George Pelecanos - Hell To Pay

“There’s the Caddy,” said Little, chinning toward the black Brougham parked in the circular drive in front of the last house on the street.

Potter parked the Ford along the curb and killed its engine.

They walked over grass and asphalt, then grass again, as they neared the steps of the brick colonial. The first-floor interior of the house was fully lit. An attached garage with a row of small rectangular windows across the top of its door was lit, too.

Potter and Little stood beneath a portico marking the center of the house. At Potter’s gesture, Little rang the doorbell. Through leaded glass, Potter could see the refracted image of a man wearing black coming down a hall. The door opened. The football coach, the one who called himself Strange, stood in the frame.

“Come on in,” said Strange.

They stepped into a large foyer. Strange closed the door and stood before them.

Potter licked his lips. “Somethin’ you want to say to me?”

“Just wanted to have a look at you.”

“You had it. Let’s get on about our business.”

“You got the money?”

“In my jacket, chief.”

“Let me see it.”

“When I see the tape.”

Strange breathed out slow. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

“Hold up. Want to make sure you’re not strapped.”

Strange spread his black leather jacket and held it open. Little stepped forward and frisked him like he’d seen it done on TV. He nodded to his partner, letting him know that Strange was unarmed.

“Follow me back,” said Strange. “I’ve got a studio in the garage. The tape is back there.”

They walked down one of the halls framing the center staircase, leading to a kitchen and then a living area housing an entertainment center and big cushiony furniture.

“Thought you said this house was unoccupied,” said Potter.

“I rent it furnished,” said Strange over his shoulder.

And it’s all high money, too, thought Potter. And then he thought, Somethin’ about this setup ain’t right.

“What you do to get this?” said Potter, elbowing Little, who was clumsily bumping along by his side, away.

“I own a detective agency,” said Strange. “Ninth and Upshur.”

“Yeah,” said Potter, “but what’s your game? I mean, you can’t be havin’ all this with a square’s job.”

“I find people,” said Strange.

They passed a door that was ajar and kept going, Strange stepping down into a kind of laundry room, then heading for another door and saying, “It’s right in here.”

“You can’t be all that good at findin’ people,” said Potter, “to have all this.”

“I found you ,” said Strange, and he opened the door.

Beyond the door was just darkness. Potter stared at the darkness, remembering the garage door and its little windows, remembering the light behind the windows as they’d walked toward the house.

“Dirty,” said Potter, and as he reached into his leather for his.38 he heard steps behind him and then felt the press of a gun’s muzzle against the soft spot under his ear.

Little was pushed up against a wall, his face smashed into it by a man holding a gun to the back of his head. The man found Little’s gun and took it.

Potter didn’t move. He felt a hand in his jacket pocket and then the loss of weight there as his revolver was slid out.

“Inside,” said the voice behind him, and he was shoved forward.

Strange flicked on a light switch and moved aside as the four of them stepped down into the garage.

Potter saw a big man in a jogging suit with golden-colored eyes, standing with his hands folded in front of him. A young man in a dress suit stood beside him, an automatic in his hand. On the other side of the big man was a boy, no older than twelve, wearing an oversize shirt, tails out. Other than the people inside of it, the garage was empty. A plastic tarp had been spread on its concrete floor.

Potter recognized the big man as Granville Oliver. Everyone in town knew who he was.

Oliver looked over at Strange, still standing in the open doorway.

“All right, then,” said Oliver.

Strange was staring at the young boy in the oversize shirt. He hesitated for a moment. Then he stepped back and closed the door.

A row of fluorescent lights, set in a drop ceiling, made a soft buzzing sound overhead.

“You Granville Oliver, right?” said Potter.

Oliver stepped forward with the others. The two who had braced Potter and Little had joined the group. Potter and Little retreated and stopped when their backs touched the cinderblock wall of the garage. One of the men reached out and tore Potter’s skully off his head. He threw it to the side.

“What is this?” said Potter, hoping his voice did not sound weak. But he knew that it did. Little’s hand touched his for a moment, and it felt electric.

Oliver said nothing.

“Look, you and me ain’t got no kinda beef,” said Potter. “I been careful to stay out the way of people like you.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed steadily.

Potter spread his hands. “Have I been steppin’ on your turf down there off Georgia? I mean, you tryin’ to build somethin’ up there I don’t know about? ’Cause we will pack up our shit and move on, that’s what you want us to do.”

Oliver didn’t reply.

Potter smiled. “We can work for you, you want us to.” He felt his mouth twitching uncontrollably as he tried to keep the smile.

Oliver’s eyes stayed on his. “You want to work for me?”

“Sure,” said Potter. “Can you put us on?”

“Gimme my gun,” said Oliver, and the young boy beside him reached under the tail of his shirt and withdrew an automatic. Oliver took the gun from the boy and jacked a round into the chamber. He raised the automatic and pointed it at Potter’s face. Potter saw Oliver’s finger slide inside the trigger guard of the gun.

Potter closed his eyes. He heard his friend beside him, sobbing, stuttering, begging. He heard Carlton drop to his knees. He wasn’t gonna go out like Dirty. Like some bitch, pleadin’ for his life.

Potter peed himself. It felt warm on his thighs. He heard the ones who was about to kill him laughing. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyes were frozen. He thought of his mother. He tried to think of what she looked like. He couldn’t bring her up in his mind. He wondered, did it hurt to die.

STRANGE walked through the kitchen toward the stairway hall. He slowed his step and leaned up against an island holding an indoor grill.

Even from here, even with that door to the garage closed, he could hear one of those young men crying. Sounded like he was begging, too. The one with the cornrows, if he had to guess. Strange didn’t even know that young man’s name.

It wasn’t that one, though, or Potter, who had given him pause. It was the young boy standing next to Oliver. The one he’d seen raking leaves the previous day, the one he’d never seen smile. Like he was already dead inside at eleven, twelve years old. Quinn would say that you should never give up on these kids, that it was never too late to try. Well, Strange wasn’t sure about Potter and his kind. But he knew it wasn’t too late for that boy who’d lost his smile.

Strange walked back the way he’d come. He opened the door leading to the garage without a knock. He stepped down onto the plastic tarp and entered the cold room. All heads turned his way.

Granville Oliver was holding an automatic to the face of Garfield Potter. Saliva threads hung from Potter’s open mouth, and his jeans were dark with urine. The smell of his release was strong in the garage. The one with the cornrows was on his knees, tears veining his face. His eyes were red rimmed and blown out wide.