George Pelecanos - DC Noir

Cort nodded as he took down the account. “And why did Gato kill him?”

Budweiser explained: Four months before, Gato and two other men had driven the four of them and eight others in a van from their village near San Salvador across the Mexican border into California, then to D.C. Each man owed $1,800. Each man had to start paying off his debt two weeks after arriving in D.C.

Roberto had been working steadily in construction, and paying, until he fell off a second-floor scaffolding and broke his hip. A week after Roberto missed his first payment, his mom in El Salvador was kidnapped by the coyote crew. Gato told Roberto he needed to come up with a thousand dollars.

Chicago gestured to his friends. “We all pitched in, others too. Roberto paid, and his mother was freed. But two days later, Gato told Roberto that was just a tax, he needed to keep up his payments.”

Budweiser made a circular motion with his index finger near his head — the universal loco gesture. “Gato smokes PCP.”

Jackpot.

Most victims were drug slingers, bandits, or enforcers. Editors didn’t break a sweat over them. But this was what the Homicides called a real murder. This had front-page potential.

Cort said, “Describe Gato.”

Chicago said, “He’s about your size, but bigger, like he lifts weights. He’s about twenty-five. His hair is short, slicked back.”

“Anything else? A scar, anything like that?”

Chicago shrugged. Budweiser rubbed his chin.

Salvadoran flag said, “Yeah, the tattoo.”

“What tattoo?”

“He has a big tattoo of a dollar sign on his left bicep. He always wears tank tops or T-shirts with the left sleeve cut off to show it off,” Salvadoran flag said. Chicago and Budweiser nodded in assent.

“Just on his left arm?”

“Yes,” Salvadoran flag said.

Cort wrote it down. “How can I find him?”

Chicago said, “He shows up at Don Juan’s every Monday, around 7:00. To collect from a waitress.”

“You sure?”

“She’s my girlfriend.”

Nice . Cort figured he had all he needed. He looked at the three and said, “So, what are your names?”

Budweiser and El Sal looked at Chicago. Chicago thought about it and said, “Michael Jordan.”

Budweiser said, “Michael Jackson.”

El Sal said, “George Bush.”

Cort smiled. He thanked them and started walking back to the apartment building. He’d taken one step when it hit him. He pivoted. “Have you talked to the police?”

The three men shook their heads. Michael Jordan said, “No, the paramedics shooed us away. I tried to tell them, but they didn’t speak Spanish.”

Cort allowed himself a quick smile. He’d score a bucket load of chits from Homicide if he handed them eyeball wit-

His eyes swept across the three men. “Would you be willing to talk to a detective?”

Silence. Finally, Michael Jordan said, “We don’t want any problems.”

“Problems” meant immigration. Cort said, “The police are only interested in who killed Roberto.”

Michael Jordan said, “How do we know?”

“You can trust me.”

Michael Jordan cocked his head to the side. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Cort looked at the other two men. No give in either of their faces. The cross around Michael Jackson’s neck gave him an idea. “When you all went to Mass this morning, it was at Sacred Heart, right?”

The three men nodded.

Cort thought about asking them to wait, decided it might spook them. “Thanks.” He turned and began jogging east on Park Road, toward 16th Street.

Brad Bellinger hustled onto the street and held up a palm. With his dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and square jaw, Bellinger bore an unsettling resemblance to a full-sized Ken doll.

Cort pulled up. Bellinger said, “Get anything good from those guys?”

Each of the local TV news outfits had a cheesy promotional slogan. The slogan for Bellinger’s station was, “ We report to you!

Cort pointed his index finger at Bellinger. “You report to me!”

Bellinger’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Cort turned and resumed jogging.

“I promise, if you help the police, no harm will come to you,” Father Dave said in Spanish. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead. Father Dave and Cort had sprinted over together.

The three men said nothing.

Cort chimed in, “The police want the killer. And they wouldn’t dare do anything against you if you’re…” he paused, trying to find the right word, “represented by Father Dave.”

Father Dave put a hand on Cort’s shoulder. “You can trust Cortez. He wrote that article about the church.”

At Father Dave’s request, a church secretary had typed a translation of the piece, Xeroxed hundreds of copies, and distributed them to parishioners.

Michael Jordan’s eyes flashed with recognition. “You wrote that?”

“Yes.”

Michael Jordan nodded. “Okay.”

Cort said, “Good. I’ll get the detective.” He ambled across the street, pleased with himself. He’d earn beaucoup chits with Homicide for hooking them up with the key witnesses.

His editors would suffer massive strokes, then fire him for violating journalistic ethics as they dropped to the floor, if they ever learned about half the deals he cut on the street. They had no idea. Cort knew if he played strictly by the book, he’d end up parroting useless press releases.

He was halfway across the street when a stout, fiftyish man in a tight tan suit, white shirt, brown tie, and brown loafers stepped out of the building.

Detective Rocky Piazza — two hundred and twenty pounds of grief.

Cort stopped in his tracks and groaned.

Piazza was built like a fire hydrant. Unfortunately, he was about as intelligent as one. He had curly, sandy-colored hair, chubby chipmunk cheeks, and brown eyes that were set a little too close together. Piazza’s ruddy complexion turned beet red when he was riled up. Cort knew because Piazza turned beet red every time their paths crossed.

In two years on the beat, Cort had encountered all of the Homicides. Most were cordial. Some were indifferent. A few had become sources. Piazza, however, was overtly hostile. They’d first met at a murder scene in Columbia Heights. When Cort introduced himself, Piazza had snarled, “I know who you are. You’re like a fucking cancer.”

Halfway down the walkway, Piazza paused to say something to the crime scene techs, then continued toward the front gate.

Cort thought about it. Not even Piazza was dumb enough to turn his back on three eyeball witnesses…

He hit the sidewalk as Piazza pulled the yellow crime scene tape over his head and stepped through the gate. “Detective Piazza, I have something—”

Piazza looked at Cort as if he was something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “Call PIO,” he grunted — the department’s Public Information Office. Cop-speak for “fuck off”; the boys in PIO worked bankers’ hours.

“I have some—”

Piazza chested up to Cort as his face went beet red. He pointed a stubby index finger in Cort’s face, fury in his eyes.

“I said, call PIO. I’m not talking to you, understand?” Piazza pivoted and marched to his sedan.

Plaintively, Cort said, “But I’m trying to help you.” Piazza ignored him. As the detective slid into the car and slammed the door shut, Cort cried out, “I’ve got witnesses!”

Piazza pulled away from the curb.

“Goddamn moron,” Cort muttered as the sedan rolled away. He looked over and saw Father Dave turn up his palms in a “What’s going on?” gesture. Michael Jordan and his friends looked puzzled.

Slowly, Cort walked toward them, marveling at the purity of Piazza’s stupidity, wondering what he’d tell Father Dave and the witnesses, wishing that Phil Harrick was there.