George Pelecanos - Hell To Pay

Quinn reached into his jeans for his cell. He sat on the purple couch, squinting at the keyboard of the cell, and with a shaky hand punched in 911. He asked for squad cars and an ambulance and gave the dispatcher his general address. He ended the call and tried to think of Strange’s number. He tried to think of Sue’s. He couldn’t bring either of their numbers to mind.

He breathed slowly. He knew that he was still bleeding because he could feel it going down his neck. He could feel the wetness of it on his upper chest and behind his collar. He wanted to bring his heart rate down to slow the flow of blood. The air was full on his wounds now, and the pain had ratcheted. He stared at the ripped curtains and the broken glass, and after a while he heard sirens and an odd sound coming from his lips.

Wilson said something from across the room. It was hard to hear him because the woman was still alternately sobbing and berating Quinn.

“What?” said Quinn.

“Somethin’ funny?” said Wilson.

“Why?”

“You laughin’ .”

“Was I?” said Quinn.

It didn’t surprise him. It didn’t scare him or make him feel any way at all. Quinn let his head drop back to the couch. He closed his eyes.

ON the stoops of the row houses of Buchanan Street, the jack-o’-lanterns of Halloween had begun to wilt. Time and the weather had mutated the faces carved into the pumpkins, and hungry squirrels had mutilated their features. Gloves and scarves had come out of the closets, and lawn mowers had been drained of gas and put away in basements and sheds. Colors had exploded brilliantly upon leaves, then the leaves had dried and gone toward brown. One holiday was done and another was approaching. Thanksgiving was just a week away.

Strange drove his Cadillac up his block, waving to an old woman named Katherine who was out in a heavy sweater, slowly raking her small square of yard. Katherine had been an elementary school teacher in D.C. for her entire career, put two sons and a daughter through college, and had recently lost a grandson to the streets. Strange had been knowing that woman for almost thirty years.

Strange hooked a right on Georgia Avenue. He looked in his shoebox of tapes and slipped an old Stylistics mix into the deck. Bell and Creed’s “People Make the World Go Round” began with a wintry prologue, Russell Thompkins Jr.’s incomparable vocal filling the car. As Strange drove south on Georgia he softly sang along. At a stoplight near Iowa, he noticed a flyer with the likenesses of Garfield Potter, Carlton Little, and Charles White still stapled to a telephone pole. By now, most of those flyers had been torn down.

Potter and Little had been arrested at their house on Warder Street without incident. They had been arraigned and were now incarcerated in the D.C. Jail, awaiting trial. The trial would not come for another six months. The whereabouts of the missing suspect, Charles White, would continue to be a source of speculation for the local media from time to time. A year and a half later, White’s identity would surface in connection with another murder charge outside of New Orleans. White would eventually be shanked to death, a triangle of Plexiglas to the neck, in the showers of Angola prison. The story would only warrant a paragraph in the Washington Post , as would the violent fates of Potter and Little. As for Joe Wilder, the memorial T-shirts bearing his face had been discarded or used for rags by then. For most metropolitan-area residents, Wilder’s name had been forgotten. “Another statistic.” That’s what hardened Washingtonians called kids like him. One name in thousands on a list.

Strange parked on 9th and locked the Brougham down. He walked by the barber shop, where the cutter named Rodel stood in the doorway, pulling on a Newport.

“How’s it goin’, big man?”

“It’s all good.”

“Looks like you could use a touch-up.”

“I’ll be by.”

He went down the sidewalk and looked up at the logo on the sign hung over his place: Strange Investigations. There were a few dirt streaks on the light box, going across the magnifying glass. He’d have to get Lamar on that today.

Strange was buzzed into his storefront business. Janine was on her computer, her eyes locked on the screen. Ron Lattimer sat behind his desk, a porkpie hat angled cockily on his head. The color of the hat picked up the brown horizontals of his hand-painted tie. Strange stopped by his desk and listened to Lattimer’s musical selection for the day, a familiar-sounding horn against a slamming rhythm section.

“Boss.”

“Ron. This here is Miles, right?”

Lattimer looked up and nodded. “ Doo-Bop .”

“See, I’m not all that out of touch.” Strange looked at the paperwork on Lattimer’s desk. “You finishin’ up on that Thirty-five Hundred Crew thing?”

“I’ll be delivering the whole package to the attorneys next week. Major receivables on this one, boss.”

“Nice work.”

“By the way, Sears phoned in. They said your suit’s been altered and you can pick it up any time.”

“Funny.”

“Serious business. The cleaner down the street called, said your suit and shirts are done.”

“Thank you. I got a wedding to go to this weekend. You remember George Hastings, don’t you? His little girl’s.”

“The dress I’m wearing is down there, too, Derek,” said Janine, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Could you pick it up for me?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t mind my saying so,” said Lattimer, “you goin’ to a wedding, you ought to do something about your natural.”

“Yeah,” said Strange, patting his head. “I do need to get correct.”

Strange passed Quinn’s desk, littered with old papers and gum wrappers, and stopped at Janine’s.

“Any messages?”

“No. You’ve got an appointment down at the jail, though.”

“I’m on my way. Just stopped in to check up on y’all.”

“We’re doing fine.”

“You comin’ to the game this afternoon? It’s a playoff game, y’know. Second round.”

Janine’s eyes broke from her screen, and she leaned back in her seat. “I’ll be there if you want me to.”

“I do.”

“I was thinking I’d bring Lionel.”

“Perfect.”

Janine reached into her desk drawer and removed a PayDay bar. She handed it to Strange.

“In case you’re too busy for lunch today.”

Strange looked at the wrapper and the little red heart Janine had drawn above the logo. He glanced over at Ron, busy with his work, and back to Janine. He lowered his voice and said, “Thank you, baby.”

Janine’s eyes smiled. Strange went back to his office and closed the door.

Lamar Williams was behind Strange’s desk, reaching for the wastebasket as Strange walked in. Strange came around and took a seat as Lamar stepped aside. Lamar stood behind the chair, looking over Strange’s shoulder as he logged on to his computer.

“You getting into that People Finder thing?” said Lamar.

“Was just gonna check my e-mails before I go off to an appointment. Why, you want to know how to use the program?”

“I already know a little. Janine and Ron been showin’ me some.”

“You want to know more, I’ll sit with you sometime. You and me’ll get deep into it, you want.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Strange swiveled his chair so that he faced Lamar. “You know, Lamar, Ron’s not gonna be here forever. I know this. I mean, good people don’t stay on in a small business like this one, and a fair boss wouldn’t expect them to. I’m gonna need some young man to replace him someday.”

“Ron’s a pro.”

“Yeah, but when he first came here, he was green.”