George Pelecanos - Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go

“This ain’t no turkey shoot, LaDuke.”

“I know it.”

“Why the Ithaca?”

“Bottom ejection. I p ht p hedon’t need shells flyin’ up in front of my eyes when I’m tryin’ to make a shot.”

“What, you think you got to aim that thing? For Chrissakes, just point it.”

“I got something else if I want to aim.”

“Put everything in the trunk and cover it. We get stopped, we’re fucked.”

LaDuke dropped to one knee, pulled his snub-nosed revolver from an ankle holster. In the light, I could read the words KING COBRA etched into the barrel-a. 357 Colt. He dropped it on the blanket, next to the shotgun. I drew my Browning, whipped the barrel of it against the trunk light, shattered the light. We stood in darkness.

“What the hell did you do that for?” LaDuke said.

“I’ll buy you a new bulb. That light was like wearing a bill-board. When we get down to Southeast, it’s gonna be stone-dark. We don’t need the attention.”

I put the Browning and the extra clip on the blanket, covered the guns, and shut the lid of the trunk.

“You coulda just unscrewed the bulb,” LaDuke said.

“I wanted to break something. Come on.”

We picked up Darnell outside the Spot. He got behind the wheel, and LaDuke slid across the bench to the passenger side. I got out and climbed into the back. Darnell looked at me in the rearview and adjusted the leather kufi that sat snugly on his head.

“Where to?”

“Half Street at Potomac,” I said.

“Back in there by the Navy Yard?”

“Right.” I caught a silvery reflection in my side vision, a flash, or a trail. Fingers danced through my hair and something tickled behind my eyes-the familiar kick-in of the speed. Darnell pulled out from the curb.

“This Ford’s got a little juice,” Darnell said. “I noticed it the other day.”

“A little,” LaDuke said, tight-jawed now from the drug.

I lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. “We’re gonna go in like we’re knocking the place over. You got that, Jack?”

“Why?”

“I’m thinking we’re going to make like we’re taking the kid hostage, so they think he’s got nothing to do with us. They’ll probably come after us. But I want to make sure they leave the kid alone.”

“How’re we going to get in?”

“I’m Bobby, remember? The aspiring actor. I called earlier in the day, spoke to the man in charge… like that. Assuming I get that far, you step around the corner, show your shotgun to whoever it is we’re talking to, let him know what it meaow man in chns. After that, we’ll improvise.”

“Improvise?”

“You’ll get into it. And… LaDuke?”

“What?”

“We get in there, don’t call me by my name.”

Darnell pushed the Ford down M, made a right onto Half. Off the thoroughfare, the street darkened almost immediately.

“I’m thirsty,” LaDuke said quickly. “I need something to drink.”

“We’ll have a drink,” I said. “Let’s just get this done now. Then we’ll drink.”

“Up around there?” Darnell said.

“That’s the place,” I said. “Drive slow by it, then drive around the block.”

The perimeter was lighted by floods. Three cars, including the Le Sabre, were parked in the surrounding lot. A heavy chain connected the gate to the main fence. As we passed, I could see a padlock dangling open on one end.

Darnell drove slowly around the block and stopped the Ford along the fence of the warehouse across the street, where the white LIGHTING AND EQUIPMENT vans were parked. I took the last spansule from my pocket and broke it open. I leaned over the front seat.

“Make a fist, LaDuke, and turn it.”

He did it, his eyes pinballing in their sockets. I poured half the spansule out on the crook of his hand, then poured the other half, a tiny mound of shiny crystal, on mine. I snorted the powder off my hand and up into my nose, feeling the burn and then the drip back in my throat. LaDuke did the same. His eyes teared up right away.

“Goddamn,” LaDuke said.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Darnell gave me one last look, and then we were out of the car. LaDuke popped the trunk, reached inside, pulled back the blanket. He holstered the revolver on his ankle, picked up the shotgun, cradled it, dropped extra shells in his pocket. I found the Browning, switched off the safety, and put one in the chamber. I slid the gun, barrel down, behind the waistband of my jeans, covered it with the tail of my shirt. We crossed the street.

The gate was a slider. I pulled the chain through the links. LaDuke pushed the gate along a couple of feet and the two of us slipped inside.

We moved quickly across the lot, over to the side of the building, where there was a steel door behind a flatbed trailer. Above the door, a floodlight blew a triangle of white light onto a two-step concrete stoop. LaDuke and I flattened ourselves against the brick side of the building, outside the area of the light. LaDuke rested the butt of the Ithaca on his knee.

“I’m all right,” he said, though I hadn’t asked him.

“Goodze= wi,” I said. “I’m going to go up on that stoop now, ring the bell.”

“I wanna move, man.”

“That’s good, too. LaDuke?”

“Yeah.”

“This goes off right, you won’t have to use that shotgun. Hear?”

“Let’s do this thing,” he said.

I stepped up onto the stoop, rang a flat yellow buzzer mounted to the right of the door. I rang it once, then again, and waited. Moths fluttered around my head. My bottom teeth were welded to my top and it felt as if someone were peeling back the top of my head. A lock turned from behind the door and then the door opened.

A wiry white man stood before me, his long brown hair tied back, knife-in-skull tattoos on thin forearms, the veins throbbing on the arms like live blue rope. He had a slight mustache and a billy-goat beard, and almond-shaped, vaguely inbred eyes.

He looked me over and said, “What?”

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Bobby.”

And then LaDuke, wild-eyed and chalk white, jumped into the light, a frightening howl emanating from his mouth. I stepped aside and the man stepped back, reaching beneath the tail of his shirt. The almond eyes opened wide and he made a small choking sound; he knew it was too late. LaDuke swung the shotgun like he was aiming for the left-field bleachers. He hit it solid, the stock connecting high on the wiry man’s cheek. The man went down on his side, all deadweight hitting the floor, no echo, no movement. When he found his breath, he began to moan.

LaDuke pumped the shotgun, pointed it one inch from the man’s face.

“Don’t talk unless I tell you to talk,” LaDuke said. The man closed his eyes slowly, then opened them. He stared blankly ahead.

We were in a long hall that had thin metal shelving running along either side. Paints and hardware sat on the shelves. I found a rag and dampened it with turpentine. Then I went to an area where there appeared to be several varieties of rope and cord. I took a spool of the strongest-looking rope and walked back to LaDuke, picking up a cutting tool-a retractable straight-edged razor used by stock boys and artists-along the way.

“What now?” LaDuke said. He was sweating and his knuckles were white on the pump.

“Go ahead and ask the man some questions.” The man’s face had swelled quickly; I wondered if LaDuke had caved his cheekbone.

“What’s your name?” LaDuke said.

“Sweet,” the man said.

“Okay, Mr. Sweet,” LaDuke said, “this is a robbery. We know about the business you’re running here. We’d like all the cash money you have on hand. First we want to talk to your associates. Where are they?”

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