Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

“Who wants to know?” She brought a hand up and poked a smoldering cigarette between her lips. “You a cop?”

“No. But I need to talk to him.”

“Well, he ain’t here right now.” Her cigarette bobbed as she spoke. “Fact, I ain’t seen him for two, three days maybe.”

“So who else was here to see him? And when?”

She lifted her hand and rubbed her fingers together. “Fork it over,” she said.

I gave her a twenty, wondering if it was enough. It seemed to please her. She took the cigarette in her stubby fingers and a cloud of smoke drifted from her mouth. She smiled, revealing a missing molar on the upper left.

“A big, bulky guy in a fancy suit come ’round. Had light-blond, buzz cut hair. He acted like a cop and I could tell he carried a piece.” She patted the area just below her shoulder.

“A gun?”

“Naw, a piece of cake. Yeah, a gun. Whatta ya think?”

I soldiered on with the questioning, despite the odd feeling that I was starring in the Philadelphia version of The Wire, as written by Damon Runyon. “When was this again?”

“About three days ago, I guess.”

“That was the last time you saw Cooper, right?”

“Right. Cooper didn’t seem too happy to hear about the guy.”

“Not happy how?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Not terribly upset or nothin’. Just not happy.”

“You said he was popular. Anyone else been looking for him?”

She nodded. “Yup.”

Impatient with her monosyllabic responses, I struggled to maintain my cool. “And who was that?”

She lifted her hand and did another finger rub. I pulled out another twenty. This was adding up. I wondered how I’d describe it in my expense account. Research? Worked for me.

“Two times, a tall, skinny nigger come by looking for him. Yesterday and the day before. He was in a uniform, so the first time, I opened up. Thought he was UPS or sumthin’, but I shoulda know’d it wasn’t, cuz the uniform color weren’t right. He was in blue, not brown.”

“Like a blue jumpsuit?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Looked like a nigger. Just like any other.”

“Long hair? Short? Light skin? Dark?” I tried to prod her to describe him in greater detail than just the N-word. It may have been too much for this woman. “Anything you remember?”

“I don’t know. Brown skin. Dark eyes. Short hair.” She ran through the description in a sing-song. “Just another—”

“Old? Young?” I said, before she could spit the word out again.

“Not old, not young. You can never tell with them people.”

“Any distinguishing marks? A scar? A tattoo?”

She shook her head. “Nothing on his face but a damn smile. Least ’til I tole’ him Mr. Cooper weren’t here. I couldn’t tell you about any tattoos. His arms and legs was all covered up.” She sucked on the cigarette.