George Pelecanos: DC Noir

Jimmy got into his black Buick and returned to the place where he and Ricci were keeping the colored gal. When he had first heard the assignment, he was excited. Wow, he thought, the daughter of the owners of his favorite R&B label. Jimmy loved R&B; his hero, from his own tribe, was Louis Prima, the Italian-American who sounded colored because he had grown up in New Orleans. As a street-corner boy, one of the last Italians who lived in East Harlem before the spics took it over, Jimmy Falco had sung on stoops with his group, Spics & Spades. Darker than most Italians, he passed for PR, and fucked as many of them as he did Italian gals. Colored women? Shit, he couldn’t get enough: sweet, dark butter.

After the two hoods grabbed the girl blocks away from Howard University earlier that week, they had driven out to Maryland and put a lid on her. She was scared crazy. She should be. Ricci was as big as the Hydrant was short, though the latter was in charge. Five-foot-four, one hundred seventy pounds of muscle and man, Jimmy was on the rise as a soldier and future crew leader; he followed orders, but did so with style and stealth. Whenever he put some sucker to sleep, he carried out his assignment as painlessly as possible.

But whacking a dame? Orders were orders. The business transaction didn’t go right, and something new had come up.

When he turned the bend onto the gravel road, he could see stars winking at him through the trees above. The air was clean, unlike stinky New York. He parked, then pulled his squat muscular body out of the car, lit a Camel, and trudged toward the little bungalow. He would give Ricci the order to waste her. When he reached the door, he knocked on it three times but heard nothing. He looked around, placed his hand on his heater, and knocked again. Still no response. He put his ear to the door and listened.

That motherfucker.

Jimmy darted around to the side of the bungalow and peeked into the window of the bedroom where the hostage was being kept. Ricci, a towering hulk, was having his way with the girl, who was sitting on the bed with her arms and legs bound.

Jimmy cursed himself for leaving Ricci with her. Ricci had talked about doing something to her, but they both knew that anything untoward with a hostage was strictly forbidden unless sanctioned by the don.

Now, Jimmy had an extremely serious disciplinary problem on his hands; it was a good thing that Ricci wasn’t a “made” man. The Hydrant went to the back door and quietly jimmied the lock. Crossing the room without a sound, he pulled out his silencer and affixed it to his piece.

When Ricci heard his name, he knew instantly he was dead. But reflex action made him go for his holster. The Hydrant plugged him four times: one in the head, two to his heart, and the fourth blew off his putz.

The colored gal screamed her head off until Jimmy told her to shut up and pulled her into the living room. She was in shock, having been struck a few times by Ricci before he molested her.

Exhausted and disoriented, Jimmy decided to report the sudden turn of events. Jimmy untied her legs and told her to grab her shoes. They were heading out.

Back at the rest stop, he parked the car and looked at her.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” he said. “That was very unprofessional. That’s why he was punished. I have to make a call. If you even try to get out of the car, I’ll have to take care of you the way I took care of him. Do you understand?”

The girl was still in shock but had enough awareness to grasp what the short but handsomely ugly man was saying. Jimmy left the car, made his calls, and was back in. He looked at the colored gal again and thought about what he had to do, something that sickened him.

As they approached D.C., two other cars joined them and they drove together to Union Station. Late at night, under the sleepy eyes of indifferent travelers, an exchange was made: a life for a life.

Connie D’Ambrosio, dressed in a chic Chanel suit, was escorted by Dr. Minister Mallory Rex and his chief lieutenant; keeping security were several well-dressed black men known as the Sword of Izlam. Sophia Devereaux, dressed in the dungaree slacks and red cashmere sweater she had been wearing for days, was escorted by Jimmy the Hydrant; they were backed up by several Gambino hoods.

The two men in charge said nothing. They each nodded, prompting their hostages to cross over to their respective.

Finally, Jimmy spoke: “Mr. D’Ambrosio wishes for me to convey his apologies to the Devereaux family about this misunderstanding , and assures you that it will never happen again.”

“It better not,” came the curt reply from the minister. He turned around, taking Sophia with him, his security team covering their backs.

Both parties vanished as the early morning sun seeped through the large windows of the train station.

Jimmy and two other members of the Gambino family headed north with Connie, who held the photos and negatives in her purse, greatly relieved that the whole situation was over. She talked about the “spades” and how they had kept her locked up. The boring food they served her… how stupid those moulianis were. She carried on for a while in this manner.

The car soon pulled back onto the gravel road and came to a stop at the bungalow. Jimmy, sitting up front, told the driver and the other guy, Marcos, to go inside and collect Ricci’s body, which would be stuffed into the trunk.

The Hydrant didn’t understand what hit him: It was very unprofessional, but he started to cry. He was spent.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy?” asked Connie, who treated the lug as one of many “uncles.”

“Nothing,” he choked. When Connie reached forward to console him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her over the seat before she could feel his stiletto cutting her throat.

“Why?” asked Rex.

The Messenger had sent the photos of Connie D’Ambrosio cavorting with Douglas to her father. The Messenger knew that her father would be compelled to murder her to avenge his honor as a man of respect. The deal was that the young woman would call her father and tell him she was being held in exchange for another person — nothing more.

Rex felt that sending the photos was a betrayal, and that the young woman, though a she-devil, had been needlessly sacrificed. “We gave our word,” he said. “That means something.”

“My son,” reflected the Messenger, feeling triumphant, “you gave your word. Besides, one’s word only means something if the other person is worthy of receiving it.”

As a gift, the Messenger handed Rex a copy of one of his favorite books: Machiavelli’s The Prince

Dr. Minister Mallory Rex withdrew from his teacher’s chamber. He had been firmly reinstated, with good standing, into the O.K.A., and the Messenger’s son, Kwami, would become an executive at Groove Records. But as he walked through the halls of the Temple of Ife No. 1, taking in the admiring gazes of those he passed, the minister wondered what the cost was to his soul, and how long would he keep it.

Time would tell.

K Street, N.W.

Though it was not quite 1 o’clock, the Bombay Club was already filled to capacity for Sunday brunch. Its décor reminiscent of a British officers’ lounge in occupied India, the restaurant’s dining room shimmered with the buzz of convivial conversation from the customary mix of Senators, Congressmen, White House aides, K Street lobbyists, TV pundits, and print journalists. The insiders acknowledged each other discretely.

Surrounded by the whiff of coriander and piano jazz played with stately reserve, Jordan Port sat at the bar, his back to the clipped cordiality. He hunched into his camel’s hair topcoat, its collar turned high, incredulous still that Mendes had invited him to where he was no longer welcomed.