George Pelecanos: Drama City

Griff leaned his back against the Mercedes and folded his arms. Graham affected the same pose against the Lexus. They stood on opposite sides of the street and stared at each other without animosity. They were playing their roles. As they stared, their bosses went along a high fence, entered the school grounds through an open gate, and descended the stadium stairs.

Down in the bowl, on the lighted track, Deacon Taylor and Nigel Johnson walked side by side, occasionally dragging on their Cubans. Nigel wore pressed jeans and a short-sleeved silk designer shirt. Deacon was dressed in a similarly casual, expensive way.

“You look good, big man,” said Deacon.

“You too,” said Nigel. “Prosperous.”

“I’m tryin’. Game ain’t gettin’ any easier.”

“Tell it,” said Nigel. “All this death too.”

“My sympathy for your losses,” said Deacon. “Want to put that out front straight away.”

“I appreciate that,” said Nigel. “Losin’ DeEric was one thing. But to lose Michael Butler over something that foolish -”

“I know,” said Deacon. “I know.”

“That boy was good.”

“What I heard.”

“’Course, this whole thing got to rollin’ off a misunderstanding started by my own. I admit that. I wanted to get up with you and make it right, but this thing happened before I could.”

“I told my people to talk to Green. Make it known, in no uncertain terms, that he made a serious mistake. But understand, I didn’t order no hit.”

“I never thought you did.”

“Rico Miller took it upon his self.”

“What I figured.”

“Now I got this other thing to deal with, the thing with the probation officer.”

“You know about that?”

“I didn’t know shit about it till Homicide come knockin’ on my door.”

“Bad business for all of us, Deacon. We can’t be havin’ our people involved in this kinda dirt. You fuck with police, even probation police, whole force gonna come down on you hard. I know Miller’s your boy, but… question is, how we gonna handle this?”

“I’m not gonna handle it,” said Deacon. “You are.”

“You givin’ me permission to do what I need to?”

Deacon nodded.

“Why?”

“Straight business, like you say. I can’t control Rico no more.”

“What about Lee?” said Nigel.

“Melvin with Rico, far as I’m concerned.”

“He been with you a while.”

“Police put him in the box, he gonna flip. Melvin can’t jail again. He knows this.”

“And when this thing gets done, how you gonna play it?”

“Gonna have to make a show of it. Throw the funeral, buy the T-shirts, the flowers. Say the strong words that need to be said. But that’s where it’s gonna end.”

“What about your people?”

“Long as it’s you behind it, they gonna be straight. You send some underlings to do this thing, it might make mine feel like they got the right to be heroic and shit. But ain’t nobody gonna come at Nigel Johnson.” Deacon looked Nigel in the eye. “You got my word.”

They rounded the curve of the track.

“Where the police at on this?” said Nigel.

“They workin’ the murders from last night. They got nothin’ so far. Far as the probation lady goes, I don’t know. They got to be lookin’ hard for Melvin. But Rico must have left his prints all over that apartment. They put those prints into the system, they gonna identify him through his priors. Won’t be long before they after Rico too.”

“Means I don’t have much time.”

“You know where Rico at, right?” said Deacon.

“Northeast,” said Nigel.

Deacon’s eyes moved to Nigel. “He at that same place…”

“Forty-sixth and Hayes,” said Nigel.

“Right.”

They walked farther. Nigel thought of Lorenzo, back in high school, running this track at night in his jeans and basketball sneaks. Nigel watching him, cutting on his technique. Lorenzo bragging about how he’d smoke anyone in the forty, they had the mind to try him. Talking about running for the school, wearing the colors of the Rough Riders. Nigel telling him that he had no business in school, that school was for faggots and suckers. That if he stuck with Nigel, the two of them were going to have it all.

“Shit,” said Nigel softly.

“What?” said Deacon.

“Nothin’. I’m tired, is all. You ever feel that way?”

“Yeah,” said Deacon, narrowing his eyes. “Sometimes I do get tired. Just like you.”

Nigel got behind the wheel of the Lexus. Lawrence Graham slipped into the bucket beside him.

“I’m on,” said Nigel.

“What about me?” said Graham.

“I’m gonna need you for somethin’ else.”

Nigel turned the key and put the car in drive.

“Where we goin’?” said Graham.

“Pick up Lorenzo at the hospital. Listen to me careful, ’cause we ain’t got all that far to go.”

Nigel drove up Iowa, passing the Mercedes on the other side of the street.

Deacon Taylor and Marcus Griffin, sitting in Deacon’s car, watched Nigel pass.

“You two square it up?”

“Yeah,” said Deacon. “We good.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Told you, I don’t plan,” said Deacon. “I look for opportunities.”

Nigel picked up Lorenzo outside the hospital, where they dropped off the people going in for surgery and picked up those who were recovering. Lorenzo, slump shouldered, standing by an old head smoking a cigarette, looked like he’d been under the knife himself.

Graham got out, allowing Lorenzo to take the passenger bucket, and slid into the backseat.

“How she doin’?” said Nigel.

“She’s dead.”

Nigel drove back into the old neighborhood. No one spoke or reached for the radio. Nigel pulled into a spot on Warder Street, by Park View Elementary, and cut the engine.

“Why we stoppin’ here?” said Lorenzo.

“Thought we’d walk some,” said Nigel. “Talk.”

“I’m done talkin’. I’m ready to go. You said you were lookin’ for some clean hardware. I got everything back at my apartment that we gonna need.”

Nigel looked past the headrest to the backseat. He tossed his keys over his shoulder into Graham’s cupped hands. “Stay here, Lawrence.”

Nigel got out of the car. Lorenzo hesitated for a moment, then got out too.

They walked onto the elementary school grounds, lighted in some spots and in others under a blanket of full dark. The silhouetted figures of two boys, no older than eleven or twelve, moved through the night. Marijuana smoke roiled faintly in the air.

Nigel had a seat on a wooden bench by the swings. Lorenzo sat beside him.

“You see them kids?” said Nigel.

“Yeah.”

“’Bout the same age we were when we started out.”

“They look to be.”

“Smells like they’re sampling the product. The way you used to do.”

“I did love it,” said Lorenzo.

“And I was all about business. Even before I started grindin’, when I had my paper route and I’d bring you out with me before sunup.”

“You were focused on getting the newspaper on the doorstep just right. So you could get those Christmas tips.”

“And all you wanted to do was bust out streetlights.”

“I had the arm to do it too,” said Lorenzo. “I could wing some rocks. Someone should have put me up on the mound.”

“That’s what you should’ ve been doin’ with your youth. Pitchin’ for some baseball team. Running track like you wanted to. ’Stead of gettin’ high and following me.”

“Past is past,” said Lorenzo, echoing what he’d heard so many times at the meetings.

“Look, Lorenzo -”

“Don’t apologize, Nigel. I made my choices.”