George Pelecanos - Hell To Pay

“I am on the way.”

She kissed him deep, her eyes wide and alive. She kept them open when they kissed. He liked that.

Strange licked and sucked at one of her dark nipples, and Janine laughed low. Quiet Storm was coming from the clock radio by the bed, playing Dorothy Moore. Strange had turned it up before undressing her, so that Lionel, in the next room over, could not hear them making love.

He shot off and kept himself in motion. She was almost soundless when she came, just a short gasp. Strange liked that, too.

Later, he stood in his briefs by the bedroom window, looking through the blinds down to the street. Greco had nosed his way through the door and was sleeping on a throw rug, his muzzle resting between his paws.

“Come to bed, Derek.”

He turned around and admired Janine, her form all woman beneath the blanket on the bed.

“I’m just wondering what’s goin’ on out there. All those kids, still walking around.”

“You’re done working for today. Come to bed.”

He slid under the sheets and rested his thigh against hers.

“You better go to sleep,” said Janine. “You know how you get cranky when you don’t get enough.”

“Oh, I got enough.”

“Stop it.”

“Look, it’s just, at the end of the day, all these things go racing through my mind.”

“Like?”

“Thinkin’ on you, you want the truth. How I don’t tell you enough what a good job you do. And what you mean to me.”

Janine ran her fingers through the short wiry hairs on Strange’s chest. “Thank you, Derek.”

“I mean it.”

“Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Usually, when you start going that way with me, it means you need to unload something off your mind. So what is it?”

“Ain’t nothin’ like that,” said Strange.

“Is it Terry?”

“Well, he’s still a little rough around the edges. But he’s all right.”

“Is it the job you’re doing for George Hastings?”

“Uh-uh. I’m nearly done with that.”

“I’m almost done on my end with it, too,” said Janine. “Got one more thing to check up on. You didn’t find anything, did you?”

“No,” said Strange, and reached over to the nightstand and turned off the lamp.

He wasn’t sure why he had lied to her. So Calhoun Tucker was a player, so what? But something about snitching on a guy about that to a woman didn’t sit right with most men. It was a kind of betrayal, in an odd way. One betrayal too many in the day for Strange.

QUINN was disoriented from sleep when the phone rang by his bed. He reached over and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“You called?” The voice was smooth and baritone. There was music playing in the background against the sound of a car’s engine.

“Who is this?”

“Who’s this ? You called me . But you, uh, declined to leave your name.”

Quinn got up on one elbow. “I’m looking for a girl.”

“You done called the right number then, slick. How’d you get it, by the way?”

“I’m looking for one girl in particular,” said Quinn. “Girl named Jennifer, I think.”

“You think?”

“It’s Jennifer.”

“Asked you how you got my number.”

“Why is that important?”

“Let’s just say I like to know if my marketing dollars are well spent. You know, like, do I re-up with the Yellow Pages or do I go back heavy on those full-page ads in the Washington Post ?”

The man on the other end of the line laughed then. It was a cut-you-in-the-alley kind of laugh, and the sound of it made Quinn’s blood tick. His hand tightened on the receiver. He looked down at some CDs stacked carelessly on the floor. An old Steve Earle was atop the stack.

“A friend of mine, guy named Steve, recommended I call you. Said you could hook me up.”

“Oh, I can hook you up, all right. Your name is?”

“Earle.”

“Okay, Earle. But I’m a little curious; it’s in my nature, if you don’t mind. White boy like you, usually when I get a request from one, it’s for some black pussy, understand what I’m sayin’? And Jennifer, it’s the same girl we both thinkin’ of, she’s white all the way.”

“That’s what I want. She’s young, too, isn’t she?”

“Oh, Jennifer’s young, all right. They call her Schoolgirl, matter of fact. She’ll be good to you, too. But I guess your boy Steve told you that.”

“He did.”

“Sure he did. Satisfied customer’s the very best form of advertising. Steve, he mention specifics?”

“Just that he had a good time. That she’ll do things.”

“Any goddamn thing you want. You can bring your friends and roll some videos, too. Have your own private record of the occasion. Fuck her mouth or her pussy. Ass-fuck her, you got a mind to. Course, you gonna pay for all that.”

“Look, I’m talkin’ about a private party. You deliver her and you name the price. I got money.”

“You’re gonna need it, Earle. ’Cause this is some fresh turnout here. And I can’t be givin’ pussy this new away.”

Quinn kicked off his top sheet, swung his legs over the bed, and sat up. He reached for the pencil and pad he kept on the nightstand. Maybe he could make this happen without Stella. He didn’t need her now that he had gotten through to Wilson.

“How do I hook it up?” said Quinn.

“Well, let’s see. Where’d your boy Steve have his party?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Oh, come on, Earle, you can tell me. See, I need to know, to satisfy that curiosity I was tellin’ you about. Steve must have bragged on it. Man don’t tell another man ass stories without goin’ into the details.”

“It was out on New York Avenue,” said Quinn, feeling the sweat break upon his forehead. “I think it was one of those motels they got out there on the way out of town.”

“You think?”

“It was .”

The man on the other end of the line laughed heartily. It ended with a chuckle, long and low.

“What’s so funny?” said Quinn.

“Just that, you know, you done gone and fucked up right there. You talked too much, see? ’Cause I don’t use those trick pads over on New York Avenue. Never have.”

“What difference does it make? I said I thought it was there-”

“You said it was . And I did like the way you said it, Earle. It was . So sure of yourself. So tough. So much like the rough and tough man you must be. Bet you got your little chest all puffed up, right about now. Got your fists balled up, too? So easy to be tough when you’re speaking on the phone. Isn’t it? Earle .”

His voice was singsong and mocking. Quinn unclenched his jaw and spoke through barely parted lips.

“My name’s Terry Quinn.”

“Oh, I got your phone number now, so it would have been easy to get your name right quick. But thanks for providin’ it for me; I’ll remember it for sure. What’re you, Vice, sumshit like that? You must be new, ’cause I got the patrol boys on my strip taken care of.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Don’t matter to me what you are, anyway. You don’t mean nothin’ more to me than some dog shit on my shoe. Look here, I better be goin’. I’d put your girl on the line, but she’s suckin’ a dick right now, makin’ me some money.”

“Wilson-”

“So long, white boy. Maybe we’ll meet someday.”

“We will,” said Quinn. But the line was already dead as the words came from his mouth.

So now Wilson had his name and number. It would be easy for him to get Quinn’s address. In his mind, Quinn shrugged. When he was a cop, the threat that he’d be tracked down to his place of residence had been made many times. He’d lost count of those threats long ago.