George Pelecanos: Drama City

Nigel rechecked the safety on the Colt; the gun was live. He moved from the kitchen to the hall, holding his weapon out in front of him. He could see a portion of the living room ahead, and it was bright.

Show yourself, thought Nigel. I am gonna murder the fuck out of you tonight. He blinked sweat from his eyes.

He came into the living room. Rico Miller stood in the right corner of the room, his back against the wall. He held a cut-down shotgun, and it was pointed at Nigel. For a moment, neither of them moved.

“I knew you wasn’t Melvin,” said Miller. “Melvin got his own smell.”

Nigel scanned the room: sofa, table, chairs.

“You kill him?” said Miller.

Nigel dove as the shotgun roared. The load blew off a portion of the sofa back, sending upholstery up into the air. Nigel landed behind the folding table, grabbed it, and stood with it in his hand. He heard the rack of the pump. The second shot hit the table square, like the slap of God. Its impact threw Nigel back to the floor.

Nigel crabbed backward furiously, the Colt still in his hand. He pointed the gun and squeezed its trigger. Smoke came off Miller’s shoulder as he walked toward Nigel with the cut-down aimed low. The room flashed; hardwood erupted at Nigel’s feet. Miller reracked the shotgun and fired as Nigel shot blindly into a shower of plaster and dust. Miller staggered through pink mist. The shotgun spun from his hands, and he dropped like meat to the floor.

A ringing sounded in Nigel’s ears. There was a ripping pain where the shot had peppered his upper chest. His silk shirt was slick and darkened with blood. He tore the shirt open and examined his wounds. He stood, fought nausea, and kept his legs.

Nigel went to Miller’s corpse. He fired a round into its head. He spit on Miller and walked from the room.

He moved back through the hall, straight through the kitchen, and out the back door. He walked down to the steps to where Melvin Lee lay unconscious in the grass. He shot Lee twice in the chest, holstered the Colt, and walked on.

A dog began to bark. A light came on in a nearby house.

Nigel went to the alley and followed it to Hunt. He saw a midnight blue Infiniti parked near his Lexus. He recognized it but did not stop. He needed treatment and he needed to get off the street. He went to his trunk and opened it. He heard a car door open and footsteps on pavement. He put the Glock into the toolbox but drew the Colt and kept it in hand. Its receiver had not slid open; he still had at least one round.

Nigel looked around the lid of the trunk. He saw Deacon’s second, the one who called himself Griff, walking toward him. The hump under his shirt told Nigel that the young man was wearing a gun.

Nigel, his hands deep in the trunk, put his thumb to the long hammer of the Colt and locked it back. He rested a finger inside the trigger guard of the gun.

“Easy,” said Griff, a friendly smile on his face, his hands raised as he approached Nigel.

Nigel could see that this boy was not much older than Michael Butler. Or Rico Miller, the boy he’d just killed.

“Don’t come no closer,” said Nigel. “I can see you’re strapped.”

“I ain’t hidin’ it,” said Griff.

“Say why you’re here. Speak plain.”

“Deacon sent me. He figured you could use some backup.”

“It’s done,” said Nigel.

Many dogs were barking now. Nigel was dizzy, and there was a deep ache in his chest. He winced against the pain.

“You need help?” said Griff.

“We both gonna need to get gone now.”

Griff looked him over. “Wish I coulda been there with you, big man.”

Nigel closed his eyes. “You talkin’ about your own boys. Don’t that mean nothin’ to you?”

Griff shrugged. “Deacon say kill ’em, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Griff’s answer chilled Nigel. Sickened, he removed his finger from inside the Colt’s trigger guard. He pulled back on the hammer to release it, then eased it down.

“You all right?” said Griff.

“I’m tired,” said Nigel.

Griff drew his gun and shot Nigel in the temple. The bullet’s exit blew blood, bone chips, and brain matter into the trunk of the car. Nigel slumped forward, his body convulsing violently. Griff shot him in the back of the head.

Griff refitted his gun behind the belt line of his jeans. The gun was a Desert Eagle nine-shot. 357 Magnum with a bright nickel finish. He had paid one thousand dollars for it from a straw-buy man in Columbia Heights, and it was his pride.

Gun works good, thought Marcus Griffin. He had wanted to try it for some time.

Lorenzo Brown opened his eyes. He stared at the cracked plaster ceiling and cleared his head.

Jasmine rose from her square of remnant carpeting and stretched. Her nails clicked on the hardwood floor as she came to Lorenzo and licked his fingers. He rubbed her neck and behind her ears.

I am in my apartment with my dog. This is mine.

Lorenzo sat up on the bed. From the clock radio came the smooth sound of Donnie Simpson bantering with Huggy Low Down on PGC. Huggy was doing his December roundup, talking about his nominees for Bama of the Year. Their familiar voices made Lorenzo smile.

In the bathroom, Lorenzo swallowed a couple of ibuprofens, a multivitamin, and a C. He exercised, ate a bowl of Cheerios, then showered and changed into his uniform and a winter coat. Going through the living room, he passed his grandmother’s hope chest, now covering a permanently sealed cutout in the floor, and several packages, including a bottle of perfume, an Easy Bake oven he’d bought for his daughter, and a Cinderella Dream Trunk, all waiting to be wrapped. He took a chain leash with a looped leather strap off a nail he had driven into the wall. Jasmine emerged from the bedroom and joined him at the door.

Lorenzo’s landlord had left the plastic Post bag under a brick on the front porch. Lorenzo took it and walked up Otis with Jasmine, passing row houses and government oaks. He came to the corner at 6th Street, the cut-through to Newton. There were no cars grouped down there where Nigel’s mother stayed, and the curtains in her windows were drawn shut. Lorenzo would have to get over there for dinner sometime soon, bring her some of that ice cream she liked. She seemed to enjoy his visits.

Farther east, Lorenzo went by the row house of Joe Carver’s aunt. Joe’s F-150 was not parked on the street. The job on North Capitol had been completed, and Joe had moved on to a new construction site in Northern Virginia. These days he was always out of the house before dawn.

Lorenzo passed Park View Elementary, where mothers were dropping off their children for the last classes before the holiday break. He cut north on Warder, turned on Princeton Place, and walked down its hill. There he saw Lakeisha, wearing a lavender coat with fake fur around its collar and a clear plastic book bag on her back, coming up the street. Her mother was several steps behind her. Lorenzo planned his walks so that he would see Rayne and her daughter here the same time each day.

Jasmine whined, her tail wagging mightily as she strained against the leash. Lakeisha met them and crouched down to pet the dog and let Jasmine lick her fingers. Rayne, looking good with the latest haircut, came to them and touched Lorenzo’s hand.

“Hey,” said Rayne.

“Morning,” said Lorenzo, telling her what she wanted to know with his eyes.

“Jazz Man love me?” said Lakeisha, looking up at Lorenzo, smiling, showing him her teeth, which had finally come in full.

“In her heart,” said Lorenzo.

“I want a puppy for Christmas, Mama,” said Lakeisha.

“That’s not gonna happen,” said Rayne.

“You can share Jasmine with me,” said Lorenzo.