Part 19 (2/2)
”I checked the movie schedule in the morgue materials at the MLK library. The late shows at Union Station started at around nine-thirty that night. Jerry Sun said he heard gunshots just after nine-thirty. The girl could get Randy off if she'd say they were together at one of those shows. Why won't she?”
”I don't know.”
”What about her father? Supposedly he keeps her on a short leash.”
”He's a former D.C. beat cop, and he doesn't remember anything, either. Funny, a cop who doesn't remember details. Right?”
”I'm going to try and interview both of them.”
”Good.”
”Ronald Weston is certain his brother didn't kill Donnel Lawton. Weston says his brother's no killer, that he wouldn't own a gun to begin with. You gonna put Ronald up on the stand?”
”You saw him. He might be a sweet kid for all I know, but he refuses to come off that way. And he's got juvenile priors. Besides, he only knows what his brother told him, and that won't hold water. The prosecutor will take him apart up there. He'd just be another ineffective character witness with nothing concrete to say.”
”Okay. Let me keep working on it.”
”Great. And Nick, thanks for hooking Dimitri up with that job. He's talked to Marcus and he thinks it's done him good.”
”I think so, too. I just left him, as a matter of fact.”
”You two Greek boys are bonding, huh?”
”Yeah, we just slaughtered a lamb in the alley. It's really good when it's fresh, you know? Hold on a second while I wipe this blood off my chin.”
”Nick, I just wanted you to know, Marcus and I appreciate it.”
”Glad to help. Listen, I gotta bolt.”
”My family's waiting as well. Take care, Nick.”
”You too.”
Stefanos met Alicia Weisman at a gallery on the south end of 7th Street. She was standing in front of a large piece, one of a series of Fred Folsom paintings depicting the characters inhabiting the old Shepherd Park strip club on a typical night. Alicia wore a black corduroy zippered s.h.i.+rt over black tights and utilitarian black boots. A black leather jacket was draped over her arm.
”Hey, baby,” said Stefanos, kissing her neck. ”Sorry I'm late.”
”Where you been?”
”I'll tell you later.” He looked the painting over and chuckled. ”Well, he captured it, all right.”
”You used to go to that place?”
”All the time.” Stefanos tugged at the triangle of T-s.h.i.+rt showing beneath Alicia's corduroy. ”Hey, I don't want to be the one to point this out, but -”
”I know. I wore a little white by mistake.”
They went downstairs to another gallery and took in the Jim Saah photographs on display. Stefanos studied Saah's portrait of three very Greek women sitting on a Karpathos stoop. He smiled and marked the number of the photograph on a sheet he had picked up by the door.
”Hungry?” said Stefanos.
Alicia said, ”I'm starved.”
They had dinner at a restaurant without signage at 5th and H in Chinatown. Except for Stefanos and Alicia, the patrons were all Chinese. This was the most inconspicuous restaurant on the strip and, for Stefanos's money, the best. Stefanos ordered shrimp dumpling noodle soup and Alicia asked for plain roast duck over rice.
”So what do you think of the art on this one right here?” asked Alicia, pus.h.i.+ng a CD booklet across the table.
”Looks like one of those numbered Prestige jazz jackets. An Eddie Lockjaw Davis record, something like that.”
”You're right. How'd you know know that?” that?”
”My grandfather used to buy hot records from his customers down on Fourteenth. We had crates of them down in our bas.e.m.e.nt on Irving Street. He didn't listen to jazz, but he thought I'd get something out of it. He was right.”
”Well, what do you think of this? The group's going for that fifties bop look.”
”Are they jazz?”
”They're more on the soul-punk side.”
”Whatever they are, I think the cover art looks hot.” Stefanos sipped his tea. ”You're doing a good job, you know it?”
”I'm having fun.” Alicia had a swig of Tsing Tao. ”Feel like seeing some music tonight?”
”Sure.”
”The Black Cat's got a good bill.”
”You comped?”
”You got it, Daddy-O.”
”Let's check it out.”
The Black Cat was on 14th Street, spartan like the old 9:30 but without the new 9:30's frat-boy crowd. The club had an all-ages policy and good sight lines, helped by a couple of rows of stadium seats against the wall, so that every kid in the place, even the short ones, could check out the band.
There was a genial guy who always stood outside the club politely asking for donations, and Stefanos gave him a buck. The opening band, an excellent local outfit called Last Train Home, was in midset, covering Manifesto's ”Sugar,” as Stefanos and Alicia entered the club. Stefanos went to the bar, bought a couple bottles of Bud, and brought them over to Alicia, who had situated herself in the center of the crowd. The Brace brothers were in harmony onstage against a tight rhythm section as Stefanos tapped Alicia's bottle. Stefanos was glad he had stopped drinking earlier; taking a sip, it was like hitting his first of the night and it tasted d.a.m.n good.
The Silos, the night's headliners, came out a half hour later. Walter Salas-Humara took center stage and ripped through a set from Heater, Heater, his group's latest alb.u.m, as Stefanos downed two more beers. He was sweating beneath his leather by the time Alicia got close to his ear and suggested they go. his group's latest alb.u.m, as Stefanos downed two more beers. He was sweating beneath his leather by the time Alicia got close to his ear and suggested they go.
They made love next to an open window in Alicia's Mount Pleasant apartment. She was narrow shouldered, with small, red-nippled b.r.e.a.s.t.s and full, round hips. Stefanos loved her hips. He tasted the salt of her sweat and kissed the insides of her thighs as he slowly made his way to her s.e.x. Burying his mouth in her, he took her there like that.
Afterward, Stefanos looked at the curtains hanging still on either side of the open window.
”Aren't those curtains supposed to be billowing?” he said. ”There's no wind, silly.”
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