Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Twenty-seven

"Then you haven't noticed a tail these past few days, I take it."

"Wasn't looking for one," said John. "But, even if I don't see one, I know where to check for a guy."

                                                                                     ***

Evergreen Condominiums sweltered under the early August sun. John drove up the hill past carefully tended flower beds, pulled into a visitor space, and sat wondering who to approach: the older blond lady walking her Yorkie around the complex, or—John squinted and moved his head to peer between the trees at the parking spaces several yards away. A red Mustang convertible was parked there with the top down, and yes, an elderly man wearing a straw hat was sitting in it.

John got out and walked around the corner. The strident tones of Rush Limbaugh floated over from the Mustang, along with the scent of cigar smoke. The man turned to watch him approach, taking a puff and holding the cigar between his fingers.

John walked up, pulled his blazer aside to display his badge, and extended his hand for a shake. "Detective John Robin, Richmond Police Department. How are you today, sir?"

"Earl Everette," said the man. He shook John's hand and then reached to turn down Rush. "What's the haps?" He stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. He had a jovial smile, kind eyes, and a mustache, but the skin around his eyes reminded John of wrinkled, tanned leather, especially his left eye.

"I'm out here trying to follow up some leads on a case we're working on," said John. "Are you out here a lot, with the top down, smoking like this?"

"Yeah," said Everette. "Wife won't let me smoke in the house. Says it ruins the, uh..." He thought a minute, then made a swiping motion back and forth as if he were holding a paintbrush.

"Paint?" John guessed.

Everette pointed with an index finger. "Paint," he said. "Yeah, that's right. The paint."

John glanced behind. The woman with the Yorkie had completed her circuit and disappeared into one of the buildings several yards down. John wondered if he had picked the right resident to interview. If the guy had Alzheimer's or something, he wasn't a reliable informant.

John turned back to the old man. "Ever see any suspicious activity out here?"

"Yeah," said Everette, "over there!" and he pointed to where the woman had just gone inside. "Guy in that building is selling dope out of his apartment."

Clay's building. Things were looking a little brighter. "How do you know that?"

"We have a parking space in front of that building," said Everette, "and there's always somebody in it. My sister—no! My mother—no! My ... shit."

John raised his eyebrows and ventured forth with a guess. "Wife?"

"Yeah, that's right. My wife parks there, and she always has to park over there instead." He pointed in the opposite direction, at a wooden privacy fence all the way at the other end of the complex.

"That's quite a walk," said John.

"Yeah, especially if it's raining or you got ..." Everette trailed off for a minute, then finished with, "Stuff." He held his arms out to indicate packages.

"How do you know it's drugs?" said John.

"People pull in there, different car every time, and they only stay five or ten minutes. You don't have to be too smart to figure out what's going on."