Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go (12 page)

I got out of my car, sat on its hood, and lit a cigarette. A pleasure boat pulled out of its slip and ran toward the Potomac, leaving little wake. Some gulls crossed the sky, turned black against the rising sun. I took one last drag off my cigarette and pitched it into the river.

Back in Shepherd Park, my cat waited for me on my stoop. I sat next to her and rubbed the hard scar tissue of her one empty eye socket and scratched behind her ears.

“Miss me?” I said. She rolled onto her back.

I entered my apartment and saw the blinking red light of my answering machine. I hit the bar, listened to the message. I stripped naked, got into bed, and set the alarm for one o’clock. Stella had come through; I had an appointment with Paul Ritchie for 2:30 that afternoon at the Fire House on P.

T
HE FIRE HOUSE
had changed hands several times in my lifetime, but as long as I could remember, it had been a bar that catered primarily to homosexuals, in a neighborhood that had always been off center in every interesting way. This particular corner unofficially marked the end of Dupont Circle, where the P Street Bridge spanned the park and led to the edge of Georgetown. There were many hangouts down here, restaurants and a smattering of bars—the Brickskeller for beerheads, Badlands for the discophiles—but the Fire House had become something of a landmark for residents and commuters alike. For many years, gas logs burned day and night behind a glass window that fronted P at 22nd, the logs being the establishment’s only signage. The building’s facade had been redone now in red brick, and the window and the logs had been removed. But the fire imagery remained in the bar’s name, a small nod to tradition.

I had taken the Metro down to Dupont, then walked down P.
By afternoon, the day had become blazing-hot, with quartz reflecting off the sidewalk and an urban mirage of shimmering refraction steaming up off the asphalt of the street. My thrift-shop sport jacket was damp beneath the arms and on my back as I reached the entrance to the Fire House. I pushed on the door, removed my shades, and entered the cool darkness of the main room.

Several couples and a few solo drinkers sat in booths and at tables partitioned off from the empty bar. I went to the stick and slid onto a stool, dropping the manila folder I had been carrying on the seat to my right. The heat had sickened me a bit, that and my activities from the night before. I peeled a bev nap from a stack of them and wiped my face.

A thin young waiter stepped up to the service area and said in a whiny, very bored voice, “Ooordering.” The bartender ignored him for the time being, walked down my way, and dropped a coaster in front of me on the bar.

“How’s it going?” he said. He was large-boned, with some gut to go with it. His brown hair had streaks of red running through it, and there was a rogue patch of red splotched in the chin area of his beard.

“Hot.”

“Not in here, it isn’t. Thank God for work, when it’s air-conditioned. What can I get you?”

“A cold beer.”

“Any flavor?”

“A bottle of Bud. And a side of ice water, thanks. By the way, where’s the head?”

“Top of the stairs. You’ll see it.”

I took the stairs, passed an unlit room where a piano sat in the middle of a group of tables. The men’s room was at the end of the hall. I went in and took a leak at one of two urinals. A mirror had been hung and angled down, centered above the urinals. I understood its purpose but didn’t understand the attraction. Years ago, I had a date with a woman who at the end of the night
asked me to come into her bathroom and watch her while she took a piss. I did it out of curiosity but found it to be entirely uninteresting. I never phoned her again.

I zipped up my fly, bought a pack of smokes outside the bathroom door, and went back down to the bar. The bartender had served my beer and was placing the ice water next to it.

“Nick Stefanos,” I said, extending my hand.

“Paul Ritchie.” He shook my hand and said, “How do you know Stella?”

“I tend at the Spot. A couple times a week, I go into Athena’s, shoot a little pool.”

“You that guy that used to hang out with Jackie Kahn?”

“You knew Jackie?”

“Sure. I heard she had a kid.”

“Yeah.”

“Heard she had some straight guy impregnate her.”

“I heard that, too.”

“You know, I think I met you, in fact, one night when I was in Athena’s with a friend.” His eyes moved to the beer in my hand, then back to me. “I guess you don’t remember.”

“Must have been one of those nights,” I said. “You probably know how that is.”

“Not anymore,” he said.

“Ooordering, Paul!” said the prematurely world-weary voice from down the bar.

Paul Ritchie said, “Give me a minute,” and went to the rail to fix the waiter a drink. I gulped down the ice water and lit a cigarette. By the time Ritchie returned, I had finished half my beer; my stomach had neutralized, the quiver had gone out of my hand, and my head had become more clear.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem. What can I do for you?”

I put the manila folder on the bar, opened it, and slipped out the photographs of Calvin Jeter and Roland Lewis. I turned them around so that Ritchie could have a look.

“You recognize either of these guys?”

Ritchie studied the photos. “Uh-uh. I don’t think so.”

I searched his face for the hint of a lie, saw nothing irregular. I tapped my finger on Calvin’s photo. “This one here, I found a book of Fire House matches in one of his shirts.”

“What’d he do?”

“He got himself murdered.”

Ritchie breathed out slowly. “I don’t work every shift, obviously, so I can’t say he’s never come in here. But I know he’s not a regular. And these two look like minors on top of that, and we make a pretty good effort not to serve minors. They
are
minors, right?”

“Yeah. What else?”

“To tell you the truth, neither of these kids look like my type of clientele.”

“You mean they don’t look gay.”

“Look schmook, Stefanos. I don’t have much of an idea what a gay person ‘looks’ like anymore. Do you?”

“I guess not. But what
did
you mean? They’re not your clientele—what, because they’re black?”

“No,” he said tiredly, “not because they’re black. Turn your head and take a look around this place.”

I did. I saw some men getting on into their thirties and forties, some wearing ties, most of them with expensive haircuts and fine watches. The racial mix seemed to be about 80 percent white to 20 black; on the social and economic side, though, the group was homogenous. I turned back to Ritchie.

“So you run a nice place.”

“Exactly. These men that come in here, they’re not just well-adjusted; they’re well-connected. That guy’s suit over there—no offense, Stefanos—it’s probably worth more than your whole wardrobe. I know it’s worth more than mine.”

“What about these kids?”

“Straight or gay,” Ritchie said, “it’s irrelevant. These two are street. This isn’t their kind of place.”

“So how do you think this kid came to get a hold of your matchbook?”

Ritchie shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they were working the corner outside, working with all those other hustlers. The ones I’m talking about, they come in here, snag matches, bum smokes, sometimes try to hit on my customers. I’m telling you, my clientele’s not interested. I know a couple of these hustlers, and some of them are all right. Most of them are country kids. You look at ’em, weight lifters, gym rats, with the sideburns and the pompadours, they all look like young Elvises. But usually, if they’re not drinking—and most of the time they’re not—I ask them to leave. There’ve been a couple incidents, and I just don’t want those guys in here.”

“What kind of incidents?”

“Where some people got hurt. See, the way it typically goes down, the way I understand it, these hustlers make the arrangement with the customer, usually some closeted businessman who works up around the Circle, and then they go down to the woods around P Street Beach. The money changes hands, and after that they do whatever it is they do—giving, receiving, whatever. But what happened last month, a couple of kids were leading those businessmen down there to the woods, then taking them for everything they had.”

I dragged on my cigarette. “You know who these guys were?”

“No. ’Course, it never got reported to the cops. But it got around down here fast. What I heard, the other guys out on the street, they took care of the problem themselves. The whole thing was bad for their business.”

“Ooordering,” came the voice from down the bar.

Ritchie rolled his eyes. “Be back in a minute,” he said.

I stood up and finished my beer, slid the photographs back in the folder. I took out my wallet and left money on the bar for the beer, and an extra twenty for Ritchie, with my business card on top of the twenty. Ritchie came back, wiping his hands with a damp rag.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

“Wish I could have done more.”

“You did plenty. Any chance you could hook me up with one of those hustlers you were talking about? There’s money in it for them—I’d pay for their time.”

“I could give it a try, yeah. I don’t see why not, if you’re talking about money. I don’t know what an hour of their time is worth, though. I’m out of that scene, way out. Not that I didn’t have my day in the sun. But I’ve had the same boyfriend for the last five years. When I’m not in here. I’m sitting at home on the couch, watching sports on the tube, like the old fart that I am.”

“Stella said you used to be pretty good with a bat.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I blew out my fucking knees. Now about the only thing I can do is water sports.”

“Water sports, huh.”

“Don’t be a wise guy, Stefanos. I’m talking about swimming laps, down at the Y.”

“Sorry.” I ran my hand down the lapel of my sport jacket. “So you don’t think too much of my threads, huh?”

A light came on in Ritchie’s eyes. “Hey, look, don’t feel bad. I used to have a jacket just like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ritchie said. “Then my father got a job.”

“Lucky me. I get to talk to an ex-jock bartender who doesn’t drink. And I get a comedian in the bargain.”

“I’m crackin’ myself up here.”

“Take it easy, Ritchie.”

“Yeah, you, too. I’ll let you know if I can set that thing up.”

“Gimme a call,” I said. “The number’s on the card.”

I
HEARD FROM
Paul Ritchie, and some others, early on Saturday morning at my apartment. Boyle called first, and he asked about my progress on the case. I told him that up to that point, my few leads had led only to blind alleys. I kept on that tack, and when I was done, I had managed to dig a big hole and fill it to the top with lies. I asked Boyle if the cops had anything new. He told me that an informant in a Southeast project had claimed that Jeter and Lewis were mules for a supplier down that way. I asked them if his people had any details on it and he said, “Nothing yet.” We agreed to keep up with each other if something shook out on either end. I didn’t like lying to him, and I wasn’t exactly sure why I was doing it, but I had the vague feeling that I could see the beginning of some kind of light off in the distance. And it just wasn’t in me to give anything away.