Today's Reading
CHAPTER TWO
Stryker and I go through a room where Sister Grace's security is stationed. I'm normally checked by her enforcers for weapons or a wire, but not today. There's no time for that. Everybody's in a hurry to get me in to see Sister Grace. And everybody is nervous. I really don't like to be surrounded by a group of nervous, heavily armed men. Stryker leads me immediately into the parlor, a room I know too well.
It's a cozy space furnished with worn, somewhat faded 1950s furniture. There's a floral chintz-covered sofa, several large, overstuffed armchairs with poofy cushions embroidered with images of cats, and two side tables each decorated with a vase filled with African violets.
A faint smell of lavender mixed with Marlboro cigarette smoke lingers in the air. There are no windows—the only light comes from two floor lamps placed on either end of the sofa. A picture on one wall shows Jesus Christ surrounded by adoring children. The room is furnished to be welcoming. I never feel welcome. Or safe. I feel trapped, with a strong desire to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
This room is the most dangerous place in Washington, DC. And home to the most dangerous woman in Washington. That's saying a lot.
A tiny Black woman sitting on the sofa summons for me to approach. "Good morning, Detective Zorn," she croaks. "We need to talk."
I look around for the mangy cat she usually holds in her lap but see no sign of him, or her, assuming the thing has a gender. I suppose it's gone to its final reward, like so many of Sister Grace's associates.
Stryker stands watching me carefully, his back to the door, his porkpie hat clutched in his left fist. He's bareheaded to show respect for the lady. His presence is unusual. Normally, Sister Grace insists exchanges between us be strictly private. This isn't the only change in our meeting today. The security outside Sister Grace's building is the highest I've ever seen. She always has gunmen in and around her building, but today there's double the usual number. Cars are parked around the block filled with armed men. More men are patrolling the rooftop. All of them carry walkie-talkies. Sister Grace's people are seriously spooked. Something bad is going down.
"Take a seat, Detective," the old woman directs.
I sit in one of the armchairs across from her. She seems smaller and even more dried up than the last time I saw her. She wears, as always, a cotton ankle-length housedress with a delicate white-lace collar at her throat. Her white hair is cut short. She looks worried. That's not like her.
Sister Grace picks up a crumpled pack of Marlboro cigarettes, and I lean forward to offer her a light with the cigarette lighter I always carry with me. She takes it from my hand, flicks it, and lights her cigarette. Then she examines the lighter, turning it slowly in her fingers.
She coughs. "It's very pretty." She reads the inscription. "As I recall, this has some sentimental value for you."
She's always been curious about that lighter, but I don't talk about it with strangers. And, in matters concerning my private life, Sister Grace is very much a stranger.
"You always use this when you smoke?" she asks.
"I've given up smoking."
"Why you carry this around, then?" She passes the lighter back to me. "I want you to do somethin' for me, Detective Zorn."
Her voice is husky. Age, I wonder, or fear?
"I'm havin' serious trouble. I want you to fix it."
For as long as I can remember, Sister Grace has ruled this part of Washington with an iron fist. This is her territory, and she's never faced trouble she couldn't handle. Except, of course, for the time she had to call me in for help. But that was a family affair. I fixed the problem, although not in the way she expected. Had I refused, I would have ended up roadkill. You do not argue with Sister Grace.
She drags on her cigarette and silently studies the burning end for a long minute. I wonder whether she's getting senile and has forgotten why she sent for me. I glance at Stryker, but he seems unconcerned by Sister Grace's silence.
"It's drugs, Detective," she says at long last.
I was not expecting that at all. Her organization has been dealing drugs in the Washington area for decades. She's never shown any qualms about drugs before.
"You mean you have competition?" I ask.
"I always have competition. I can take care of anybody who gets in my way."
"What's different this time?"
"Speedball."
"Come again?"
...