George Pelecanos - Hell To Pay

“Excuse me,” said Quinn.

Stella was on a gurney behind a portable curtain, at the end of a row of makeshift stalls. Her forehead and cheeks were nearly covered in surgical tape, damp and brownish red in spots. Her thin right arm, lying outside the blanket, was bruised black with large defensive marks and also in several places where a nurse had tried to find a vein for the IV. Tubes ran from somewhere under the sheets and into her nostrils. The fluid in the tubes was dirty, and brown particles ran through it as Stella inhaled, her breath labored and ragged.

Quinn found a hard chair and placed it beside the gurney, where he took a seat and held her hand. A nurse came by and told him that they were preparing to move Stella to the ICU and he couldn’t stay much longer. Ten minutes later, Stella opened her eyes, bloodied in the corners and ringed in black. Her head remained in place as her eyes moved to his, and she squeezed his hand.

“Hey, Stella.”

“Green eyes.”

Her voice was barely audible, and Quinn bent forward and moved his ear close to her mouth. “Say it again?”

“You came.”

“Course I did,” said Quinn. “We’re friends.”

Stella’s lips began to move, but nothing came out. She tried again and said, “Ice.”

A cup of ice chips sat beside Stella’s eyeglasses on a stand next to the gurney. Quinn put the cup to her blistered lips and tilted it so that a few chips slid into her mouth. When he returned the cup to the table he saw a bag at the foot of the gurney containing Stella’s clothing and shoes. A white plastic purse rested atop her possessions.

Quinn stroked her hand. “Wilson do this to you, Stella?”

She nodded, her eyes straining as she looked up at Quinn. Quinn took her glasses off the stand and carefully fitted them on her face.

“Better?”

Stella nodded.

“You tell anyone else that he did this?”

Stella shook her head.

“I don’t want you to tell anyone else, not yet. Do you understand?”

Stella nodded.

“ Why did he do this, Stella? Did Jennifer Marshall tell him you’d set up the snatch?”

“She called him,” said Stella. “She’s out again… mad at her parents… and she called World.”

“All right,” said Quinn. “That’s enough.” The tubes running into her nose were dense now with brown particles, and her hand felt hot beneath his.

“Terry…”

“Don’t talk. Sue Tracy, remember her? She’s on her way down. I want you to talk to her when she comes. You need to tell her how to get in touch with your people. Your parents, I mean.”

“Home,” said Stella.

“Sue’s gonna take care of that.”

The nurse returned and told Quinn he had to go. Quinn kissed Stella on her bandaged forehead, told her he’d be back to see her later, and walked out from behind the curtain. The cop was waiting for him by the swinging exit doors.

“She say anything?” said the cop.

“Not a word,” said Quinn, hitting a wall button and going through a space in the opening doors. He yanked his cell off his belt clip and dialed Strange as he walked. He had Strange’s location by the time he left the building and hit fresh air.

Quinn looked ahead. Sue Tracy was coming down the sidewalk toward him, a cigarette in her hand. She hit the smoke and pitched the butt onto the street as they met.

“What happened?” said Tracy.

“Wilson got to her. He worked on her with his hands and a knife.”

“Why?”

“From what I can make out? Jennifer Marshall ran away from home again. She called Wilson and hipped him to Stella.” Quinn looked around, distracted, nervous as a cat. “Listen, I gotta go.”

“Wait a minute.” Tracy grabbed his elbow. “I think you need to take a deep breath here.”

“Go take a look at her yourself, Sue. See how peaceful it makes you feel.”

“All right, it’s rough. We’ve both seen plenty.”

“Stay in neutral if that’s what works for you.”

“You got a history, Terry. Don’t make this an excuse to settle some score just because some lowlife looked at you wrong and called you a girl.”

“Right. Here’s the part where you say, ‘We live in two different worlds. Yours is too violent. I don’t want to live in your world anymore.’ Go ahead and say it, Sue, because I’ve heard it from women before.”

“Bullshit. I’m not giving up, and I’m not looking to walk away. Don’t put me down just because I’m worried about you.”

Quinn pulled his arm free of her grasp. “Like I said, I gotta bounce.”

“Where are you off to?”

“To hook up with Derek. We’re working on something important and I can’t leave him twisting out there.”

“You sure that’s where you’re going?”

“Look: Stella wants to go home. You need to find her parents. She’ll cooperate.”

“I know what to do. You don’t have to tell me, because I’ve been doing this for a long time. I hired you, remember?”

“There’s a plainclothes in the ER; he’ll be looking to talk to you. I didn’t give him anything, understand?”

“You don’t want me to talk to the police.”

“Not yet. You’ll know when the time’s right.”

“Why don’t you want me to talk to them now?”

“Take care of Stella,” said Quinn.

He put his arms around Tracy and kissed her on her lips. He took in the clean smell of her hair. They broke their embrace, and Tracy stepped back and pointed her finger at Quinn.

“Keep your cell on, Terry. I want to know where you are.”

She watched him jog down the sidewalk toward a line of cabs idling near the main entrance of the hospital. She turned and walked into the ER.

Quinn got into the backseat of a purple Ford. The driver was talking on a cell phone and did not turn his head.

“Warder Street in Park View, off Georgia.”

The African looked at Quinn in his rearview but kept talking on his cell. He did not touch the transmission arm coming off the steering column.

Quinn flipped open his badge case, reached over the front seat, and held the case in front of the cabby’s face.

“Haul ass,” said Quinn.

The cabby pulled down on the tree and fed the Ford gas.

“LYDELL, it’s Derek.”

“Derek, where you at?”

“Down near my office. Can you hear me?”

“Sure.”

Strange sat behind the wheel of his Caprice, parked along the curb on Warder Street, facing east. He was a half block down from the row house where Charles White and, he expected, Garfield Potter and the boy with the cornrows lived. Strange’s binoculars hung around his neck.

“Lydell, I wanted to get up with you. I don’t think me and Terry are gonna make it to practice tonight.”

“Why not?”

“We got a big surveillance thing we’re working on. Can’t break it; you know how that goes.”

“That’s a lot of boys for me and Dennis to handle.”

“Call Lionel, and Lamar Williams; those two know the drills and the plays as good as we do. If you don’t have their phone numbers, call Janine.”

“Yeah, okay. But what’s up with this surveillance thing? Thought you’d be out talking to Lorenze Wilder’s associates today.”

“We been doing that, too,” said Strange, looking at the empty row house porch. “But nothin’ yet.”

“Well, we might have something.”

“Yeah?”

“Woman called in, trying to get some of that reward money. Said she was out late one night, a few nights before the killings. Some male friends of hers was in a crap game got robbed by three young men, over there in Park Morton. One of the young men pulled a gun on one of her friends, man named Ray Boyer. Used it like a hammer and broke Boyer’s nose. Woman says the one with the gun matched the description of the artist’s drawing on the posters we put up in the neighborhood. And get this: She says the gun was a short-barreled revolver. You know that we’ve identified one of the murder weapons as a snub-nosed three fifty-seven.”