The Second Girl(59)

We meet at a hole-in-the-wall sandwich spot on Florida Avenue NE, a few blocks from Narcotics Branch. It’s just Luna. McGuire’s papering a case at district court. We all used to frequent this place a lot. The sandwiches are stacked. We’d get them on the go, find a nice spot with a good view, eat them in the car, and feel like taking a nap afterward.

I leave my car parked in the lot and hop in Luna’s cruiser. It’s a black Ford Expedition. He keeps it clean. The police radio is concealed and built into the glove compartment. He has it dialed into the citywide channel, so unless there’s an emergency or some kinda detail, it’s relatively quiet.

Luna’s idea of a nice view is parking off New York Avenue, near one of those sleazy motels we used to hit all the time, and watching the prostitutes hanging out in the parking lot and on the balconies just outside their rooms after a hard night’s work. I could never figure out if it was the view of all the working girls hanging out on the balconies smoking cigarettes and joints, hair up, dressed somewhat normally and not looking so bad from a distance that Luna was after, or if his eye was on work and who they were talking to and meeting up with.

Back in the day, he’d watch through small binos, copy down descriptions of people and vehicles, tag numbers and room numbers, so I’m thinking work, but you never know. We all got our vices. I never asked and I never will.

Sitting watching those women now, I can’t help but hope that I might see Miriam. But I know how slim the chances of that happening are. Old-school pimps run most of the girls here. The ones the pimps control usually do the route from New York to New Jersey to here and back again. And most of these girls are older. Some of them try their best to sell themselves as teenagers, but once you get close enough, you realize how off they are. No amount of makeup can hide that shit.

No, Miriam got herself caught up with something else entirely, and unless she was sold off to a pimp, she won’t be anywhere around here. The boys on this side of town don’t play nice with the guys they refer to as “the Mexicans” or simply “’migos,” because as far as they’re concerned, all Latinos are Mexican.

I don’t have much of an appetite, but try to eat nevertheless. I still got taste buds and the sandwich does taste good, so that helps.

Luna came through with my request and hands me two PDID photos.

“Remember, you get any information on their suppliers, you call me,” Luna says.

“You know I will.”

“And you’re buying at the Old Ebbitt when we go.”

“Now you’re getting pushy.”

“You haven’t seen pushy yet, brother. You’ve been asking a lot of favors of me recently.”

“I know. I know. So what do you got working with this Edgar Soto homicide?” I inquire.

“Routine shit. Lot of names on his cell phone we’re looking into. Most of them come back to cells, so they’re not listed in the Haines phone directory. We got a nice stash of weed out of a storage shed in his backyard. He had it stashed under the lawn mower. No father so I guess he’s in charge of mowing the lawn; it seemed like a good spot.”

“One of those names on his phone Calvin or Playboy?”

“Playboy is. How the hell did you get that?”

“A girlfriend of the girl I’m looking for is running with him. I interviewed her. His first name’s Calvin, but everyone calls him Playboy. The girlfriend knew the decedent. I had a feeling Playboy did, too, and also might be good for information as to my missing girl’s whereabouts.”

“You give that to Davidson?”

“Fuck no. Well, I gave him the info I had on the girlfriend, but that’s it. I don’t like the Feds he’s working with. They’re rookies, and I’m sure they’ll find a way to f*ck it all up.”

“That’s a good unit Davidson’s with, Frankie. They do good work. It’s hard work.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that. I know it takes a special person to do the kinda work he does, but this has to be worked like a narcotics investigation. That’s my way in.”

Luna takes a bite of the pickle that came with the sandwich, chews, and looks toward a group of girls gathered together on a third-floor balcony.

“Look at them there. It’s like they think they’re on some kind of vacation,” he says.

“I’m sure what they’re smoking up makes them feel like they are.”

He turns away to take a bite out of his sandwich, chews a couple of times, and swallows. I’m surprised he doesn’t choke.

“All right, then, you got any other names I should keep on the radar?” he asks.

“Boy named Greg Thomas. He’s Edgar’s running partner. I think he’s worth looking into. And then some kid who I only got a first name on, Robbie. All I know is he’s another friend of Edgar’s, buys weed from him. Both of them probably involved in his little weed-dealing business, too. You’ll roll them easy enough.”

“Man, I hate dealing with juvies. Especially the suburban wannabe kind.”

“I hear ya there.”

“So what’s your angle? You expect me to do the work for you?”

“No. I’ll do all the work and you’ll get all the glory. Don’t worry yourself about that. You got anything on Playboy yet?” I ask evenly.