Authors: DC Noir
George Pelecanos (4 page)
The
businesses along here were like a roll call of my personal failures. The
Murray's meat and produce, the car wash, the Checks Cashed joint, they had
given me a chance. In all these places, I had lasted just a short while.
I
neared the G.A. market, down by Irving. A couple of young men came toward me,
buried inside the hoods of their North Face coats, hard of face, then smiling
as they got a look at me.
"Hey,
slim," said one of the young men. "Where you get that vicious coat at? Baby
GAP?"
Him
and his friend laughed.
I
didn't say
nothing
back. I got this South Pole coat I
bought off a dude, didn't want it no more. I wasn't about to rock a North Face.
Boys put a gun in your grill for those coats down here.
I
walked on.
The
market was crowded inside and thick with the smoke of cigarettes. I stepped
around some dudes and saw a man I know, Robert Taylor, back by where they keep
the wine. He was lifting a bottle of it off the shelf. He was in the middle of his
thirties, but he looked fifty-five.
"Robo,"
I said.
"Verdon."
We
did a shoulder-to-shoulder thing and patted backs. I had
been
knowing
him since grade school. Like me, he had seen better days. He
looked kinda under it now. He held up a bottle of fortified, turned it so I
could see the label, like them waiters do in high-class restaurants.
"I
sure could use a taste," said Robert. "Only, I'm a little light this evenin'."
"I
got you, Robo."
"Look,
I'll hit you back on payday."
"We're
good."
I
picked up a bottle of Night Train for myself and moved toward the front of the
market. Robert grabbed the sleeve of my coat and held it tight. His eyes, most
time full of play, were serious
"Verdon."
"What?"
"I
been here a couple of hours, stayin' dry and shit.
Lotta
activity in here tonight.
You just standin' around, you be hearin'
things."
"Say
what you heard."
"Some
boys
was
in here earlier, lookin' for you."
I
felt that thing in my stomach.
"Three
young men," said Robert. "One of 'em had
them
silver
things on his teeth. They was describin' you, your build and shit, and that hat
you always be wearin'."
He
meant my knit cap, with the Bullets logo, had the two hands for the double l's,
going up for the rebound. I had been wearing it all winter long. I had been
wearing it the day we talked to Flora in the alley.
"Anyone
tell them who I was?"
Robert
nodded sadly. "I can't lie. Some bama did say your name."
"Shit."
"I
ain't
say
nothin' to those boys, Verdon."
"C'mon,
man. Let's get outta here."
We
went up to the counter. I used the damp twenty Barnes had handed me to pay for
the two bottles of wine and a fresh pack of cigarettes. While the squarehead
behind the plexiglass was bagging my shit and making my change, I picked up a
scratched-out lottery ticket and pencil off the scarred counter, turned the
ticket over, and wrote around the blank edges. What I wrote was: Marquise
Roberts killed Rico Jennings. And: Flora Lewis was there.
I
slipped the ticket into the pocket of my jeans and got my change.
Me
and Robert Taylor walked out the shop.
On
the snow-covered sidewalk I handed Robert his bottle of fortified. I knew he'd
be heading west into Columbia Heights, where he stays with an ugly-looking
woman and her kids.
"Thank
you, Verdon."
"Ain't
no
thing."
"What
you think? Skins gonna do it next year?"
"They
got Coach Gibbs. They get a couple receivers with hands, they gonna be all
right."
"No doubt."
Robert lifted his chin.
"You be safe, hear?"
He
went on his way. I crossed Georgia Avenue, quick-stepping out the way of a Ford
that was fishtailing in the street. I thought about getting rid of my Bullets
cap, in case Marquise and
them
came up on me, but I
was fond of it, and I could not let it go.
I
unscrewed the top off the Night Train as I went
along,
taking a deep pull and feeling it warm my chest. Heading up Otis, I saw ragged
silver dollars drifting down through the light of the streetlamps. The snow
capped the roofs of parked cars and it had gathered on the branches of the
trees. No one was out. I stopped to light the rest of my joint. I got it going,
and hit it as I walked up the hill.
I
planned to head home in a while, through the alley door, when I thought it was
safe. But for now, I needed to work on my head. Let my high come like a friend
and tell me what to do.
I
stood on the east side of Park Lane, my hand on the fence bordering the
Soldier's Home, staring into the dark. I had smoked
all my
reefer and drunk my wine. It was quiet, nothing but the hiss of snow.
And "Get Up," that old Salt-N-Pepa joint, playing in my head.
Sondra liked that one. She'd dance to it, with my headphones on, over by that
lake they got.
With the geese running around it, in the
summertime.
"Sondra,"
I whispered. And then I chuckled some, and said, "I am high."
I
turned and walked back to the road, tripping a little I stepped off the curb.
As I got onto Quebec, I saw a car ing down Park Lane, sliding a little, rolling
too fast. It was a dark color, and it had
them
Chevy
headlights with the rectangle fog lamps on the sides. I patted my pockets,
knowing all the while that I didn't have my cell.
I
ducked into the alley off Quebec. I looked up at that rear porch with the
bicycle tire leaning up on it, where that boy stayed. I saw a light behind the
porch door's window. I scooped up snow, packed a ball of it tight, and threw it
up at that window. I waited. The boy parted the curtains and put his face up on
the glass, his hands cupped around his eyes so he could see.
"Little man!"
I yelled, standing by the
porch. "Help me out!"
He
cold-eyed me and stepped back. I knew he recognized me. But I guess he had seen
me go toward the police unmarked, and he had made me for a snitch. In his young
mind, it was probably the worst thing a man could be. Behind the window, all
went dark. As it did, headlights swept the alley and a car came in with the
light. The car was black, and it was a Caprice.
I
turned and bucked.
I
ran my ass off down that alley, my old Timbs struggling for grip in the snow.
As I ran, I pulled on trashcans, knocking them over so they would block the
path of the Caprice. I didn't look back. I heard the boys in the car, yelling
at me and shit, and I heard them curse as they had to slow down. Soon I was out
of the alley, on Princeton Place, running free.
I
went down Princeton, cut left on Warder, jogged by the front of the elementary,
and hung a right on Otis. There was an alley down there, back behind the ball
field, shaped like a T. It would be hard for them to navigate back in there.
They couldn't surprise me or nothing like that.
I
walked into the alley. Straight off, a couple of dogs began to bark. Folks kept
'em, shepherd mixes and rottweil with heads big as cattle, for security. Most
of them
was
inside, on account of the weather, but not
all. There were some who stayed out all the time, and they were loud. Once they
got going, they would bark themselves crazy. They were letting Marquise know
where I was.
I
saw the Caprice drive real slow down Otis, its head-lights off, and I felt my
ears grow hot. I got down in a crouch, pressed myself against a chain-link
fence behind someone's row house. My stomach flipped all the way and I had one
of them
throw-
up burps. Stuff came up, and I swallowed
it down.
I
didn't care if it was safe or not; I needed to get my ass home. Couldn't
nobody
hurt me there. In my bed, the same bed where I always
slept, near my brother James.
With my mother and father down
the hall.
I
listened to a boy calling out my name. Then another boy, from somewhere else,
did the same. I could hear the laughter in their voices. I shivered some and
bit down on my lip.
Use
the alphabet, you get lost. That's what my father told me when I was a kid.
Otis, Princeton, Quebec...I was three streets away.
I
turned at the T of the alley and walked down the slope. The dogs were out of
their minds, growling and barking, and I went past them and kept my eyes
straight ahead. At the bottom of the alley, I saw a boy in a thick coat, hoodie
up. He was waiting on me.
I
turned around and ran back from where I came. Even with the sounds of the dogs,
I could hear myself panting, trying to get my breath. I rounded the T and made
it back to Otis, where I cut and headed for the baseball field. I could cross
that and be on Princeton. When I got there, I'd be one block closer to my home.
I
stepped up onto the field. I walked regular, trying to calm myself down. I
didn't hear a car or anything else.
Just the snow crunching
beneath my feet.
And
then a young man stepped up onto the edge of the field. He wore a bulky coat
without a cap or a hood. His hand was inside the coat, and his smile was not
the smile of a friend. There were silver caps on his front teeth.
I
turned my back on him. Pee ran hot down my thigh. My knees were trembling, but
I made my legs move.
The
night flashed. I felt a sting, like a bee sting, high on my back.
I
stumbled but kept my feet. I looked down at my blood, dotted in the snow. I
walked a couple of steps and closed my eyes.
When
I opened them, the field was green. It was covered in gold, like it gets here
in summer, 'round early evening. A Gamble and Huff thing was coming from the
open windows of a car. My father stood before me, his natural full,
his
chest filling the fabric of his shirt. His sleeves were
rolled up to his elbows. His arms were outstretched.
I
wasn't afraid or sorry. I'd done right. I had the lottery ticket in my pocket.
Detective Barnes, or someone like him, would find it in the morning. When they
found
But
first I had to speak to my father. I walked to where he stood, waiting. And I
knew exactly what I was going to say: I ain't the low-ass bum you think I am.
I been
workin' with the police for a long, long time. Matter
of fact, I just solved a homicide.
I'm
a confidential informant,
Pop
. Look at me.
This
shit has gone way too far. That's what the little voice in your head tells you.
The black hoodie concealing your face is too warm for mid-April, and is thus
putting your Right Guard to the test. However, it will keep you above
description. And in this case, it's all that matters.
The
radio's on but turned all the way down. More commercial breaks than there ever
is music. Makes you curse your tape deck for being broken. Maybe it's a
blessing though, one less thing to distract you.
After
all there are three other men to worry about. The first, Sean, the one you've
known since Ms. Abby's class at nursery school, is in the passenger seat
sucking on a half-dead Newport as he loads a final shell into the sawed-off he
stole from your first catch of the day. The four of you introduced his flesh to
four pair of steel-toed Timberlands. You can still hear his ribs splintering,
and that shrill scream he let out at the end, when Babatunde's fist split his
nose in two.
Dante
and Baba are in the '85 Escort behind the house, both in the same hot-ass
hoodies you're rocking. Sean was the only one smart enough to go with short
sleeves. But there are beads even on his brow, mostly near the sideburns.
You've been telling him to cut that nappy 'fro of his for the last six months.
It makes him look like a cheap-ass Redman. But he likes Redman.
"This
jawnt is like that for '92!" he proclaims, continuing to take the critique as a
compliment. You can't wait for '93.
"You
ready?" Baba
asks,
his voice crackling with static
through the pair of ten-dollar walkie-talkies you've purchased for this hit.
The car sits different on your new rear tires. Rochelle slashed the old ones
two weeks ago when you told her it was over. Maybe it wasn't too prudent for
you to mention that Catalina had bigger titties.
You
love titties, or breasts, as a more elegant politically correct nigga might
say. But you ain't elegant and you definitely ain't PC. You're from Southeast.
And there's four lives inside the rules say you gotta take.