The Second Girl(20)

Sixteen



I usually go out of my way to find good grapefruit. They gotta be fresh, though. They’re tougher to find when they’re not in season, but you can still find them at some of the better grocery stores, like the Whole Foods on P Street. I always keep a couple in the car. They’re good for days like this, when my immune system needs a boost. I cut into one with my knife, suck the juice out, and chew the pulp. It’s like my body knows when it’s in need, because most of the time I have to force myself to eat, but not when it comes to grapefruit. I devour everything but the skin, which I drop out the car window. I feel like my body’s been washed afterward.

The temperature is dropping every day. Winter’s closing in. I push the button to raise the car window and recline in the seat. I watch the pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk. Most of them are law enforcement, uniform and plainclothes; attorneys; and other folks who work in this area. There are a few homeless people, though, moving like zombies. Crackheads, junkies. They’re letting out from the shelter on 2nd and D, just a couple blocks away. I watch them and I gotta think the only thing that separates me from their kind is a meager pension, an occasional paycheck, my drug of choice—and, of course, grapefruit.

I light a cigarette. I inhale. I come back to reality.

The meeting with Davidson didn’t go so badly. I’m thinking it was a damn good story. He even said he was sorry that I couldn’t get the tools back for my bogus client and that if he had known about it beforehand, he might’ve recovered the power tools he saw on the kitchen floor when they were executing the search warrant. I thanked him anyway and told him my client would be all right, that I might just buy him the tools myself in exchange for his labor.

I start the car, don’t even know where I’m going, but I got a couple hours to kill before I have to meet with Claypole at DC jail.

My hand on the shifter, my phone rings.

Screen shows that it’s Luna.

I put the car back in park and answer, “What’s up, Al?”

“Just that good hit you passed our way. How the hell’d you stumble onto that?”

“Man, don’t make me go into all that again. Davidson’s got all the details. Let’s just say right place, right time, and leave it at that.”

“I’ll be getting a copy of his write-up, then.”

“What’d you get there?”

“Couple of guns and enough crack and heroin to get us to district court. We’re going to wrap these boys up for a while.”

“Do me a big one and get them to plead out; save me from having to be a witness, all right?”

“Well, they’re sure as hell not talking to us right now, but we’re not done with them, so I’ll let you know. We got so much on them they’ll probably plead out. What do you got going for tonight? McGuire and I are going to hit Shelly’s for drinks when we’re done here.”

“What time you looking at?”

“Around seventeen thirty.”

“Yeah, I’m good for that. Haven’t been there in a while.”

“Evening’s on me.”

“Sounds good, bro.”

“Okay, man, see you then.”

“Yeah, okay. Be safe.”

“Always,” he says, and then disconnects.

It’s been a while since I’ve done anything social. But then, I don’t know many folks I can socialize with. I have to think hard about it and all I come up with is Leslie, Albino Luna, and sometimes Stan McGuire. Luna and McGuire are the only two real friends I have left on the department. We all made detective together at 7D Vice, then got transferred to Narcotics Branch. We’d been in the shit, but even they don’t know the real story behind my early retirement. All they know is that I retired early, after seventeen years, and that I had had enough. The only ones who know the real story are the chief and a couple of his cronies.

I put the car back in drive and ease my way out of the parking space. Since I got some time, I make my way to Georgetown, see if I can spend some of this hard-earned money, maybe buy a new suit.





Seventeen



I hate DC jail. I hate everything about it, especially having to walk in, secure my belongings, and submit myself to being searched.

When I was a cop, I’d drive my cruiser into a secured area just under the guard tower. I’d lock up my weapon, clips, and handcuffs in a lockbox that looked more like a P.O. box. The COs looked in the car, sometimes even opened the dashboard, then popped open the trunk to make sure I wasn’t trying to sneak in any contraband. I’d get a quick pat-down after that, and drive the car into another gated parking lot. I’d buzz to gain entry into a prisoner-holding area. The entry door was made of heavy steel and the sound it made when it slammed shut was deafening: steel against steel in an empty concrete vault. The only way back out was when the guards sitting on the other side of scuffed-up shatterproof Plexiglas, in an office area with several monitors, buzzed you out again. I hated that trapped-in feeling, especially when I had to rely on some underpaid, overfed officer on the other side to push the button.

Walking through the front, like I have to now, is a little less claustrophobic, but still, I leave all control behind after those doors shut, even if the sound of them closing is quieter. If I ever get caught because of the shit I do, hopefully not for anything that’s gonna get me held, I might be making a trip to Canada, though more likely Mexico ’cause someone like me can get away with a lot more in Mexico.