The Night Gardener (28 page)

“Her hair makes her look taller than she is,” said Tate. “Plus, she might be wearing high heels. These fashion girls like to get that height thing goin. Makes ’em look more slim.”

“She fat where it counts.”

“She dresses right for the type of body she got.”

“Where you read that, in that girl magazine?”

“I’m just sayin. She got that effect she was going for.” Tate noticed women’s clothing, their shoes and jewelry, how they carried themselves, all that. He was interested, was all it was. But he didn’t talk about it much around Nesto, who thought that reading magazines about such things, and indeed reading of any kind, was gay.

“I worry about you, son.”

“I’m just admiring her effort, is all.”

“Yeah, well, we been admiring her long enough.”

“I ain’t happy about it, either. My ass hurts from sittin out here, too.”

“Sure it don’t hurt from something else?”

“Huh?”

“Has someone been puttin their pork inside you?”

“Fuck you, dawg.”

“You read them fashion magazines all the time; I worry.”

“Least I
can
read.”

“While you gettin pounded from behind.”

“Go on, Nesto.”

They were coworkers, but they had little in common. Michael Tate had arrived at where he was as a transfer point to someplace else. He was like all those waiters in New York he’d read about, who weren’t waiters for real but actors who were on the way to being movie and television stars. That’s how Tate thought of himself. He wasn’t about working a minimum-wage thing, though, until he blew up. No way was he going to leave out his house without a nice outfit on or money in his pocket, because he was like that. So here he was.

His older brother, William, now incarcerated, had been in the trade with Raymond Benjamin when both of them were young, and when Benjamin had come uptown from prison, he had put Michael on. But Michael Tate was smart enough to know that the money, as good as it was, was just walking-around money compared to what those clothing designers made. If soft-ass rappers could do it, shit, why couldn’t Michael Tate?

Question was, how did you go from here to there? He guessed the way to start was to work on getting his GED. But that was a conversation he would have with himself another time.

For now he was stuck with Nesto Henderson, in a shit-on-your-shoe parking lot, keeping an eye on a young woman who probably had hurt no one. Being called a faggy by this Bama who got no pussy himself but who felt the need to call him names because he read magazines. To top it off, his stomach was growling, too.

“I’m hungry,” said Tate.

“Go over there to that slope house and get a steak and cheese, then. Matter of fact, get me one while you’re at it.”

“How you so stupid? You don’t never buy a sub from a place got Chinese food, too. And you don’t never eat no Chinese from a place sells subs.”

“I’m not having no Pedro food,” said Henderson, speaking of the papusa place.

“Look, she ain’t goin nowhere for a while. She got her client to take care of, and anyway, it’s too early in the day for her to get off. Let’s find someplace and eat some real food, come on back later.”

Henderson looked at Chantel Richards, admiring the movement of her hips as she listened to the music they were playing in the shop. “Shame if we had to kill her. Ain’t too many champions walkin around like that.”

“We just supposed to follow her to where she layin up with that Romeo.”

“I’m just sayin, we might have to.” Henderson nodded at the ignition. “Come on, let’s go.”

Tate started the Nissan and pulled out of their space. He stopped at the yellow up on Riggs and was careful to use his turn signal at the intersection beyond. There were live guns under the seats, and he did not want to risk being pulled over by the law.

Nesto Henderson had put work in. Least, he claimed he had. Michael Tate could take care of himself and physically protect Raymond Benjamin if he had to, but he hadn’t signed up for the doom squad. After all, Benjamin had told him that he was done with that part of the game himself.

I ain’t about to kill no woman, thought Michael Tate. That ain’t me.

T
HE BOX WAS
stuffy, as it always was. Dominique Lyons sat on a stool bolted to the floor. Its seat was deliberately small and would be uncomfortable to sit on for a man of size. Lyons had not been leg-ironed to the stool’s base. At this point in the interview Detective Bo Green, seated across the table, was still Lyons’s friend. They had been talking for just a short while.

Lyons wore an Authentic Redskins jersey with Sean Taylor’s name and number, 21, stitched on the back. The Authentics went for one thirty-five, one hundred forty on the street. The brand-new Jordans on Lyons’s feet retailed for a hundred and a half. Lyons’s jewelry, a real Rolex, rings, diamond earrings, and a platinum chain, were of five-figure value. When Green asked him what he did for a living, Lyons said that he had a car-detailing business on the street where he lived.

“I see you’re a Taylor fan,” said Green.

“Boy’s a beast,” said Lyons, tall of trunk and long limbed. He had broad shoulders and an angular, handsome face. His braids were long and framed his cheekbones. His eyes were deep brown and flat, a taxidermist’s ideal.

“He attended Miami, so that ain’t no surprise. You know those Hurricanes
always
come to play.”

Lyons nodded. He looked blandly into Bo Green’s eyes.

“You played Interhigh ball, didn’t you?” said Green. He was taking a shot due to Lyons’s height, weight, and athletic build. Green knew that some coach had gotten a look at Lyons at one time in his life and tried.

“Eastern,” said Lyons. “I was at D-back.”

“Corner or safety?”

“Free safety.”

“That would have been when, the late nineties?”

“I ain’t play but one year. Ninety-nine.”

“The Ramblers had a team that year, I remember right. Shoot, I think I saw you play. Y’all did go up against Ballou that year, didn’t you?”

It was a lie and Lyons read it. But his ego could not let it die.

“I started varsity my sophomore year.”

“You look like you can hit.”

“I was
pan
cakin younguns,” said Lyons.

“Why you only play one season?”

“I graduated my sophomore year, too.”

“Took the early out, huh?”

“I guess I’m one of them young prodigies you hear about. I was on the accelerated plan.”

“Football’s a good game. Useful for some as well. You might’ve parlayed it into something else if you had hung with it.”

“Guess I shoulda talked to my guidance counselor. If I could find one.”

“I coach a football team in Southeast,” said Green, his tone patient and unwavering. “Me and some other fellas I came up with down around that area. We got three weight divisions. If the boys come to practice regular and show me their report cards every quarter, and if they get passing grades, I guarantee they’ll see time on the field. I don’t even care if they got skills.”

“So?” said Dominique Lyons.

Bo Green smiled ferally at the man on the small stool. “You funny, man. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Sayin, that’s a good story. But we ain’t here to socialize. Unless you gonna charge me with something, you need to let me out this piece, ’cause I got things I got to do.”

“You’ve been charged with marijuana possession,” said Green.

“I’ll cop to that,” said Lyons. “That’s like, what, a parking ticket in this town. So give me my discharge papers and my court date, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Like to ask you some questions while I got you here.”

“Regardin what?”

“A homicide. Victim was a young man name of Jamal White. You know him?”

“Lawyer,” said Lyons.

“All’s I’m askin is, are you familiar with that name?”

Lyons stared at Green.

“You’re correct, Dominique. You got a right to bring in an attorney. But you know, that lawyer advises you not to talk to us, it’s gonna ruin the opportunity you got for leniency later on. I mean, if you were to cooperate, give us some information that would be helpful to this homicide investigation, for example, that marijuana charge you caught today, most likely it’s gonna go away.”

“I seen that TV show,” said Lyons.

“What’s that?”

“You know the one. Where that white dude gets the suspects in the interview room and talks them out of their right to an attorney, like, every week for ten years straight? And then pushes that yellow pad across the table and tells the suspect to write out his confession? And then the suspect does it? Yeah, I seen it. Trouble is, ain’t no motherfucker I know ever been stupid enough to do that. Maybe in New York they ignorant like that. But not in D.C.”

“You
are
smart, Dominique.”

“Said I was.”

“Like Doogie Howser.”

“If you say so.”

“We’re talkin to your girlfriend Darcia.”

“That right?”

“She as smart as you?”

Bo Green got out of his seat. He looked down at Lyons, who was examining the table in front of him. His hands, steady throughout the interview, were rhythmically tapping the table’s scarred surface.

“I’m gonna grab a soda,” said Green. “You want anything?”

“Let me get a Slice.”

“We don’t have that. How about Mountain Dew?”

Lyons nodded shortly. Green glanced at his watch, then looked directly into the camera mounted in a corner of the ceiling.

“Eleven twenty a.m.,” said Green before he left the box.

Bo Green waited for the door to shut behind him with its audible lock. He walked into the adjacent video monitor room, where Detectives Ramone and Antonelli sat, Antonelli with the Sports section open in his lap. On one screen was Dominique Lyons, still staring at the table, shifting his bottom, trying to find a comfortable spot on the seat. On the other were Rhonda Willis and Darcia Johnson, seated in box number 2. Ramone was focused on that screen. Rhonda’s soft, steady voice came from the speakers.

“Anything?” said Green.

“Rhonda’s taking it slow,” said Ramone.

“Trick-ass bitch ain’t said nary a word yet,” said Antonelli.

“I love it when you talk like that, Tony,” said Green. “It’s so street authentic.”

“That is some nice booty, though,” said Antonelli.

“There’s an expression you don’t hear much these days,” said Green. “Been a few decades, come to think of it.”

“Your boy Dominique,” said Ramone. “He’s real cooperative.”

“That’s my buddy,” said Green. “After this is over we gonna go, like, on a camping trip, somethin. Sit around a fire and sing ‘Kum Bah Ya’.”

“I don’t mean to be negative,” said Ramone, “but I have the feeling Dominique’s not going to confess.”

“He’s seen that TV show,” said Green. “Anyway, let me get on out of here and find him a Mountain Dew.”

Green exited the room as Ramone continued to watch the screen. Rhonda Willis was leaning across the table, a lit match in her hand, bringing fire to Darcia Johnson’s cigarette.

“Says here
Lee
-Var Arrington’s not one hundred percent,” said Antonelli, his eyes on the newspaper. “He’s
doubtful
for this Sunday’s game. Ten million a year, or whatever it is, and he doesn’t have to go to work ’cause his fuckin knee hurts. Me, I got hemorrhoids like grapes, hanging between my ass crack, and I show up every day. Am I missing something or what?”

“It’s possible,” said Ramone.

In box number 2, Rhonda Willis blew out the match.

Darcia dragged on her cigarette and tapped ash into a foil tray. She was freckled, with hazel eyes. Her body was full and ripe. Having a baby had not ruined her figure. In fact, it had made her more voluptuous, an asset in her job.

“Tell me about Jamal White,” said Rhonda.

Darcia Johnson looked away.

“It’s okay to talk about Jamal,” said Rhonda, repeating the boy’s name deliberately. “I know about your relationship. Jamal’s friend Leon Mayo? He told us you two had a thing.”

“Wasn’t no thing,” said Darcia. “I’m with Dominique.”

“Jamal was sweet on you, though.”

“He could have been. I ain’t know him that well, really.”

“No? The man who works the door down at the Twilight is a police officer. He says you two were talking at the bar the night of Jamal’s murder.”

“I talk to a lot of men down there. I get paid to. That’s how I get tips.”

“And by dancing.”

“Sure.”

“What else?”

Darcia didn’t answer.

“I been to that place you stay with Shaylene Vaughn,” said Rhonda, her tone free of aggression or animosity. “I got eyes.”

“So?”

“Do you give Dominique all the money you earn?”

Darcia dragged on her cigarette.

“Is Dominique Lyons your pimp?”

Darcia exhaled a stream of smoke into the small room.

“I’m not judging you, girl,” said Rhonda. “I’m just tryin to find out what happened to that young man. I met his grandmother and I saw her tears. His people deserve to know, don’t you think?”

“Jamal was just a boy I knew.”

“If you say.”

“I’m sorry that he got killed. But I don’t know nothin about it.”

“Okay.”

“Can I see my baby now?”

“He’s with your mother in the playroom we got. Your father’s there too, I expect.”

“Isaiah’s not sick, is he?”

“He’s fine.”

“My mother lied to get me arrested, then.”

“She lied to help you, Darcia. She did right for you and your son.”

“How’s it gonna be right between me and my baby when I’m in lock-up?”

Darcia hit her smoke and stabbed it dead in the ashtray. She rubbed at her eyes.

“About Jamal.”

Darcia made a small wave of her hand.

“Take your time,” said Rhonda.

“We done, far as I’m concerned.”

“Not yet. I’d like to get up out of here my own self, but we still got some things we need to discuss. Unfortunately, I caught this homicide.…”

“You can’t hold me on no marijuana charge.”

“Gonna take a little while to process the paperwork.”

“This some bullshit. You
know
it is.”

Rhonda let Darcia have her anger and watched as it passed.

“You all right? You ain’t sick or nothin like that, are you? You comin down off a high?”

Darcia shook her head.

“That’s good,” said Rhonda. “Listen, you want a soda, somethin?”

“I’ll take a Diet Coke, you got it.”

“Gonna have to be a Pepsi,” said Rhonda. “That work for you?”

Darcia nodded. Rhonda stood, looked at her watch, then looked into the camera lens and said, “Eleven thirty-five a.m.”

Rhonda walked from the room, waited for the door to lock behind her, and got a Diet Pepsi from the vending machine. She carried it to the video room, where Ramone and Antonelli sat watching Bo Green and Dominique Lyons on screen number 1.

“Where my whip at?” said Lyons.

“Prob’ly on the way to the impound lot,” said Green.

“Better not be one scratch on it,” said Lyons, “or y’all gonna have a lawsuit on your hands.”

“That is a nice Lexus,” said Green. “What is that, the four hundred?”

“Four thirty,” said Lyons.

“Were you driving that the other night?”

“What night you talkin about?”

“The night Jamal White was murdered,” said Green.

“Who?”

“Jamal White.”

“I ain’t familiar with that name.”

“You had a confrontation with him at the Twilight the night of his death. We have a witness.”

“Lawyer,” said Dominique Lyons.

Green folded his hands across his huge torso, sat back in his chair, and stared straight ahead.

“Bo looks kinda sad, doesn’t he?” said Antonelli.

“That’s frustration,” said Ramone.

“You see a young man who’s keeping his mouth shut,” said Rhonda. “I see one who’s talkin his ass off.”

“For real?”

“Let me get back in there and do my thing.”

“You need an assistant?” said Antonelli. “I know how to loosen a young woman’s tongue. All it takes is the Plug charm.”

“And plenty of alcohol,” said Ramone.

“I got this,” said Rhonda. She left the room.

Ramone turned down the sound on screen 1 because there was nothing to listen to of value. They waited for Rhonda to get back in box number 2. She had a seat and pushed the can of soda across the table to Darcia. Rhonda let Darcia pop the tab on the can and take a long pull. She lit Darcia’s next cigarette.

“I got four sons,” said Rhonda, pulling back the match.

Darcia smoked her cigarette.