21

Strange was doing something he called 'the chicken leg,' Janine dancing beside him, as 'Night Train' blared through his living room stereo. Quinn was nearby, shouting out encouragement between hits from a can of beer. Juana sat on the couch, twisting up a number from some herb and papers she had found in her purse. Greco lay on the floor with his head between his paws, his tail slowly thumping the carpet.

'Sonny Liston used to train to that one,' said Strange, as the song ended.

'Like you were doin' right there?' asked Quinn.

'Naw, man, that was a dance we used to do. Check this out.' Strange held up a CD with a photograph of a sixties-looking white girl on its cover. 'Mr Otis Redding. Otis Blue.'

'You already played that Solomon Burke. What, are we working our way up to modern times here?'

'This is the man right here,' Strange said, as Steve Cropper's bluesy guitar kicked it off on 'Ole Man Trouble,' the horns and then Otis's vocal coming behind it.

'Got any Motown?'

'Shoot, Terry, Motown ain't nothin' but soul music for white people, man.'

'How do I know? I wasn't even alive when this shit was playin' on the radio.'

'And I was still gettin' press-and-curls,' added Janine. 'Barely a child.'

'I was there,' said Strange. 'And it was right.'

Juana walked over with a joint in her hand. 'You guys want some of this?'

'I do,' said Quinn.

'Been a while for me,' said Strange.

'Come on,' said Juana.

'You all aren't gonna start acting funny now, are you?' asked Janine.

'What's this "you all" stuff?' said Strange.

The four of them stood in the middle of the living room floor and smoked the joint. Strange took Quinn's shotgun, but Juana refused it. Janine just waved her hand and laughed. By the time the joint was a roach, they were all alternately giggling and arguing over the next piece of music to be played.

Strange put Motor Booty Affair on the CD player and turned up the volume. 'The power of Parliament. Now we're gonna roll with it, y'all.'

The four of them danced, tentatively at first, to the complex, dense songs. The bass line was snaky and insistent, and the melodies bubbled up in the mix, and as the rhythms insinuated themselves into their bodies they let go and found the groove. They had broken a sweat by the fifth cut.

Strange dimmed the lights and put on Al Green's The Belle Album.

'Reminds me of those blue-light parties we used to have,' said Strange.

'That was before my time, too,' said Janine, kissing him on the mouth.

They slow-dragged to the title tune. Janine had her cheek resting on Strange's chest, moving in her stocking feet. Quinn and Juana made out like high-schoolers as they danced. As the cut ended, Janine checked her watch and told Strange that it was time to go.

'Lionel ought to be getting back to my house by now,' she said. 'I want to be there for him when he arrives.'

'Yeah, we need to clear out of here,' said Strange.

'Where's the head?' asked Quinn.

'Up the stairs,' said Strange.

Quinn went up to the second floor. He saw the bathroom, an open door that led to a bedroom and sleeper porch, and two more bedrooms, one of which had been set up as an office. Quinn looked over his shoulder at the empty flight of stairs and walked into the office.

The office appeared to be well used. Strange's desk was a countertop set on two columns of file cabinets. Atop the desk was a monitor, speakers, a keyboard, and a mouse pad, and scattered papers and general clutter. Quinn went around the desk.

Beside the desk, Strange had mounted a wooden CD rack to the wall. In the rack were western movie sound tracks: the Leone Dollars trilogy, Once Upon a Time in the West, The Magnificent Seven, Return of the Magnificent Seven, My Name Is Nobody, Navajo Joe, The War Wagon, Two Mules for Sister Sara, The Professionals, Duel at Diablo, The Big Country, The Big Gundown, and others. There was no evidence in this room of the funk and soul music from the sixties and seventies that Strange loved so much. Quinn wondered if Strange was hiding this collection here, if he was embarrassed to have his taste for western sound tracks on display for his friends.

Quinn looked at the papers on the desk. Stock related documents, mostly, along with report forms with the Strange Investigations logo printed across the top. A heap of matchbooks and a faded photograph of a pretty young woman. He picked the photograph up, recognizing the image as that of Chris Wilson's striking sister. Quinn remembered her from the newspaper stories and television reports that had been broadcast the day of the funeral.

'You see a toilet in here?' said Strange from the doorway.

Quinn looked up. 'Sorry, man. I'm naturally nosy, I guess.'

Strange's eyes were pink and lazy. He folded his arms and leaned on the door frame.

'Why have a photo of Wilson's sister?' said Quinn.

'For the simple reason that I'm beginning to think Sondra Wilson's the key to this whole thing.'

'You talk to her?'

Strange shook his head. 'Gonna have to find her first. Her own mother doesn't know where she is. Sondra's a junkie, man, got a deep heroin jones. Been away from the house a long while now. Wilson was looking to hook up with her, maybe bring her back home, is what I think. And another thing I think is, on the night he was killed, Chris got a phone call had something to do with Sondra.'

Quinn dropped the photograph to the desktop. 'You think Ricky Kane had something to do with that?'

'I like your instincts, Terry.'

'Well, do you?'

'It crossed my mind.'

'You need to talk to Kane.'

'If he's involved, it won't do any good to talk to him. It would shut him up for real, and I got no kind of leverage. It might even hurt my chances of finding Sondra.'

'That's what you're looking to do now?'

'Yeah,' said Strange. 'Finish what Chris Wilson started. Bring her home.'

'Because you know you got nothing else for Leona Wilson, right? You know there was nothing deeper than what got put on the record about my involvement in the death of her son.'

'You tellin' me?'

'I'm asking you, Derek.'

'Look here, man.' Strange rubbed his cheeks and exhaled slowly. 'God damn, I am fucked up. Haven't smoked herb in years, you want the truth. Don't know why I did tonight. But I got to blame it on something, I guess.'

'Blame what?'

'The crazy thing I'm gettin' ready to ask you to do. See, my associate, Ron, he's gonna be busy next week. And I could use your help.'

'Name it.'

'A tail and surveillance on Ricky Kane, for starters. I was thinkin' Monday morning.'

'Tell me what time.'

'You don't even have a car.'

'I plan to go out tomorrow and buy one.'

'Just like that.'

'Gettin' tired of Juana chauffeuring me around.'

'Okay, then. I'll call you in the evening, let you know where we can meet.'

'Derek?'

'What?'

'This mean I'm off the hook?'

'Aw, shit,' said Strange, chuckling from deep in his gut. 'You're somethin', man.'

'I'm serious, Derek.'

'Okay.' Strange unfolded his arms. 'That hook you're talkin' about, you put yourself on it. You got to admit to yourself the reality of the situation. You got to free your own self, man.'

'You just said-'

'I said that I suspect there was something with Chris Wilson and his sister. That her lifestyle is what drove him to D Street that night. But you yourself admitted that Wilson was tryin' to tell you and your partner that he was a cop. He was screaming his badge number out to you, man, but you wouldn't listen.'

'Look-'

'You wouldn't listen. You saw a black man with a gun and you saw a criminal, and you made up your mind. Yeah, there was noise and confusion and lights, I know about all that. But would you have listened to him if he had been white? Would you have pulled that trigger if Wilson had been white? I don't think so, Terry. Cut through all the extra bullshit, and you're gonna have to just go ahead and admit it, man: you killed a man because he was black.'