged couches and lounge chairs, with discolored, faded patterns, centered the lobby. Wood grain coffee and lamp tables, chipped, scratched, and beaten, stood sentry. A well-trodden flower-patterned rug covered most of the lobby, and the odor, not nearly as nauseating as outside, reeked of locker-room funk and urine, still too pervasive to ignore.

Even close to midnight, men, women and a few small children, sat around the lobby, some chatting away about the goings-on outside, while others honed their attention in on him. An obvious clear difference jumped out between these folks and the zombies outside. Their clothes bore the requisite Salvation Army feel, common on the streets, but with fewer wrinkles and much less grime. They wore socks and decent shoes, a rarity for the homeless.

”Can I help you honey?” asked a firm female voice behind him.

The voice belonged to a heavyset, dark-skinned black woman, sporting a bright smile and motherly aura. She easily weighed three hundred pounds, and her good-natured disposition a.s.sured him he'd found a friendly face. He introduced himself. She gently cupped his hand in both of hers. ”My name's Josephine,” she said. ”But around here they call me Aunt Josie. I run this place.”

”Nice to meet you Aunt Josie. Maybe you can help me. I'm looking for information on one of your residents.” Josie's demeanor changed. She put her hands on her bountiful hips.

”You the police? Cause if you the police, I told ya'll before, no warrant, no information. We don't have trouble in here and I don't want none.” Robert understood why the inside of the hotel differed from the chaos outside. ”I'm not the police,” he told her. ”I'm just looking for information on a friend who died. I need to handle some of his personal business.”

”I'm sorry to hear that honey,” said Aunt Josie, concerned. ”You got a name?”

”Charlie Ivory,” said Robert. ”But he stayed here under the name C.R. Peace.”

Aunt Josie stared for a moment, studying him, taking stock. ”You say Charlie's dead?”

”Yes,” Robert continued. ”He died a few days ago. Did you know him?”

Josie carefully surveyed the lobby. ”Step over to the front desk sugga?” She disappeared through a gray door marked Staff Only and reappeared behind the desk. ”Now just how do you know old Charlie?” Robert explained what he could without telling her much. He told her Charlie died of a seizure brought on by tuberculosis.

Josie shook her head. ”Yes honey, Charlie stayed here. Off and on for twenty years; in fact, he was here ten years ago when I got here.

Stayed to himself most of the time, but you could tell he was different from the others. I never could put my finger on it. He was smart and came in useful around here more than a time or two. I got the feeling he was hiding out or running away. Most are down here. Was he in some kind of trouble?”

Robert nodded and gave a wink.

Her face acknowledged his silence. ”I've been running this place for ten years,” she said. ”You should'a seen it when I got here, trash all over the place. Seen some of everything in here, things I wish I hadn't. One thing I've learned. You have to know when not to ask questions.” She winked back.

”Thanks for understanding,” said Robert. ”Any chance I can have a look at his room?”

”I'll give you the key,” she said, taking one off a pegged board behind her. ”These old knees ain't what they use to be honey. Jus' take the stairs to the second floor. Charlie stayed in room 227.” He thanked her and said he wouldn't be long.

”Take your time sugga, no hurry. I'll be right here when you finish.” Josie shooed away a toothless drunk that strolled in through the front door. ”Oh no honey!” she scolded. ”You know the rules! To the back and wash off before you bring yourself in here! Out!” Robert heard the others in the lobby chime and back her up, repeating Josie's well-drilled rules. More Aunt Josies. That's what we need, more Aunt Josies.

Room two twenty-seven, the last room on the floor, stood at the far end of a long shadowy hallway. Rickety floorboards creaked and cracked beneath a worn-out green carpet that stretched the full length of the corridor. The noise made Robert wonder if Charlie chose that spot knowing any unwanted guest would be ceremoniously announced by the old squeaking floor.

Robert reached the room, and drew his gun when he heard someone moving around inside. Back against the wall, he listened closely, but didn't hear any voices. Probably one person.

He turned the k.n.o.b, nudged the door open a few inches, and peeked inside. A lone figure packed papers and clothing from an old chest of drawers, stuffing a gym bag and brown paper sack. He pushed the door open and rushed inside. ”Freeze!”

He jerked his gun from one side of the room to the other, his eyes darting back and forth, scanning for movement. ”Drop the bags on the floor and raise your hands up over your head! Now! I won't ask again!” The raggedly dressed person abruptly dropped the two bags on the floor. One an old, gray, leather gym bag, half open, with socks and a bunch of tattered clothing stuffed inside, the other, a large, brown paper grocery store bag, full of papers now scattered across the floor.

”Turn around slowly,” Robert ordered, his gun trained directly at the person's head. To his surprise, the face of a frightened old woman came into view. A black skullcap sat on her head like a tired alley cat. Dirty gray hair protruded from it down to her ears. Rot carved most of her teeth, and her face spoke hards.h.i.+p and survival.

”I'm sorry,” she said, in a panicked voice. ”I didn't mean no harm. I was jus tryin' to clean out this stuff fo' a friend. I didn't mean no harm.” Robert lowered his gun. She hardly appeared threatening. ”Who are you?”

”I'm jus here to clear out some stuff fo a friend,” she repeated, shaken and confused.

Robert's eyes widened. Popeye's words. .h.i.t him. Julie Rice? He took a step closer. She moved a few steps back. ”What's your name mother?”

She didn't speak.

”I'm not here to hurt you,” he said. ”You just surprised me, that's all.”

The old woman took a breath and relaxed. Her hands shook, but the fear in her eyes melted. ”Name's Beth,” she told him. ”You a friend a Charlie's?”

”Sort of,” said Robert, his disappointment obvious only to him.

”Why are you here clearing out his things?”

”Cause he's dead,” she said abruptly. ”He's dead and he told me if he died, to come get his stuff. Said I could keep what I want and throw the rest away.”

”How'd you know he was dead? It's not common knowledge.”

”Got'a call from his friend Popeye. I live in the hotel. I know'd Charlie for a long time. Popeye said he died, but didn't say much else.

Charlie's done, that's all he said. He hung up, and I run up here.” Robert rubbed his forehead. Beth bent over and gathered the papers and clothing. Disappointed, he looked around the lifeless room, its army style cot and nondescript furniture, hoping answers would seep out of the walls. He knelt down to help her.

”You must've been real close to Charlie for him to leave you all his stuff.”

”Closer than most, not as close as some,” answered Beth.

”The closest?”

”Knew Charlie for years,” said Beth. ”Didn't get too close to many people. Liked his privacy, 'cept when it come to Jules. He was real close to her.”

”You mean Julie Rice?”

”You know old Jules too?”

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