George Pelecanos - Hell To Pay

“You gonna smoke that?”

Quinn looked at the cigarette in his hand as if he were noticing it for the first time. “I don’t think so.”

“Can I get it from you, then?”

“Sure.”

She sat down without invitation. He handed her the cigarette.

“You got a light?”

“Sorry.”

“You need a new rap,” she said, rooting through her shoulder bag for a match. Finding a book, she struck a flame and put fire to the cigarette. “The one you got is lame.”

“You think so?”

“You be hittin’ those girls up for a smoke, you don’t ask ’em for a light, you don’t even have a match your own self?”

Quinn took in the girl’s words, the rhythms, the dropping of the g’s, the slang. Like that of most white girls selling it on the street, her speech was an affectation, a strange in-and-out blend of Southern cracker and city black girl.

“Pretty stupid, huh?”

“And if you was lookin’ to score some ass, you went and picked the only two girls out here ain’t even had their boots knocked yet. Couple of Sidwell Friends girls, trying out the street for a day before they go back to their daddy’s Mercedes, got it parked around the block.” She grinned. “You prob’ly don’t even smoke.”

“I tried it once and it made me sick.”

“But you want something,” she said, no inflection at all in her voice, just dead. It made Quinn sad.

“I’m looking for a girl.”

“You a cop?”

“No.”

“You have to tell me if you are. It’s entrapment otherwise.”

“I’m not a cop. I’m just looking for a girl.”

“I can get you some pussy, now.” She lowered his eyes, magnified behind the lenses, suggestively. “Shit, you can have this pussy right here, that’s all you want.”

Quinn found a flyer in his knapsack and slid it across the table. “I’m looking for her.”

He watched her examine the face and data on the flyer. If she recognized Jennifer Marshall, her eyes did not give it up.

“I don’t know her,” said the girl. “But maybe I can hook you up with someone who does.”

“You work the middle,” said Quinn.

“When I can. It’s rough out here, you know; I’m talkin’ about the competition. My looks are, like, an acquired taste. Guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses, and all that. My mother, when she was dolin’ out one of her famous pearls of wisdom, used to remind me all the time. But contacts hurt my eyes. So here I am, lookin’ like a magnet-school geek tryin’ to peddle her ass. And my tits are too little, too. White johns like that black pussy, and with this kiddie pelvis I got, the brothers just tear my shit up. So maybe I’m not cut out for the life. You think I am?”

Quinn gave the girl a chin nod. “What’s your name?”

“Stella. Yours?”

“Terry Quinn. You were gonna hook me up, Stella.”

“It’s gonna cost you fifty.”

“For a name?”

“It’s a good name.”

“How do I know?”

“’Cause I ga-ran-tee it, dude. Now how about that fifty?”

Quinn paid her discreetly. She finished her cigarette and dropped it to the concrete.

“There’s a girl dances over at Rick’s, on New York Avenue, on the way out of town, past North Capitol?”

“I know the place.”

“Black girl, goes by Eve. They call her All-Ass Eve; you see her, you’ll know why. She knows this girl.”

“How do you know that she knows her?”

For the first time, Stella’s confidence was visibly shaken. She recovered quickly, though, smiling crookedly like a child caught in a lie. And Quinn saw the little girl then, just for a moment, that someone had rocked to sleep, bought presents for, loved. Maybe not always – maybe the mother or the father had fucked up somewhere along the way. But he had to believe that this girl had been loved at one time.

“Okay, I don’t know for sure that Eve knows this girl right here, but listen to me: This is the kind of girl Eve gets to know. She cruises through this intersection, and in bus stations and malls, lookin’ for new talent so she can steer it to her pimp. Everyone workin’ this area knows who she is. The ones been around know to stay away from her and stick to this side of the creek. But the girl in this picture right here? She is fresh meat. I mean, she looks like she don’t know jack. It’s the dumb ones, the desperate ones that go with Eve. I’m just connecting things, is all. Anyway, Eve don’t work out for you, you come back, we’ll start again.”

“For more money.”

Stella shrugged. “I’m strugglin’, dude.”

“How do I reach you?”

Stella gave Quinn her cell number. He used his to phone her right there at the table. Her cell rang in her shoulder bag. She fished it out and answered.

“Hellooo? Officer Quinn?”

“Okay.” He killed the call on his cell and gave her one of his cards. “You want to talk, you call me, hear?”

“Talkin’ don’t pay my bills.” She looked him over. “I’ll suck your dick for another fifty, though.”

“This pans out, there’s another fifty in it for you just for giving me the lead.”

“I’ll take it. But don’t use my name when you’re talking to Eve.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. Eight years on the force, I never once lost a snitch.”

“Knew you were a cop.”

“In another life,” said Quinn, getting up and stepping back from the table. “Let’s stay in touch, all right?”

CALHOUN Tucker was tall and lean and visibly muscled beneath a crisp beige shirt tucked into tailored black slacks. He had a thin Billy D mustache and some kind of pomade worked into his close black hair that gave it shine. He wore expensive-looking shades and a small, new-tech cell clipped to his waistband. All of this Strange could see through his 10×50 binoculars as he sat in his Chevy, surveilling Tucker across the street from his residence, a rental town house near a medical park between Wheaton and Silver Spring.

Tucker went down the sidewalk toward his car, a cherry red S4, Audi’s hopped-up model in the 4-series line, their version of the BMW M3. Tucker’s complexion was a deep brown, not so dark as to hide his features, not so light as to suggest white blood. He walked with confidence, chin up, like the handsome young man he undoubtedly knew he was. He had the package women liked; the confidence thing, they liked that, too. Strange could see right away why Alisha Hastings had been attracted, surface-wise, to Tucker.

Tucker fired up the Audi and pulled out of his space. Strange followed him south, making sure there were plenty of cars between them all the way. Just over the District line, Tucker shot right on Alaska, then another right up 13th, into the cluster of “flower-and-tree” streets, where he cut a left onto Iris. He was heading for George Hastings’s house. Strange went around the block, counter to the route Tucker had taken, and parked in the alley behind Juniper. He got out of his car and left the alley on foot, his binos in his hand.

By the time Strange made it to the intersection of Iris and 13th, Alisha Hastings had come out of her father’s house and was leaning into the driver’s-side window of Tucker’s ride, idling out front behind George’s Volvo. Alisha had on some kind of casual, wear-around-the-house hookup that looked spontaneous but had probably been planned. Tucker had probably called her from his cell and told her he would be stopping by on his way into town. Strange didn’t blame Tucker for wanting to get a look at her before he started his day; Alisha was radiant and poised, with deep dimples framing her lovely smile. Tucker had his hand on her forearm and he was lightly stroking it, talking to her, making her laugh, making her so happy she had to look away. Seeing the two of them there, it reminded Strange of a girl he had loved hard back in the early seventies. He watched them kiss. A twinge of guilt snapped in his chest, and he went back to get his car.