Джордж Пелеканос: What It Was

The shotgun discharged again. Vaughn heard footsteps coming in his direction, and then he heard the shotgun blast once more. There were no odds in waiting longer, and Vaughn moved off of the refrigerator and opened its door. Now it was a shield in the kitchen doorway, and he came up out of a crouch and leaned over the top of the door and, with one hand on his wrist and the other on the trigger, fired rapidly at the figure in white who had leveled his shotgun in Vaughn’s direction. Vaughn squeezed off four rounds and felt the door punched and a hot sting in his eye, and he turned his head and dropped to the linoleum floor and heard a great ringing in his ears and nothing else.

Vaughn pressed the muzzle of his gun to the floor to steady himself and got to his feet. His face was clammy and wet.

Closing the refrigerator door, his gun arm extended, Vaughn walked with care toward the big man in the white raincoat, who was lying on his back, blood bubbling from two entry wounds in his chest. He was drowning in the fluids filling his lungs. Vaughn kicked the Ithaca across the room. He stood over the man, shot him one more time, and watched death come to his eyes. Standing there in a cloud of smoke, Vaughn dropped the spent .38 to the hardwood floor.

He got down on one knee and slid his Colt from the holster strapped to his ankle. Blood flowed freely down his face, but he did not move to wipe it clean.

This Commander holds seven, thought Vaughn.

He went to the foot of the stairs and stood beside it with his back to the wall. With caution, he peered around the corner, up the stairway at a shredded banister and darkness.

“How’s it goin, Red?” said Vaughn.

“Fuck you, Hound Dog.”

Vaughn grinned, exposing a row of widely spaced teeth, now pink with blood. “Fuck you .”

Vaughn heard a dull thud from outside the rear of the house. That would be Coco’s feet landing on earth. She was making her escape.

“Where my boy at?” said Jones.

Vaughn looked at the corpse of Jefferson, tangled in the ruin of a blown-up table. “He didn’t make it.”

“You get the one who killed him?”

“I did him like he did your friend.”

The faint wail of sirens reached Vaughn’s ears.

“We gonna have to do this some other time, big man,” said Jones.

“Don’t try it,” said Vaughn.

But he heard movement up on the second floor, and then the familiar but heavier sound of Jones landing in the yard at the back of the house.

Vaughn walked unsteadily to the kitchen. Through the open door, he saw Red Jones, a gun in each of his hands, clear the chicken wire fence without touching it, cross the alley, and cleanly leap over a chain-link fence into another backyard. Coco Watkins, holding a red suitcase and a cosmetic case, was waiting for him there. The two of them began to run.

Vaughn went outside, straightened his gun arm, led his target, and aimed. But something was wrong with his sight; the landscape before him was blurred. He put his hand up to his right eye and covered it. He thought this would correct his vision, but it didn’t. When he drew his hand back, he saw that it was covered with blood.

Vaughn lowered his gun. “Next time,” he said.

Later, an elderly resident of Burrville claimed to have seen a tall young couple running through the backyards of her neighborhood. She said they were moving very quickly and taking long strides. Galloping, almost, and laughing.

Vaughn walked around the house to its front yard. Strange was seated on the government strip, his back against a black Lincoln. He was rubbing his hands together, and his eyes were unfocused. On the ground, several yards away, a young blond man lay on his back, his swollen tongue protruding from his mouth. His face was scarred and gray.

Strange looked up at Vaughn. “You’ve been shot.”

“I’m doin better than those guys in the house.” Vaughn pointed his chin at the body. “What happened to him?”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” said Strange. “I told him to stop struggling... I told him. I was tryin to choke him out, the way we got taught at the academy.”

“You touch that gun of his?” said Vaughn, pointing to the .38 lying in the grass.

“No.”

The sound of the sirens grew near. Vaughn picked up the revolver, fitted it in the right hand of Gregorio’s corpse, and studied the marks on his neck.

“I killed him,” said Strange in disbelief.

“No, you didn’t,” said Vaughn, pointing his Colt at Gregorio’s throat. “ I did.”

A week after the violence in Burrville, Vaughn walked east down U Street in the middle of June. He was on leave with pay until the matter could be resolved to the satisfaction of the brass, various city councilmen, and the press.

This is what Vaughn told investigators: he had followed a lead to a Northeast residence where he believed he could obtain information as to the whereabouts of Red Jones and his partner, Alfonzo Jefferson. He did not know that Jones or Jefferson would be in the house. Had he known, he would have gone there with backup. Upon arrival, he found himself in the midst of an armed conflict between Jones and Jefferson and two out-of-town criminals, later identified as contract men employed by the Syndicate. In the violence that ensued, Jefferson was killed and Vaughn was compelled to use lethal force against the hitters from up north. Jones and his lady friend, a notorious madam named Coco Watkins, had escaped. Luckily, a passerby, a former D.C. patrol cop named Derek Strange, heard the gun battle and used a police radio in Vaughn’s car to call in an Officer Needs Assistance. Strange, who had taken a bus to Northeast to visit a girl, was walking through the neighborhood at the time and happened to see the two-way mounted under the dash of Vaughn’s open-windowed Dodge.

Vaughn’s story had holes, and many felt it was bullshit, particularly the bit about the good Samaritan passerby. But Vaughn stuck to it, not wavering in the details, even while he was high on painkillers in the hospital, where he had been operated on for his wound. Vaughn was a former marine who had fought in the Pacific. He was a longtime uniformed officer and Homicide detective with an outstanding record in the MPD. Among the rank and file, he was considered to be somewhat of a folk hero. His injury and his advancing years lent him sympathy. There was little doubt that Vaughn would be absolved of any wrongdoing.

An oppressive heat had descended upon Washington and would remain, with little relief, until the arrival of the first blessedly cool nights of September. Vaughn walked through the sauna, seemingly without care. He wore a new lightweight gray Robert Hall suit and a hat. If he was hot, his discomfort didn’t show on his face.

At the Lincoln Theatre box office he bought a ticket. The lady behind the window did a quick double take when she handed him his change. Vaughn had a perforated patch the size of an athletic-supporter cup taped over his right eye.

“Enjoy the show,” she said.

“Ma’am,” said Vaughn.

He found Martina Lewis in his usual spot, in one of the middle rows of the ice-cool auditorium.

Vaughn dropped down into a seat beside Martina and removed his hat. He glanced up at the screen out of habit. The Legend of Nigger Charley had moved over from the Booker T, and he couldn’t have cared less.

Martina and Vaughn put their heads close so they would not disturb the others in the audience.

“How’s it goin, doll?”

“Frank.” Martina’s voice was husky. Though he was in drag, he didn’t feel the need to female-front to the detective. He looked Vaughn over as the film cut to a daytime Western landscape scene and the light from the screen hit the auditorium. “Nice suit.”