D. C. Noir 2

by George Pelecanos

  Lafonzo was running out of room for evasions; a full-blown lie was called for here. But present danger prevailed over the future.

  “They’s a few bars he fancies. Nairobi Jones, Langtry’s, the Southeaster.”

  “What else can you tell me? Any trademarks, things that he favors?”

  “I don’t know. He always wears that long coat. You know, the ones that go down to your boots.”

  “A duster?” Bitterman was finally interested.

  “Yeah.”

  “What color?”

  “Dark. Dark red.”

  “Like burgundy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s it made of?”

  “Leather. Musta cost plenty.”

  “What about a bandana?”

  “Yeah, that too. He wears it around his neck, not on his head.”

  Glory to God. The red leather duster and the bandana could make him “Johnny-Jump-Out,” wanted in six daylight shootings. Bitterman put what he knew from the files together with Nellis’s information and began to understand his quarry a little better.

  “He fancies himself quite a shootist, doesn’t he?” Bitterman began. “No back of the ear, hands tied, in a dark room for him. I admire that. Straight up in your face, shoot and shoot back. He must have quite a reputation in the ’hood. You don’t fuck with Lufer Timmons, do you?”

  “What do you need me for? You seem to know everything.”

  “That I do, Lafonzo. I know that Lufer steals a car when he’s gonna whack someone. He’s got a driver he trusts. He cruises the streets till he finds his target, then he jumps out, which is why we call him ‘Johnny-Jump-Out.’ No pussy bullshit drive-bys for our Johnny, no, he jumps out, calls the target by name, pulls his piece and does it right there, trading gunfire on the street, broad daylight, then back in the car and he’s gone. Cool customer, our Lufer, drawing down on a man telling him you’re gonna kill him and then doing it. Nice gun he uses, too, .44 Magnum. Holds on to it. Does he wear a holster, Lafonzo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “What for?”

  “Because I want to know, Lafonzo.”

  “It’s on his left hip, facing the other way.”

  “A cross-draw, how elegant. And so cocky. Most guys just shoot and throw down. He doesn’t think he’s gonna get caught. I know he wears armor because one guy hit him right in the chest before Lufer put one between his eyes.”

  “So how come you know so much, you ain’t got him yet?”

  “All we had was an M.O. No pattern to his killings. Now, I know that there isn’t one. Lufer gets hot, you get shot. Now I’ve got a name, a description, and some places to look for him. He got a name for himself? All the great ones had nicknames. What about Lufer?”

  “Fuck, man, he don’t need no nickname. You hear Lufer Timmons looking for you, that’s like hearing the Terminator wants you.”

  Bitterman pocketed his photograph and smiled at Lafonzo. “I guess you’ll be wanting to spend some time indoors, right?”

  Lafonzo sat up straight. “Don’t you be putting me out there, now. That motherfucker’ll kill me.”

  “Relax. I’m not gonna screw around with you. I’ll make sure you’re papered and held, maybe get you a nice high bond you can’t post. How’s that sound?”

  “Great. Fuckin’ great. Thanks.”

  No other city in the world had as much of its population behind bars. Even the bad guys prefer to be in jail rather than on the streets. Bitterman was optimistic about nailing Timmons. A guy so caught up in building a reputation wouldn’t be able to wait for it to be bestowed upon him. He’d help it along with plenty of boasting. All they had to do was find the right pair of ears. Secondly, he liked his gun too much. Holding on to that was a mistake. If they found that, they’d match it to bullets in his six victims. Once he was off the streets, they’d go back and talk to the deaf, dumb, and blind who’d seen and heard everything and convince just one of them to talk. Once gone he would not be coming back.

  Bitterman left the detention center to get an arrest warrant from a judge. If he got it soon, it’d make the 3 p.m. roll call for the next shift. By tomorrow morning, every active duty officer on the streets would be looking for Lufer Timmons. A Christmas present to the city.

  * * *

  Dantreya Watkins had been going about this all wrong. He’d approached the “gangstas” on the street looking for a piece and received the short course on urban economics: Desperation drives the price up, not down. Once his ignorance of makes and models was established, his “brothers” tried to sell him .25-caliber purse guns for four hundred bucks. Poverty only served to delay his fleecing. After three unsuccessful tries, he knew enough to ask for a .380 Walther. That seemed to be a respectable gun. He found a kindly gentleman who sold him such a gun and a full clip of ammo for three hundred bucks, which was all the money he could steal from his mother.

  It wasn’t until later, in an abandoned warehouse when Dantreya squeezed off a practice round and saw the cartridge roll out of the end of the barrel, that he learned that the clip was full of .32-caliber ammo and completely useless. Dantreya was now armed with a three-hundred-dollar hammer.

  Dantreya’s descent into the all-too-real world, far from the comics he read, rewrote, and illustrated in his room, was now complete. He was waiting nervously at the side of his friend TerrAnce’s house for TerrAnce to get his father’s gun for him. In exchange, Dantreya had offered TerrAnce his entire collection of X-Men comics, which they would go get as soon as TerrAnce lifted the gun from his father’s holster in the closet.

  TerrAnce pushed open the ripped screen door with his shoulder and, holding the gun carefully in both hands, took the steps, one at a time. He walked around the side of the house and approached Dantreya, both hands grasping the trigger and pointing the gun at him. Dantreya stepped aside as gracefully as any matador and took the gun out of his friend’s hands.

  “Thanks man,” he said, as he spun the chambers of the revolver. The bullets looked like the right size. Now, all he had to do was find Lufer Timmons. His older friends could help with that.

  TerrAnce looked at him expectantly. Dantreya slipped the gun into his jacket and shrugged, “Hey man, I gotta go. I’ll get your stuff and bring it right back.”

  That said, he took off across the street and ran up the alley away from his friend TerrAnce, now crying with all the disappointment an eight-year-old has.

  * * *

  Bitterman pulled up to the corner of 6th and O. He got out and put the cherry on the roof to simplify things for the locals. Up here, a white man with an attitude had to be crazy or a cop. Bitterman wanted to make sure they made the right choices.

  Fats Taylor was poured over a folding chair.

  “The fuck you doin’ up here, Bitterman?” Fats asked, his chest heaving with the effort of speech.

  “Just came up to hear myself talk, Fats. You bein’ such a good listener and all.”

  “I hear everything, sees everything, and knows everything.” Fats chuckled and smiled.

  And eats everything, Bitterman thought.

  “I’m looking for a faggoty little nigger, name of Lufer Timmons, you know him?”

  Fats’s face sealed over, as smooth and black as asphalt in August.

  “Well, you listen, Fats, and I’ll talk myself. This little queer thinks he’s a real pistolero, a gunslinger. Well, I think he’s a coward. I know who he’s shot, where, when, and why. Pretty tough with kids, and cripples, spaced-out druggies, welshing gamblers that don’t carry. You tell him I’m looking for him, Fats. And you know who I’ve put in the ground.”

  Bitterman closed his show, went back to his car and drove away. Fats could be counted on to spread the word, emphasizing every insult. A punk like Timmons, to whom respect was fear and fear was all, wouldn’t let this pass. Bitterman was already wearing armor and would until Lufer was taken in. Although facing a .44 Magnum he might just as well be wearing sun block.


  Bitterman repeated his performance in Nairobi Jones and the Southeaster.

  For fun, in Nairobi Jones, he told them he was Charlie Siringo, the Pinkerton who single-handedly tracked the Wild Bunch until they fled to South America. In the Southeaster he was Heck Thomas, one of the legendary “Oklahoma Guardsmen.”

  Bitterman wanted Lufer to stay put, and challenging him would do that. He wanted him angry and impulsive, so he insulted him. He wanted him confused, so he multiplied his pursuers.

  Bitterman drove over to Langtry’s via all the “cupcake corners” in the first district. His latest ex-partner had suggested that the politically correct term for these young ladies was “vertically challenged,” and they should be so described in all police reports. Bitterman got himself a new partner. He’d seen only a few working girls out on the sidewalks. Cold weather and the new law that allowed the city to confiscate the cars of the johns caught soliciting had forced one more evolution in the pursuit of reckless abandon. Now the girls drove endlessly around the block until they pulled up alongside a likely customer. The negotiations had more feeling than the foreplay to follow. Then a quick sprint to lose a police pursuit and the happy couple was free to lay down together, take aim and miss each other at point-blank range.

  Sunshine’s Mercedes was off line. Bitterman figured she was probably curled up with some rich young defense attorney in one of the city’s better hotels. Next to a Sugar Daddy John, a Galahad Defense Attorney was a girl’s best chance to get off the streets and get some instant respectability. Just another reason to hate those scumbags. Bitterman gave up after talking to Betty Boop. She’d shown up around the same time as Sunshine, and Bitterman had fancied her, too. Now her looks had gone like last week’s snow.

  Bitterman pulled up across the street from Langtry’s and started over when he saw Sunshine’s Mercedes. He turned back and got into his car to consider his options. If she was in Langtry’s alone, he’d pick her up and put her somewhere until he was done looking for Lufer and then celebrate Christmas Eve with her. If she was somewhere else nearby and he went in looking for Lufer, he’d miss her when she came out. He didn’t like that plan much. Of course, she could be with someone else already. As long as it wasn’t some fuckin’ defense attorney he’d flash some badge, heft a little gun, and requisition her on police business. Bitterman decided that this year the city could wait to get his gift.

  He hadn’t been this excited since he was four years old and came down in the middle of the night to see if Santa had brought the baseball glove that would make him Willie Mays. Just give me this one thing, Lord, just because it’s something I can ask for. Everything else I lack is so huge, so vague, so damned close that I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  * * *

  Dantreya Watkins hurried halfway down the alley, then slowed and moved cautiously along the wall to the intersection with the street. He was trying to think of what his heroes would do. Batman would swoop from the dark and knock Lufer down, then disarm him, tie him up, and leave him for the police. The Punisher would kick down a door and come in guns blazing. Dantreya tried to conjure courage but all he got was a tremor in his legs and a wave of nausea. He turned back to the alley and threw up all over his shoes. Courage had not delivered him to this place. He had nowhere near enough money to pay for Lufer’s death, and he could not imagine running away to live elsewhere. He could leave his world as a superhero, but not as himself. Like his mother, he had an allergy to the police and would not take a step toward one. He knew Lufer was a guarantee of death, only the date on the death certificate was missing. His fears and beliefs, what was impossible and what was certain, had brought him to this alley. His mind had painted him into a corner and it didn’t bother with a small brush.

  The tremor in his legs increased and Dantreya gripped the pistol in his pocket even tighter, hoping that would slow down the shaking that surged through him. He thanked God for the gun. Without it he knew he was a dead man looking to lie down.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later Lufer Timmons in his long red duster pushed open the door to Langtry’s and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Avery Bitterman sat up, cursing his luck that Timmons would be the one to show first. Timmons held the door and his companion stepped out into the night. She really was lovely, a thick mane of brick-red hair, pale skin and deep dimples when she smiled. Sunshine, in her knee-high boots, towered over Lufer, who traveled up her length slowly, appreciating every inch of her. He was gonna love climbing up this one. Lufer wasn’t particularly fond of white meat, but that crazy honky who’d been jivin’ with him put him in the mood to fuck this bitch cross-eyed, then maybe mess her up some. Called him a faggot, a punk. He’d show him who the real man was. First he’d teach this white bitch about black lovin’. That’d ruin her for white dick. Then he’d go find that motherfucka, kneecap him, make him beg for the bullet, then shove his gun all the way up his ass before he did him. Lufer smiled, goddamn that felt good. Life was good to Lufer, offering him so many avenues to pleasure.

  Sunshine slipped her arm through his and they walked down the street, Lufer showin’ off his prize and she whispering in his ear about what she had in mind for him. Bitterman let them pass his car, then got out and walked up the opposite sidewalk. Oh my, he said to himself as he felt something leak out of him. Sunshine was still as beautiful as ever, but her smile as she lay her head on Lufer’s shoulder was not one he wanted anymore. He couldn’t kid himself about what they would mean to each other, not any longer anyway.

  Lufer pushed open the door to a three-story walk-up between a Brazilian restaurant and an erotic lingerie store. Bitterman pulled out his radio, gave his location, who he was watching, and called for backup. If he’d been able to see down the alley across the way, he’d have seen a slim figure back away, turn and run to the fire escape and quickly begin to climb.

  Bitterman crossed the street and stood by the door to Timmons’s crib. He opened his jacket and thumbed back the strap on his holster. A level-three vest was supposed to be able to stop a .44 provided it wasn’t too close, but they said the shock would flatten you and you got broken up inside even if there wasn’t penetration. Where the hell was backup, Bitterman thought.

  He scanned the street in both directions and saw nothing. Right now he was the thin blue line.

  A shot rang out, then another, then a scream and a third one.

  Bitterman yelled into his radio, “Shots fired, I’m going up!” He pulled the door open and heard things falling, scuffling and screaming from above. Both hands on his pistol, he followed it up the stairs. He hit the second floor and pointed his gun at all the doors and then up the stairs.

  The noise was coming from the door at the far end. Bitterman closed in rapidly and pressed himself against the wall. He reached out with his right hand and touched the doorknob. It was unlocked.

  “Wonderful, I get an open door but no backup,” he said to himself.

  Bitterman slowly turned the knob. The noises had stopped.

  No banging, no screams. When it was fully turned, he flung it open and stepped through into what he hoped was not the line of fire.

  Lufer was on the floor. His pants were down around his knees. Sunshine was under him, twitching. Lufer’s cannon was in his hand and there was a bullet hole in the sofa. There was also one in his neck, and the blood was pooling under his chin.

  Bitterman saw a young boy to his left, holding on to a snub-nosed .38. The gun was jumping around like it was electrified. His left leg tried to keep time but it couldn’t. There was a large stain on the front of the boy’s pants.

  “Put down the gun,” Bitterman barked, but the boy didn’t respond.

  Bitterman searched his face. His eyes were wide open and unfocused.

  “Put down the gun,” Bitterman asked, more gently but to no avail.

  The boy was clearly freaked out by what he’d done. Maybe he could get close enough to disarm him.

  “Son, please put down the gun. You’re ma
king me nervous the way it’s shaking there. I don’t know what happened here, but I know he’s a bad man. Why don’t you tell me what happened here.”

  Bitterman edged closer to the boy, who was facing away from him. Maybe he could get his hand on the gun, then hit him in the temple with his pistol. At this range he couldn’t afford to let the boy turn. Even shooting to wound him wouldn’t work. An accidental off-line discharge could be fatal this close. Should he tell him he was going to reach for his gun, or just do it? And where the fuck was backup anyway?

  Bitterman moved slowly toward the boy until he was about two feet away. If he turned on him he’d have to shoot him. He had no choice. Why wouldn’t he just put the gun down and make this easier on both of them?

  Bitterman slowly reached out for the gun. The boy’s eyes snapped into focus and he tried to pull away. Bitterman grabbed for the gun. It swung up toward his face, he pulled it down toward his chest and slammed the kid in the head with his pistol. The .38 went off and Bitterman fell back gasping. Dantreya Watkins hit the floor and lay still.

  Bitterman, on his back, reached up and touched his chest. He could feel the .38 embedded in the Kevlar. God, did he hurt and was he glad he could say it.

  He lay there on his back, like a Kevlar turtle, his hands clenching with the pain of each breath. He saw Sunshine push Lufer Timmons up off of her, until she was clear of his now and forever limp penis, roll out from under it, stand up and stagger to the door without a backward glance. Bitterman tried to call out to her for help but could only groan instead, as she banged her way down the stairs. The front door slammed and Bitterman lay there in the enveloping silence waiting for the sounds of backup: screeching tires, sirens, pounding footsteps. Above all else he wanted there to be someone in a hurry to find him. Bitterman closed his eyes and whispered, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

  AFTER (EXCERPT)

  BY MARITA GOLDEN

  Woodmore, MD

  (Originally published in 2006)