01 Right as Rain by George Pelecanos

Author:George Pelecanos
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

STRANGE walked around the corner and four blocks up Vermont Avenue, then took the steps down to Stan’s, a basement bar he frequented now and again. It was smoky and crowded with locals, a racial mix of middle-class D.C. residents, most of them in their middle age. Going past some loud tables, he heard a man call his name.

“Derek, how you doin’!”

“Ernest,” said Strange. It was Ernest James from the neighborhood, wearing a suit and seated with a woman.

“Heard your business was doin’ good, man.”

“I’m doin’ all right.”

“You see anything of Donald Lindsay?” asked James.

“Heard Donald passed.”

“Uh-uh, man, he’s still out there.”

“Well, I ain’t seen him.” Strange nodded and smiled at Johnson’s lady. “Excuse me, y’all, let me get up on over to this bar and have myself a drink.”

“All right, then, Derek.”

“All right.”

Strange ordered a Johnnie Walker Red and soda at the bar. At Stan’s, they served the liquor to the lip of the glass, with the miniature mixer on the side, the way they used to at the old Royal Warrant and the Round Table on the other side of town. When Strange felt like having one real drink, and being around regular people, he came here.

Sipping his scotch, he felt himself notch down. He talked to a man beside him about the new Redskins quarterback, who had come over from the Vikings, and what the ’Skins needed to do to win. The man was near Strange’s age, and he recalled seeing Bobby Mitchell play, and the talk drifted to other players and the old Jurgenson-led squad.

“Fight for old D.C.,” said the man, with a wink.

“Fight for old Dixie, you mean.”

“You remember that?” said the man.

“That and a lot of other things. Shame some of these young folks out here, talkin’ about nigga this and nigga that, don’t remember those things, too.”

“Some of our people get all upset ’cause the word’s in Webster’s dictionary, but they hear it from the mouths of their own sons and daughters and grandkids, and they let it pass.”

“Uh-huh. How are white people gonna know not to use that word when our own young people don’t know it their own got-damn selves?”

“I heard that.”

Strange’s beeper sounded. He read the numbers, excused himself, went to the pay phones back by the bathrooms, and made a call. It was Quinn on the other end of the line.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” said Strange, when Quinn was done talking.

“Us too,” said Quinn. “Where should we meet?”

Strange told him, racked the phone, and checked his wrist-watch. He paid his tab, bought the man at the bar another round, and left Stan’s.

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