D.C. Noir

by George Pelecanos

  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.

  FIRST

  BY KENJI JASPER

  Benning Heights, S.E.

  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.

  It was definitely not supposed to turn out like this. You would have rather spent the last three hours in Catalina’s basement, bumping and grinding in nothing but a latex shield. You should be squeezing her nipples with your fingers, and putting a thumb on that pearl down below.

  You were supposed to be five grand richer by dawn. But that hammer hit the base of the shell and next thing you knew, Fat Rodney’s skull was missing a chunk the size of your fist, his blood sprayed across your cheek as you took cover to the left of that door frame. It was your first time out and somebody had the fix in. Go fuckin’ figure.

  “So y’all ready?” Dante asks again. Burns Street is nothing but quiet, a block the cops hardly every patrol. Nothing over there but grandmas and kids and the P.G. line just a few up the hill. All of this for Boyz II Men at the Cap Centre. All of this because once again you didn’t know when to pull out.

  1.

  You got up that morning Ferris Bueller style. Peered through the shades and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Your new girl was still on your fingers, the smell of Claiborne all over everything else. You remembered the way her tongue felt against your chest and the way she said good night before she went out through the basement, knowing your moms always slept like a corpse.

  You woke up with all of that on your mind and two dollars in your pocket. The weekend was on the way and Boyz II Men was coming to the Cap Centre with a bunch of other acts. Catalina loved those gump-ass niggas, and thus expected you to foot the bill for two tickets, preceded by dinner and hopefully followed by you getting some long-awaited ass. You’d been chipping away at that pussy for weeks, first base all the way to the edge of third. Now home was definitely in sight.

  Things would’ve been simple if that coming Friday was a payday. But it wasn’t. Add in the fact that you already owed Dante twenty dollars from the last time you took Catalina out and thirty to Sean for those tapes you were supposed to go in half on, then taxes, your pager bill, and cake for gas, and that forthcoming check was already spent. You needed some more dough and you needed it yesterday.

  So you tried to come up with a plan in the shower, ’cuz that’s where you do your best thinking. Under water your thoughts flow evenly. In the stream you cut through all the bullshit. So it was there, under the “massage” setting spray, that you thought about running game at the rec.

  It was a Tuesday after all. Who the hell went to school on Tuesday, especially when you could buy off the rec manager with an apple stick and two packs of Now and Laters? What a pathetic price for a nigga as old as your father, whoever he is.

  “You tryin’ to play for time?” you asked your first mark, some light-skinned dude with a low-taper his barber shoulda got stabbed for.

  You knew the kid had cake. He had that look in his eye, plus a Guess watch, the new Jordans, and a sweet pair of Girbauds cuffed at the ankle. You’d seen him around before, so you knew he wasn’t some out-of-bounds hustler trying to move in on your racket. Yeah, that’s right, it was already yours, even before the first shot.

  “I’m tryin’ to play for money,” he said boldly, tapping a nervous finger against his thigh, the biggest tell in the world that he didn’t have what it took. You had him on the rack six times in under an hour. The idea crossed your mind of majoring in pool when you got to college.

  “My game’s off today,” he confessed earnestly after handing you three twenties without a flinch. “I guess my loss is your gain.”

  There was something about that phrase that didn’t sit well with you. It wasn’t the kinda shit niggas say on Ridge Road. Or if it was, you’d never heard it before. And that made you curious. You and your damn curiosity.

  “And a nice little gain it is,” you replied gloating, thinking of the words as a perfect move to finish him off.

  “It ain’t shit to me,” he replied. “But I can see you need the money.”

  You told him he needed to watch himself, that he didn’t know you like that. You turned open palms into fists, preparing yourself for battle. Yet all he did was grin. And that little grin made you think he might have heat, which meant you might be dead in the next few seconds. There you went again, acting befo
re you could think on it.

  He told you to chill. He didn’t mean any disrespect. He just thought that maybe the two of you could help each other out. After all, he’d seen you around the way and knew you were no joke. Truth be told, he even made it so he lost the first game or two of the previous series just to make you feel comfortable, just so you could feel like he was an easy mark. You took in all the words, but you didn’t really understand them, except for when he said that he had a problem he wanted you to help him with.

  “What you mean you want me to help you? I don’t know you, nigga,” was your response.

  “It’s ten G’s in it for you,” he replied. “Ten G’s for some shit that won’t even take ten minutes.”

  This was when you should have turned away. You weren’t a fuckin’ criminal. Sure you’d sold a few rocks back when everybody was doin’ it, and sure you and Sean had run some chains off people outside of the go-go. But anything worth ten G’s was way too hot for you to touch. Yet even though you were thinking these things, your mouth said: “Ten G’s!? Shit, what the fuck I gotta do?”

  Now according to the story, this dude who soon after introduced himself as “Butchie” had a little crack thing going down on Texas Avenue with a partner of his. The two of them had either bought (or run) some old lady out of her crib and were dealing there, but strictly to respectable clients (i.e., people who had all their teeth and wouldn’t draw suspicion from the cop details). And it had actually worked out. They’d cleared just over 100 grand in six months.

  This partner, introduced only as “D”, handled muscle and management. Butchie dealt with the supplier and scouting out clientele. The only problem came in when D got hit with a rape charge on the other side of town. Not only was it a parole violation but the dude’s second felony. Needless to say, D wouldn’t be seeing daylight anytime soon. But there was money and some product still at his crib on Adrian Street, right over the hill from the rec where you met Butchie.

  At this point, all the young man in front of you wanted to do was cash out, because there were no guarantees that D wouldn’t give him up. However, he still wanted what was his, half the thirty-five grand in D’s crib and whatever product was left over, so he could sell it wholesale and dump the money into a McDonald’s he wanted to reopen out on Bladensburg Road. It was a plan you could respect. Shit, if you’d had the cake you would’ve done the same thing yourself.