George Pelecanos - What It Was

Fanella and Gregorio laughed.

“That’s it,” said Strange, as Vaughn went down one of the high-fifty streets of Burrville, where houses, some run-down and some well kept, sat on large plots of land.

“I see it,” said Vaughn, and he kept the Monaco at a steady rate of speed, studying a two-story, asbestos-shingled house as he drove on. He cut a left at the next corner, a single-syllable cross street, and let off the gas, crawling by an alley that ran behind the houses of the block he’d just covered.

“That’s the one,” said Vaughn.

Strange saw a gold Buick Electra parked in the backyard of the house whose address matched the phone number Henry Arrington had dialed. The yard had a low fence of heavy-gauge chicken wire strung between wood posts.

Vaughn executed a one-eighty in a driveway, turned the Dodge around, and put it along the mouth of the alley. He examined the house. Its second story held bedroom windows, and outside those windows was a gently pitched roof over a screened porch. There was not much of a drop from the roof to the soft yard. A glass-paneled door, accessed by a few iron steps, was situated right beside the porch. If it was a typical house of this type, Vaughn guessed that the door would lead to a kitchen that would open to a living-room area, which would hold steps leading up to the second-floor bedrooms.

“Well?” said Strange.

“They’re in there.”

“I was you, I’d call it in.”

“Not today.” Vaughn stared at the house. “You know what a man is, in the end? You know what defines him?”

“I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.”

“His dick and his work. It’s no more complicated than that.”

“What’s your point?”

“When a guy’s equipment doesn’t function anymore, it’s all over. When he has no job, he has no purpose. There’s no reason to get up in the morning. He’s done.”

“Far as I know, you’re still there in the manhood department, Vaughn. And you do your job.”

“The white shirts think I fell down on this Jones thing. They think I’ve lost a step.”

“And, what, you’re gonna prove ’em wrong?”

“The clock ticks. You get toward the finish line, you realize that what’s important is the name you leave behind.” Vaughn nodded toward the house. “Red Jones gets it. You don’t, because you’re still young. But you will.”

“I’m not goin in there with you.”

“I don’t expect you to. Watch the house is all I’m asking. Make sure I don’t get blindsided.”

Vaughn gave the Dodge gas. He drove across the numbered street, turned around at the top of a crest, and drove back down to the corner so that he could keep an eye on the front of the house. He curbed the Monaco and killed its engine. He slid a pack of L amp;Ms from his jacket, lit a cigarette, and snapped his Zippo shut.

As he exhaled smoke, a taxi pulled up in front of the house. They watched as an attractive young woman got out and was handed a couple of pieces of luggage, one medium-sized and one small, by the driver, who had retrieved them from the trunk.

“You know her?” said Strange.

“She’s in Coco’s stable. Goes by Shay. I busted her the other night.”

They saw her head for the house without paying the driver. The driver got back behind the wheel but did not leave.

“He’s waiting for her,” said Strange.

“She’s making some kind of a delivery.”

“Now’d be a good time to move in, if you’re gonna do it. While they’re off guard.”

“Let the young lady get out first. She hasn’t hurt anyone.”

“You’re gettin soft.”

“Soft.” Vaughn grinned. “That’s me.”

Shay was let into the house through a solid wood door by a woman they both recognized as Coco Watkins. A few minutes later, they saw Shay emerge from the house, get back into the cab, and ride away. From where they sat, neither Vaughn nor Strange could see the black Lincoln that was parked down the block.

Coco Watkins carried the suitcase and cosmetic case up the stairs to the bedroom where she and Jones had slept. Jefferson was in the other bedroom, packing a small bag, readying himself to leave.

Coco had dressed in what she had worn to the concert: tight-fit slacks, a silk blouse, and some costume jewelry. Jones, too, had put on what he had been wearing the night before: rust-colored bells, stacks, and the print rayon shirt opened to expose the top of his abdomen. They had both showered, but their clothes were ripe.

Cash was in stacks on top of the bed. So were Jones’s Colts. He had cleared the chambers of both.45s, reloaded their magazines, and pushed the mags back into the grips.

“We ready?” said Coco.

“Put the money in that suitcase and we’re gone.” Jones looked her over. His eyes went to her long-nailed hands. “Where’s that ring I got you? Don’t you like it?”

“I was wondering when you were gonna notice. The ring got stole, Red. Someone broke into my spot the night I got arrested.”

“Was it one of your girls?”

Coco shook her head. “My girls were with me. You’re not mad?”

“That ain’t on you. It was fake shit, anyway. We get out of here, I’m gonna buy you somethin real.”

“You been good to me.”

Jones looked at her fondly. “A man’s got a stallion like you, he got to take care of it.”

Coco chuckled. “A stallion’s a boy horse, Red.”

“ You know what I mean.” He moved toward the door and brushed his hand across her hip. She felt a tingle up the back of her neck. “Let me talk to Fonzo before we leave out.”

Coco unzipped her suitcase and stashed Red’s money alongside the cash that Shay had delivered. She found her car keys on the dresser and slipped them into the pocket of her slacks.

Vaughn slid his.38 Special out of its clip-on holster, released the cylinder, spun it, checked the load, and snapped the cylinder shut. He reaffixed the rig to the belt line of his trousers, then pulled his right trouser leg up and freed a.45 from the holster that was strapped to his ankle. It was a blue steel, short-barreled semiautomatic, a lightweight Colt Commander. He had found it under the cushion of a sofa in a Southeast apartment a year back, and he had made it his own. Vaughn racked the slide, put a round in the chamber, and slipped the.45 back into the holster on his ankle.

“I’m goin in through the back door,” said Vaughn. “When I come out with Red and the rest of them, radio in for a wagon and cars.”

“What if I hear shots?”

“I guess that means it went wrong.” Vaughn removed his hat and dropped it onto the backseat of the Dodge. “You’ll know what to do. You were a police officer. Remember?”

Strange’s thoughts went back to ’68, when he’d last worn the uniform. In the midst of the riots, he’d lured the man who cut his brother’s throat to a place where Vaughn could kill him. That made Strange a murderer, too.

Vaughn got out of the car. He put his right foot up on the rocker panel and adjusted the leg of his trouser so that it fell cleanly over the holster. He closed the driver’s-side door and stepped across the street, not looking either way in the intersection or at the house, keeping his eyes straight ahead to the alley’s mouth.

Strange looked at the two-way radio hung beneath the dash.

Fanella idly watched a big middle-aged white man in a gray suit cross the street at the end of the block. They had seen few people since they’d come here, as most of them were at work. The ones they had seen were black.

“Who’s the old man?” said Gregorio.

“I guess they got whites in this neighborhood, too. Some assholes can’t take a hint.”

“We ready?”

Fanella glanced at Gregorio. Gino was all right, but he lacked smarts and steel. Fanella didn’t want to be wondering where Gino was or what he was doing when the shooting started. Fanella knew exactly what to do: go in straight, finish them all quick. Get the money and get gone. Fanella needed no distractions.