Part 24 (1/2)

”You'll never give it up. You're the original ball freak, man.”

Clay pointed his finger at Karras. ”What about you? G.o.dd.a.m.n, Dimitri! Was a time when you would not leave the blacktop. You even used to drag me to those ABA games back when D.C. had a team in the seventies.”

Karras smiled. ”The Capitols.”

”Yeah, we'd have to go down to the old Was.h.i.+ngton Coliseum to see 'em play, too. What a dump that was.”

”Hey, we saw some good ball. They had Rick Barry for a while, right? And we got to see the Doctor when he was young and playin' for the Squires, don't forget that.”

”What was that team had all those crazy boys on it? The Spirits of St. Louis, right?”

”Marvin Bad Boy Barnes.”

”Hey, Mitri,” said Clay, ”remember that backup center the Spirits had, big, Lurch-lookin' mug, had a clown's face, like? They used to put him into the game just to inflict pain.”

”I don't remember his name. But yeah, it's hard to forget a man that ugly.” Karras squinted. ”Hey, check out that cheerleader, Marcus. The Asian girl, back row center.”

”Yeah, she is fine. But look at you, all gray and s.h.i.+t, staring at some twenty-year-old girl.”

”I was just commenting on her beauty, is all.”

”I know what you was doin',” said Clay. ”Booty monger like you.”

TWENTY-ONE.

NICK STEFANOS STOOD on the platform of the Fort Totten Metro station at seven-forty-five in the morning, blowing into his hands to warm them against the cold. He looked out into the parking lot at the blue Volvo pulling into the Kiss and Ride lane. He knew Terrence Mitch.e.l.l would be right on time - he was that kind of man. Erika Mitch.e.l.l stepped out of the pa.s.senger side, shut the door behind her, and walked across the lot. on the platform of the Fort Totten Metro station at seven-forty-five in the morning, blowing into his hands to warm them against the cold. He looked out into the parking lot at the blue Volvo pulling into the Kiss and Ride lane. He knew Terrence Mitch.e.l.l would be right on time - he was that kind of man. Erika Mitch.e.l.l stepped out of the pa.s.senger side, shut the door behind her, and walked across the lot.

Stefanos leaned against the side of a wind shelter as Erika emerged onto the platform. Her skin was dark, and she wore bright red lipstick on her ample mouth. She was a big-legged girl with big, straightened hair.

The lights at the edge of the platform blinked as the Green Line train approached. Erika boarded the train, and Stefanos took his time walking into the same car. She took the first seat by the doors; he had a seat three rows behind her.

”George Clinton,” said the recorded voice as the doors closed.

Stefanos settled in for the ride. Greenbelt was four stops away, and the trip would take a little while. But Erika got out of her seat two stops shy of Greenbelt and exited the car at the Prince George's Plaza station. Stefanos followed her down to the parking lot and hung back at the newspaper racks as a chromed-up, ice-green Acura pulled alongside her.

The driver stopped the car so that it blocked traffic. He got out, walked over to Erika, and put his hands gently on her shoulders. He was tall and lean, midtwenties, wearing wide-leg jeans and a Nautica s.h.i.+rt with an unb.u.t.toned thigh-length leather over the s.h.i.+rt. He wore his hair in a blown-out, seventies-style Afro. Erika and the tall man kissed, and then she got into the shotgun seat of his ride. The driver pulled away.

In the time that Randy Weston had been held on the murder charge, Erika Mitch.e.l.l had found a new man. Or maybe he had been there all along. Even a control freak like Terrence Mitch.e.l.l, thought Stefanos, couldn't stop a young man and woman from getting together. He wondered if Erika Mitch.e.l.l even had a job.

Stefanos checked his watch. He returned to the station and caught a train back to Fort Totten.

Stefanos fired up his Dodge and drove east, down Michigan Avenue and along the north-south railroad tracks of Brookland. He parked on the street, found the bay with the green door that he was looking for, and rang the bell. The door opened. A man stood in the frame, wiping his hands on a pink shop rag.

”Al Adamson?”

”That's right.”

”Nick Stefanos. I phoned yesterday, remember? Marcus Clay sent me.”

Adamson's biceps filled out the sleeves of his coveralls, and his upper body strained the fabric at his chest. He was shaved bald with a full beard and wore small rimless gla.s.ses. His face was deeply lined. Stefanos put him in his early fifties.

”Come on in,” said Adamson.

Stefanos followed him into the bay. A drop light hung over the open hood of a triple-black Mark III. Adamson went right to the car, grabbed a wrench off a cloth laid out across the top of the front quarter panel, and got to work.

”You can talk to me while I do this,” said Adamson. ”I got to get this water pump out and replaced by noon.”

”Like I said, Marcus put me onto you. Well, Elaine, really. I do investigative work for her, down at the courthouse.”

”I called Marcus after you called me. He said you were all right. Said you gave Dimitri Karras a job.”

”Yeah, he's doing well.”

”d.a.m.n shame about his son.” Adamson stopped working for a moment. ”I lost my kid brother to violence back in nineteen seventy-six. You never forget, not really.” Adamson loosened a bolt. ”Karras still wearin' those Hawaiian s.h.i.+rts?”

”Not that I know of.”

Adamson chuckled to himself.

Stefanos said, ”I'm looking for the name of a specialty Ford mechanic. Someone who might work on a Torino from the early seventies. One of those Twisters they had, limited edition.”

Adamson looked up. Light flashed off the lenses of his gla.s.ses. ”I don't recall that car.”

”Like I say, limited. Real limited. Fast car, but stock. Maybe a restoration job.”

”Restoration, huh? There's a few guys I can turn you on to. Guys I've run into over the years. You're lookin' for D.C. boys, right?”

”Inside the Beltway ought to do it.”

Adamson backed up and stood. ”Be right back.”

Stefanos smoked a cigarette, waiting for Adamson to return. He crushed the smoke under his shoe as Adamson came back into the bay. Adamson stared at the b.u.t.t flattened on the concrete.

”I tell you you could do that in here?”

”No.”

Adamson glared at Stefanos. Stefanos picked up the b.u.t.t and dropped it in the pocket of his work s.h.i.+rt.

”Here you go, man,” said Adamson. He handed a slip of note-paper to Stefanos. ”Had to transpose that out of my Rolodex.”

Stefanos read off the names. Adamson's handwriting was like a doctor's - nearly illegible. ”Clewis?” he said.

”Supposed to be C. Lewis. As in Charlie. Has a shop over in Hyattsville.”