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“We’ll see what we can work out. Thanks, Cal.” He handed the fifty to the bartender and the two did a grip-and-slide handshake.
“So,” I said, as we walked out. “What up, dawg?”
“Niggah please,” he said. “Too white for words.” His shoulders shook with soundless laughter as we walked to his car.
On the way to Choochie’s, he said, “This could be a problem. You should probably wait in the car.”
“Nuh-uh. I’m coming in.”
Little D opened his mouth to protest. “I’ve got to talk to Narsh myself,” I said. “I’ve come this far. And I’m going to see him.”
His mouth snapped shut for an instant. “Fine. Wear my jacket. And there’s a ball cap in the back seat. Put it on and pull it down low over your face. You have real short hair, anyway. With any luck, you’ll look more like a guy—or at least a little less white.”
I reached back and found a burgundy-and-gold Redskins cap. “Got any brown shoe polish?”
“Say what?”
“It worked for Gene Wilder in Silver Streak?” I grinned.
He smiled and shook his head. “You trippin’, girl, you know that?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Choochie’s turned out to be an upscale version of Calvin’s. The booths were cushioned in red Naugahyde, the air was less than aromatic, and the place had a dim glow. The few customers were male, black, and ranged from young to middle-aged. Rap blasted from a jukebox. Little D’s jacket hung halfway to my knees. I felt like a kid playing dress-up. As we approached the bartender, I pulled the cap down until the bill practically touched my nose.
“Lookin’ for Narsh. You seen him?” Little D asked.
The bartender, rail-thin, with crepey skin, gazed at Little D with blank brown eyes. “Ain’t seen no one,” he said.
“Next time you don’t see him, be sure and tell him Little D lookin’ for him. We got some bidness to discuss. About his employer. And a murder.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He glanced at a hallway leading to the back of the bar.
“We’ll be in the booth over there.” Little D cocked a thumb toward the far corner, then grabbed a bowl of pretzels before walking to the booth. Soon as we sat down, the bartender vanished.
Little D nibbled a pretzel. “Shit, these mothers are stale.” He threw it back in the bowl.
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s the last time I eat bar pretzels.” Little D grinned.
The bartender reappeared, followed by another man wearing a red do-rag. Short and well-built, his jeans molded to his well-muscled legs. His skin-tight T-shirt showed off bulging pecs. The bartender returned to his job and the muscle man continued in our direction. My stomach clenched.
“Whatchoo want?” he barked at Little D.
“Narsh, isn’t it?”
“Why the mutherfuck I be talkin’ to you if I wasn’t?”
Little D replied in an even tone. “We have some questions for you about Rodney Fisher.”
“What this got to do wit’ murder?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, if you don’t know, I sure the fuck don’t either.”
The rap song stopped abruptly. A sappy ballad took its place. Narsh started to turn away. Little D said, “Then let’s talk about something else.”
“What?”
