George Pelecanos - Soul Circus

McKinley made a pad from the gauze and tape. He grunted, holding his flap of nipple flat as he stuck the gauze on his chest. He was still bleeding some. He’d have to go to the clinic tomorrow, maybe get some stitches put on there to hold it tight. But that was tomorrow. He needed to find Mike, warn him to move the boy someplace safe. And he had some business with Foreman, too.

He phoned Monkey Mike but got a dead line.

He went back out to the living room where Foreman sat. He had a seat himself and smiled at the man with the show muscles who, after all those years out of uniform, still looked like a cop. Being a cop was like having those grass stains he used to get on the knees of his jeans when he was a kid. You could never get those out.

“I feel better now,” said McKinley.

“You want a cigar?”

“Never turn down one of your Cubans.”

McKinley slid two out of the inside pocket of his leather, handed one to McKinley, lit his own, lit McKinley’s. They sat there in the living room in the light of the bare-bulb lamp, smoking, getting their draws.

“Nice,” said McKinley. “Look here, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression on the phone a while back. I was just agitated at the time.”

“Ain’t no thing,” said Foreman, looking at the spot, still leaking, on McKinley’s chest. “What happened?”

“Someone took advantage of the fact that I was alone here, unarmed, and made the mistake of tryin’ to step to me. I’m gonna take care of that situation my own self.”

“Where’s your boy at?”

“Mike? I’d like to know myself.” McKinley chin-nodded in the direction of Foreman’s leather. “What you holdin’, man?”

“My Colt.”

“That’s a pretty gun, too, got those ivory handles. What else?”

Foreman reached into his jacket and slid the revolver from one of the shoulder holsters. He handed it butt out to McKinley, who weighed it in his hand. He turned the gun, admiring the contrast of the polished rosewood grips against the stainless steel.

“LadySmith Three fifty-seven,” said Foreman.

“It’s light.”

“Yeah, but you could put your fist through the hole it makes. ’Specially on the exit. It’s light ’cause it’s made for the hand of a woman. That’s Ashley’s gun right there.”

McKinley handed the gun back to Foreman, who holstered it.

“How is your woman?” said McKinley.

“She’s good.”

“Bet that pussy’s good, too. I ain’t never had a white girl I ain’t paid to have. It’s all pink anyway, right?” McKinley laughed, reached over and clapped Foreman on the arm, watching his narrowed eyes. “Oh, shit, c’mon, big man, we just talkin’ man-to-man here. I mean you no disrespect.”

Foreman sat back and dragged on his cigar. “Say why you brought me out here, for real.”

“Okay, then. This situation we got, you sellin’ to my competition, I come to the conclusion it ain’t workin’ for me. Two of my boys just got deaded by one of your guns; you know this.”

“And they lost two of theirs the same way. I’m sorry those boys had to die, but it ain’t none of my concern. I didn’t pull those triggers, any more than the dealer plunges the needle into a junkie’s arm.”

“Like I said, it ain’t workin’ for me . You tryin’ to stay neutral, all right, you’ve made yourself clear. But Durham’s done, man, finished. All’s that’s left is for someone to come along and throw some dirt on him. I’m gonna take over his territory soon, you can bet on that like the sunrise.”

“That ain’t none of my business, Horace.”

“I’m gonna be all your business, man. ’Cause eventually it’s just gonna be me and my troops down here, understand?”

“So?”

“What we gotta do now is make that happen tonight. Cement our relationship so we can move forward, man.”

Foreman tapped ash off his cigar. “No.”

“What you mean, no ?”

“I mean I won’t do it. You askin’ me to cross a line that I won’t cross.”

“It’s gonna be good for your future, man.”

Foreman kept his tone friendly. “Thanks for thinkin’ of me, but I’m already doin’ all right.”

“I’m not talkin’ about you doing better. I’m talkin’ about you makin’ the right decision here so you can keep what you got.”

Foreman stared through the roiling smoke at McKinley. He nodded slowly, his dark eyes shining wet in the light.

“You should have got straight to the point from the get-go. I understand you now, Horace.”

“Good. It’s just a short walk from here to there.”

“Who we talkin’ about, exactly? And how many?”

“Dewayne. Zulu, I expect.”

“You got some kind of plan?”

“Simple. We walk on over there, cross that DMZ, and knock on their door. Tell ’em we want to give them, what do you call that, one of them olive branches. Tell ’em we want to talk. There’s been too much killin’ lately, can’t we all get along, some bullshit like that. They let us in the house, we take ’em down. Like I said, simple. We outnumber their guns, and we got surprise on our side. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“When?” said Foreman.

McKinley said, “They’re over there right now.”

Foreman stood out of his chair, dropped his cigar to the scarred hardwood floor, and crushed it under his shoe. He released the safeties on both of his guns, reholstered the revolver, racked the slide on his Colt.9, reholstered it, and straightened out his leather.

“We gonna talk all night,” said Foreman, “or we gonna do this thing?”

“Damn, big man,” said McKinley, “you make a decision, you don’t fuck around.”

“You the one made the decision, Hoss. I’m just a man with a couple of guns.”

MARIO Durham lay on his back. The bullet had taken out the bridge of his nose and one of his eyes. His hat was still fitted to his head, which rested on the street in a river of blood.

“He looks real casual, doesn’t he?” said Nathan Grady. “Like he just laid down in the street to take a nap. I like the way he’s got his hand in his pocket, too, don’t you? Except for his face, you wouldn’t even know he was dead.”

Strange and Quinn were inside the yellow crime tape, standing beside Grady. Kids and adults from the neighborhood were behind the tape, some talking to uniformed officers, some laughing, some just staring at something that would give them bad dreams later that night. The photographers and forensics team were still working over the body and had not yet covered Mario up.

“Why is he like that?” said Quinn.

“My guess is the bullet severed his cerebral cortex,” said Grady. “When that happens it freezes the victim at the moment of death. I’ve seen it before. Mario was probably standing on the corner, his hand in his pocket, when he took the bullet. He died instantly, I’d say.”

“Standing on the corner doing what?” said Strange.

“Well, one of the locals said they saw little Mario there earlier in the evening, looked like he was selling something, or trying to. When we get into his pockets we’ll find out.”

“He got killed over drugs?”

“Could be. Looks like an amateur killing. A pro wouldn’t put a forty-five to a man’s head. I mean, a twenty-two would have been sufficient, right? One thing’s for sure: He didn’t get killed for his sneakers. You see ’em?” Grady laughed. “My man here is sportin’ a pair of ‘ordans.’ Or maybe I’m missing something and that’s the rage these days.”

Strange and Quinn did not comment.

“Anyway, he’s dead. Justice in Drama City, right? Thought you guys would want to see him. For closure and all that.”