George Pelecanos - Soul Circus

Strange doused the porch with gasoline and continued around the house, flinging the liquid against its walls. When he was done with one can he went back for the other and continued his circular path. Cars sped by on the highway, but none stopped.

Strange met Stefanos at the trunk of the car.

“We all set?” said Stefanos.

“Yeah. It’s an all-wood house, should go up good.”

“Here,” said Stefanos, holding out the branch. Strange poured gasoline onto the rag, careful not to get any near the car.

“That’s good. Drive the car up to the road. I’ll be right with you, hear?”

Stefanos smiled. “Set ’em off, Jefferson: one, two, three, four.”

“You are something. Gimme your matches.”

“Here you go, Dad.”

Strange felt the book pressed into his hand.

Stefanos took the car up to the road, let it idle on the berm. He looked south and in the rearview took in the northern view. There were no cars coming in either direction. He flipped the headlights on and then off.

Strange lit the rag atop the branch. The light from it was startling and he swung the branch and released it, pinwheeling it onto the porch of the gun store. The porch caught fire immediately and then the rest of the house seemed to explode into a ring of flame. Strange stepped back, feeling the heat of the fire, watching it engulf the house. He heard the sound of his own car’s horn but stayed where he was. He admired the power of the fire and the color dancing against the trees. He heard his horn again and he turned and jogged to his car. Stefanos was in the passenger seat, sweat shotgunned on his forehead. Strange got under the wheel and pulled down on the tree. He fishtailed off the berm, pinning the accelerator as he hit the asphalt.

Stefanos unscrewed the top from his pint bottle and had a drink. He handed it to Strange, who tipped it to his lips. The two of them laughed.

Strange handed the bottle back. “Thanks, buddy.”

“You feel better now?”

“Yeah, I feel good.” He thought of the cleansing warmth of the fire and the beauty of the flames.

“It’s a long jolt, we get popped for this. We ruined a man’s livelihood. He was running a legal business there.”

“He has insurance, I expect,” said Strange. “The way I look at it, we just saved a bunch of lives.”

Stefanos lit a cigarette. He looked at the white divider lines on the highway, rushing under the car. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“They found that girl he was looking for,” said Strange, smiling some, thinking of Quinn. “He had written down her location on the back of a flyer. It was sitting there right next to him on the seat.”

Stefanos looked across the bench at Strange. “Not many of us left out here.”

“No.”

“I guess I’m in it for life.”

“I guess I am, too.”

“Seems like a long game, doesn’t it?”

“Long but simple,” said Strange. “Only got one rule.”

“Just one?” said Stefanos.

Strange nodded. “Last man standing wins.”

Thanks to Joe Aronstamn, Russell Ewart, Father George Clements, ATF Special Agent John D’Angelo, ATF Special Agent Harold Scott Jr., ATF Division Director Jeffrey Roehm, Sloan Harris, and Alicia Gordon, for their assistance and guidance in the writing of this book. As always, much love to Emily, Nick, Pete, and Rosa, for their patience and support.

George P. Pelecanos is a screenwriter, independent film producer, award-winning journalist, and the author of a bestselling series of novels set in and around Washington, D.C., where he lives with his wife and children.