George Pelecanos - What It Was

“Thought you left outta there clean,” said Jefferson.

“I did,” said Jones. “The loose piece was Roland Williams. Ain’t that right, Clarence?”

Bowman, who wore a security guard uniform during the day, was now smart in street clothes from the Cavalier Men’s Shop. He was the quiet type and had spoken little since arriving at Jefferson’s house. “Vaughn and that half-man prosecutor paid him a visit.”

“Cochnar,” said Jones.

“They weren’t the only ones,” said Bowman. “Two other white boys came by, looked like professionals. When they left, the nurses came runnin and shit, ’cause those white boys had laid some kind of hurtin on Williams.”

“That means Williams talked to them, too,” said Jones. “I shoulda killed that motherfucker dead.”

“What’d the white boys look like?” said Jones.

“Spaghetti benders,” said Bowman. “One dark, one blond.”

Bowman didn’t say much unless it was important, but he had a way with a phrase and an offbeat sense of humor. Used to do these funny imitations of neighborhood folks when he and Jones were kids, back when they were just starting out, learning from the older hustlers in the original Temperance Court. That was before the government moved their families to another location. Some still called the old alley dwelling Square 274, with bitterness and fondness, both at once, in their tone.

“They lookin for the heroin we took,” said Jones. “Must be from up north.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” said Bowman.

“Nothin,” said Jones.

“Then say why you brought me here,” said Bowman. “I got a freak waitin on me in the car.”

“Want you to do your thing,” said Jones. He crushed out a smoked-down Kool in an ashtray.

“Roland Williams?”

“I’ll take care of him my own self.”

“Who, then?”

“The prosecutor.”

“Cochnar?” said Bowman. “That’s some high-profile shit.”

“You’ll be paid.”

“I’m gonna have to be well paid.”

“Ain’t no thing. Me and Fonzo are flush, and we about to get richer.”

“I know you’re good.” Bowman abruptly got up, smoothed the front of his triple-pleated slacks, a {tedol in and put out his hand. “Two Seventy-Four.”

“Two Seven Four,” said Jones, giving his old friend a thumb-grip shake, moving their hands from side to side.

Bowman nodded at Jefferson and left the house.

“Your boy look like Rafer Johnson,” said Jefferson.

“Clarence’s face cut the same way,” said Jones.

Jefferson got up and put an album on the platter of his compact system. It was the new Kool and the Gang, Music Is the Message. He dropped the needle on the song called “Soul Vibrations.” As it came forward he said, “This jam is bad right here.”

Jones made no comment. He didn’t care much for music or books. He liked movies when he had the time, the ones had black men in charge, but mostly his focus was on work. He aimed to leave behind a name that would be remembered. That would be something. Maybe the only thing. The one way you could win. ’Cause everyone was bound for a bed of maggots in the end.

“I could use another blonde,” said Jones.

Jefferson called out to his woman, and soon Monique appeared in the room. She was taller than Jefferson. The tops of her globes came bold out of her shirt, and she had straightened hair that was left uncombed. Monique had a mean-mustang look to her that Jones liked. He wondered what it would take to make an untamed country girl like her smile.

“Get us two more High Lifes, Nique,” said Jefferson.

Monique flattened a palm on her hip. “Your legs broke?”

Jefferson smiled a row of gold. “Shake a tail feather, baby.”

Monique turned on one heel and went to the fridge to get their beer.

“Lotta woman right there,” said Jones.

“That girl can buck.”

After she returned with their beverages and left the room again, they discussed their plans. There was much to do.

Strange pulled his Monte Carlo over to the curb on 14th a block north of the house where Coco Watkins plied her trade. It was now well past two in the morning. Last call had come and gone. The licensed bars had closed their doors, and though there were many after-hours establishments down here, bottle clubs, floating card games, and such, most were in side street row homes, not on the main avenue. There were folks here and there, some standing on corners, a couple of them staggering and plain wasted. Others walked toward their homes, minding their own. But the general landscape was quiet. Even the punchboards had called it a night.

Strange walked down the sidewalk unarmed. He had a retractable baton in the trunk of his car and sometimes he carried a Buck knife. But he was about to commit a B-1, and to have a weapon attached to it meant mandatory time. His aim was to get in, find what he was looking for, and get out. No violence, no c {ioln aomplications.

As he approached the door beside the market, he quickly scanned the area and saw no one who appeared to be law. He was unconcerned with witnesses. His plan was to enter the house as if he owned it. He put his hand inside his sleeve, turned the knob on the open door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

He stood silently in a kind of small foyer and listened. He heard nothing but the ticks and creaks an old house made in the middle of the night. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a pair of latex gloves that he’d taken from a box Carmen had brought home from the hospital. He fitted the gloves on his hands.

“Hey!” said Strange, and heard only the echo of his own voice.

He went up the stairs, his gloved right hand riding the banister up to the second-floor landing. He knew where he was going because Vaughn had detailed the layout. But first he needed to ensure an alternate exit. Instead of heading straight to Coco’s office, he went in the opposite direction, down a hall, past a row of small rooms that ended with a dirty window leading out to a fire escape going down to the alley.

Strange unlatched the window. As he did it, he heard a noise from the first floor. A knock on the door, and then the door swinging open. Two men, talking loudly and unconcerned about the racket they were making. Then their footsteps, heavy on the stairs.

Fanella and Gregorio ascended the staircase. Gregorio had a.38 holstered inside his jacket. Beneath Fanella’s white raincoat was an Ithaca pump-action twelve-gauge that had been cut down and fitted in a sling. Gregorio pulled his revolver as his feet hit the landing and waited for Fanella’s instructions. Fanella looked toward the front of the building, saw an open door that led to a large room. He moved his chin in that direction, and Gino Gregorio pointed the gun there. It was understood that he would shoot if he felt the need.

Fanella opened his raincoat and drew the shotgun. He proceeded to walk down the hall methodically, looking carefully into each open room, kicking in the doors of those that were closed. It was soon obvious to him that these rooms were empty. Still, they approached the main room gun-ready. Only when they stepped inside and saw that it was unoccupied did they lower their weapons.

They had seen the light in the window from the street. Fanella found it odd that there was no one here. He was confounded, and he was somewhat disappointed. He looked around at the red furniture, the red velvet drapes, the brass bed.

“Least we come to the right place, Gino.”

“It’s a whorehouse, Lou.”

“You think?”

Fanella slipped the shotgun into the sling, then walked to a bar cart and picked up a bottle of Crown Royal. He poured some into a tumbler, drank half of it down, made a sour face, and dropped the glass to the floor.