George Pelecanos: Hell To Pay

“Moore’s nine years old,” said Quinn. “I thought those were the kind of at-risk kids we were trying to help.”

“They’re all at risk down here, Terry. I’ll let go of one to keep the rest of the well from getting poisoned. It’ll school them on something, too. That we’re tryin’ to teach them somethin’ more than football here. Also, that we’re not gonna put up with that kind of behavior.”

“Way I see it,” said Quinn, “it’s the giving up on these kids that makes them go wrong.”

“I’m not giving up on him or anyone else. He straightens himself out, he can play for us next season. But for this season here, uh-uh. He blew it his own self. You agree with me, Dennis?”

Dennis Arrington looked down at the football that he spun in his thick hands. He was Quinn’s height, not so tall, built like a fullback. “Absolutely, Derek.”

Arrington gave Quinn a short look. Quinn knew that Arrington wouldn’t agree with him on this or anything else. Arrington was quick with a smile, a handshake, and a back pat for most any black man who came down to this field. And Quinn did like him as a man. But he felt that Arrington didn’t like him , or show him respect. And he felt that this was because he, Quinn, was white. Quinn had gotten that from some of the kids when he’d first started here as well. The kids, most of them, anyway, had gotten past it.

Strange turned to Quinn. Quinn’s hair was cropped short. He had a wide mouth, a pronounced jaw, and green eyes. Among friends his eyes were gentle, but around strangers, or when he was simply in thought, his eyes tended to be flat and hard. In full winter dress he looked like a man of average height, maybe less, with a flat stomach and an ordinary build, but out here in sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his veins standing on his forearms and snaking up his biceps, his physical strength was evident.

“Before I forget it, some women might be callin’ you, Terry. I gave them your number-”

“They already called me. Got me on my cell while I was driving over here.”

“Yeah, they do work quick. I brought you the information, if you’re interested.”

“Do you want me to take it?”

“It’s a money job for both of us.”

“It would mean more jack for you if you just took it yourself.”

“I’m busy,” said Strange.

The boys came back in, sweating and short of breath.

“Form a circle,” said Blue. He called out the names of the two captains who would lead the calisthenics.

The captains stood in the middle of the large circle. They commanded their teammates to run in place.

“How ya’ll feel?” shouted the captains.

“Fired up!” responded the team.

“How y’all feel?”

“Fired up!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

With each command the boys went into their breakdown stance and shouted, “ Whoo !” This running in place and vocal psych-out lasted for a few more minutes. Then they moved into other calisthenics: stretches, knuckle push-ups, and six inches, where they were instructed to lie on their backs, lift their legs a half foot off the ground, keep their legs straight, and hold the position, playing their bellies like a tom-tom until they were told they could relax. When they were done, their jerseys were dark with sweat and their faces were beaded with it.

“Now you’re gonna run some steps,” said Strange.

“Aw!” said Rico, the Pee Wee starting halfback. Rico was a quick, low-to-the-ground runner who could jook. He had the most natural talent of any of the players. He was also the first to complain.

“Move, Reek,” said Dante Morris, the tall, skinny quarterback who rarely spoke, only when he was asked to or to motivate his teammates. “Let’s get it done.”

“C’mon Panthers!” shouted Joe Wilder, sweeping his arm in the direction of the bleachers.

“Little man gonna lead the charge,” said Blue.

“They’re following him, too,” said Strange.

A few more mothers had arrived and stood on the sidelines. Joe Wilder’s uncle had shown up, too. He was leaning against the fence that ran between the track and the bleachers, his hand dipped into a white paper bag stained with grease.

“Humid tonight,” said Blue.

“Don’t make ’em run those steps too long,” said Strange. “Look, I gotta run back up to my car for a second. Wanted to give you the Midget roster, since you’ll be takin’ them permanent. Be right back.”

Strange crossed the field, passing Wilder’s uncle, not looking his way. But the uncle said, “Coach,” and Strange had to stop.

“How’s it goin?” said Strange.

“It’s all right. Name’s Lorenze. Most call me Lo. I’m Joe Wilder’s uncle.”

“Derek Strange. I’ve seen you around.”

Now Strange had to shake his hand. Lorenze rubbed his right hand, greasy from the french fries in the bag, off on his jeans before he reached out and tried to give Strange the standard soul shake: thumb lock, finger lock, break. Strange executed it without enthusiasm.

“Y’all nearly through?”

“We’ll be quittin’ near dark.”

“I just got up in this motherfucker, so I didn’t know how long you been out here.”

Lorenze smiled. Strange shifted his feet impatiently. Lorenze, a man over thirty years old, wore a T-shirt with a photograph of a dreadlocked dude smoking a fat spliff, and a pair of Jordans, laces untied, on his feet. Strange didn’t know one thing for certain about this man. But he knew this man’s type.

Blue called the boys off the bleachers. Exhausted, they began to walk back toward the center of the field.

“I’ll be takin’ Joe with me after practice,” said Lorenze. “I ain’t got my car tonight, but I can walk him back to his place.”

“I told his mother I’d drop him at home. Same as always.”

“We just gonna walk around some. Boy needs to get to know his uncle.”

“I’m responsible for him,” said Strange, keeping his tone light. “If his mother had told me you’d be comin’, that would be one thing…”

“You don’t have to worry. I’m kin , brother.”

“I’m taking him home,” said Strange, and now he forced himself to smile. “Like I say, I told his mother, right? You got to understand this.”

“I ain’t got ta do nothin’ but be black and die,” said Lorenze, grinning at his clever reply.

Strange didn’t comment. He’d been hearing young and not-so-young black men use that expression around town for years now. It never did settle right on his ears.

They both heard a human whistle and looked up past the bleachers to the fence that bordered the parking lot. A tall young man was leaning against the fence, smiling and staring down at them. Then he turned, walked away, and was out of sight.

“Look,” said Strange, “I gotta get something from my car. I’ll see you around, hear?”

Lorenze nodded absently.

Strange walked up to the parking lot. The young man who had stood at the fence was now sitting behind the wheel of an idling car with D.C. plates. The car was a beige Caprice, about ten years old, with a brown vinyl roof and chrome-reverse wheels, parked nose out about four spaces down from Strange’s own Chevy. Rust had begun to cancer the rear quarter panel on the driver’s side. The pipe coughed white exhaust, which hovered in the lot. The exhaust mingled with the marijuana smoke that was coming from the open windows of the car.

Another young man sat in the shotgun seat and a third sat in the back. Strange saw tightly braided hair on the front-seat passenger, little else.