D.C. Noir

by George Pelecanos

  Retire from the force in two years? He doubted it.

  He felt like the man with the shovel following circus elephants who, when asked if he couldn’t find a better job, says, “What, give up show business?”

  Ice Hamilton pimp-walked up to his 1st Street, S.W. condo complex, unlocked the electronic fence of this “gated community” with a card key, and crossed the courtyard. Using a standard key, he unlocked the front door of his building and entered. A short walk to the second floor and he was at his door. He unlocked it and went inside.

  Hamilton had several cribs, but this one, which was in his sister Beth’s name, was decked out entirely in Ikea shit that Danielle, one of his classy ho’s, picked out. The place was slammin’!

  He tossed his keys onto the telephone table near the entrance and walked to the kitchen.

  Ice took a bottle of Hpnotiq Liqueur from the fridge and poured himself a tall glass of the blue beverage. He drank deeply. Damn, that was good. He walked over to his couch, flopped down, and put his feet on the coffee table. He laughed aloud, recalling the day’s events.

  That look on Detective Mayfield’s face. Priceless!

  Carter “The Real Deal” Washington owed him big time, and taking the fall for Ice on the Chesapeake Street murders made them even. Of course, promising to kill Washington’s entire family if he didn’t take the fall had helped The Real Deal make the right decision. And, as usual, his baby Fanta Monroe had come through for him with the names and addresses of potential eyewitnesses, an invaluable service for which she had been well compensated, monetarily and otherwise. He’d turned Fanta out long before she’d joined the police force and was glad that she was still a-dick-ted! He laughed at his own pun, one that he had run into the ground over the years and was funny only to him, though others still laughed because they feared him.

  No doubt about it, there was no substitute for having whores in all walks of life strung out on his enormous Johnson. Every woman he’d taken had come under his spell because, like Captain Kirk, he had gone where no man had gone before.

  Hamilton took another swig and then got serious as he considered the fate of the punk who had dared to speak out against him. He had been ineffectual, sure, but the nerve! His power must be absolute, his reign unopposed. What Grimes had done was bad for business, and he had to pay the ultimate price so that others would know the way of the world: DON’T SNITCH ON ICE HAMILTON. As always, he’d see to it personally. Ordering murders was too risky because underlings who committed the hits might cut a deal with 5-O and rat on him. Besides, he enjoyed killing people.

  And, of course, that punk muthafucka Francisco “Big Boy” Longus would get what he deserved, not only for trespassing on his turf, but also for the Chesapeake Street fiasco. Shit, it was Big Boy’s fault that he had missed him and killed that old hag and that kid. Punk-ass should have stood still.

  Yeah, that fat bastard was going to get what was coming to him. Soon.

  How Big Boy thought that he could get away with peddling smack on the big dog’s turf, Ice would never know. Didn’t matter. People had to know not to step on Ice Hamilton’s toes. He had a lot of turf, but he wasn’t giving up an inch. Crack, weed, crank, ecstasy, or heroin, the new drug of choice (oh, yeah, it had made a comeback with a vengeance!)—whatever, he didn’t care, he had people out there selling it. And nobody was going to take one penny of his profits out of his pocket. Nobody. At the age of only wenty-six, he could buy anything he wanted.

  It was also necessary that he send a clear message to the police in general, and to Detective Mayfield in particular, that he was untouchable. He smiled. Yeah, Ice would send his message to Mayfield loud and clear. Tonight.

  Breaking in to that sap Rodney Grimes’s tenth-floor apartment was simple. He knocked on the door like a policeman beforehand, to make sure no one was home, then went to work with his locksmith’s tools. He was inside and sitting on the man’s couch inside of two minutes.

  To make certain that Grimes would not be alerted to his presence when he returned to the apartment building, Ice kept the lights off and simply used a penlight to maneuver around.

  From what he could see of Rodney’s place, it was nice. Shit, Danielle, the ho who had hooked up his place, could have hooked up this one. True, it wasn’t Ikea shit, but it was put together well, sort of an Asian thing going on. Not too much furniture, but it was well placed, and there were lots of plants. Nice artwork on the walls. Nerd-boy had it goin’ on in here.

  Ice smiled. He hoped Rodney Grimes had enjoyed this place. He also hoped that he had lived life to the fullest, but he doubted it. Whatever. Today was the last day of that geek’s life.

  Isaiah “Ice” Hamilton turned off his penlight and waited in the dark for his next victim to return home.

  Rodney Grimes exited the elevator and walked down the hall to his tenth-floor apartment. He unlocked the door and entered, closing it behind him.

  He hit the light switch and froze. Sitting on his futon couch was Ice Hamilton.

  “Welcome home,” Ice beamed. He flicked open a switch-blade. “You can run if you want to, but I bet I can catch you.”

  Rodney just stood there.

  “Brave, huh?” Ice chuckled.

  Rodney put his gym bag on the floor.

  “Been workin’ out?” Ice asked.

  Rodney did not reply.

  “Well,” Ice said, “let’s see if you can kick my ass.” Brandishing his stainless steel stiletto, he laughed and rose from the futon.

  John Mayfield pulled into the front parking lot of the Wingate House East apartment complex at 9:45 p.m. He parked his unmarked police cruiser, a black 2000 Ford Taurus, and just as he lifted himself out of the car, the sound of breaking plate glass drew his attention upward, where he saw a man dangling from the railing of a balcony.

  Sweet Jesus,” Mayfield whispered. He bolted toward the apartment building.

  Someone began pounding on the front door, yelling, “Police! Open up!”

  Grimes realized it must be Detective Mayfield. He owes me a beer, he thought. Wiping his Coke-bottle glasses, he turned and headed for the door.

  Detective Mayfield, gun drawn, was surprised to see him. “Who…?”

  “Ice,” Grimes replied.

  Detective Mayfield passed quickly through the rubble of broken furniture and stepped onto the balcony. He was awe-struck. Isaiah “Ice” Hamilton, battered and bloody, his eyes filled with an odd combination of terror and rage, was struggling to keep hold of the railing with one hand. The other, once-powerful arm, now as limp as a strand of overcooked spaghetti, merely swung back and forth like a pendulum.

  “Help me, man!” Ice yelled. “Help me! My fingers is slippin’!”

  While the detective considered what to do, Ice lost his grip. He screamed like a white chick in a horror flick all the way down.

  Mayfield holstered his service handgun and turned back to Grimes. He was speechless. But as he looked at Grimes without his glasses, it suddenly came to him where he had seen the man before. The trophies toppled over on the bookshelves and the certificates and awards on the walls confirmed it. Rodney Grimes was a Tae Kwon Do champion, a tenth-degree black-belt. Over the past several years while lending his support to fellow officers who were involved with martial arts, Mayfield had seen Grimes compete at tournaments held at the old D.C. Convention Center. Grimes was a dynamo; Hamilton never had a chance. A Herculean effort was required for John Mayfield to conceal his amusement and deep satisfaction.

  The detective noted that Grimes was as cool as a cucumber. No. Cold

  “Ice needed someone to save the day,” said Grimes. “It’s too bad I couldn’t help him. But, like he said…” He slipped on his glasses and his magnified eyes stared directly at Mayfield.

  Recalling the note Ice Hamilton had left on Rodney Grimes’s car, Detective John Mayfield nodded, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

  GOD DON’T LIKE UGLY

  BY LESTER IRBY

  Edgewood,
N.E.

  The Fantasy Nightclub used to sit on the corner of 14th and U Streets, N.W., in what was then D.C.’s red-light district. Pimps, whores, players, drug dealers, and every other sort of hustler swarming the deadly streets of the Chocolate City frequented this establishment. Even a sprinkle of lawyers and local politicians wandered through from time to time.

  The year was 1970. On a warm and pleasant Friday night in September, the folks inside of this enclave of sinful joy were at their partying best. Drinks were being gulped down at a rapid pace. Coke and “doogie” snorted even quicker, and couples gyrated, cutting the rug as the fiery sounds of the Temptations’ smash hit “Ball of Confusion” heated the mood to an even higher pitch.

  At approximately 12:30 a.m. the club was filled to its maximum capacity. A boisterous crowd of latecomers stood outside the club’s front entrance pleading with the muscular bouncers to let them in.

  “Look, muthafuckas,” said Granite, one of the several mean men hired by the owner to keep peace in the house. “There ain’t no mo’ muthafuckin’ room in the place, so shut the fuck up and get ta steppin’, fo’ I put a hot-ball inside somebody’s ass.”

  Granite had a take-no-shit-off-nobody attitude and reputation. He also had pay-me-for-protection partners feared by many, so certain big-time entrepreneur/hustlers readily hired his crew to keep their businesses moving smoothly.

  While Granite and the other bouncers were trying to quiet and disperse the crowd, two gorgeous hookers, one black and the other white, left the dance floor and entered the ladies’ room to cool down and freshen up.

  Several minutes later, awful cries for help were heard clearly over the loud music—screams eerily vibrating from within the ladies’ room.

  Inside the rest room, the five-foot-eight curvaceous and strikingly beautiful Sarah Ward was discovered dead. She hovered over the toilet with her head completely submerged inside the piss-filled bowl. She had been strangled and drowned, and, according to the pathologist who later performed an autopsy, “beaten unmercifully moments before,” as evidenced by multiple facial bone fractures.

  Who tortured and killed this beautiful woman?

  My name is Felicia “Fee-Fee” Taylor. I attended the Fantasy Club that night. I am the sister of Raymond “Smooth” Taylor Jr., and I was once the number-one girlfriend of the notorious Zack Amos, the flamboyant yet smart, crafty, and feared drug kingpin of our nation’s capital.

  My exman and brother play major roles in the story that

  I am about to tell you, and they are significantly linked to the murder of Sarah Ward. I too am linked significantly to that terrible tragedy, as is undercover police officer Ted Jenkins, who was also present that night. But before I go into the details of that event, I desire and very much need to share some things about myself. I was raised in the Edgewood section of Northeast D.C. Born January 13, 1952, the youngest of two children, I was spoiled rotten by my parents, Raymond and Patricia Taylor, and even more so by my grandma, Nanny Johnson. Along with my older brother (by four years) Raymond Jr., we all resided at 3618 Bryant Street. Both parents worked. My mother was a teacher at Mott Elementary, which my brother and I both attended. My father worked two jobs, construction four to five days a week and an evening part-time job stacking shelves at the Safeway on the corner of 4th and Rhode Island Avenue. We had a three-bedroom home—actually four, because my parents converted a portion of our basement into another bedroom. That was Nanny’s Queendom and she simply loved her space.

  I wouldn’t say that we were a middle-class family during that period, but we were close, and that’s saying something. It was extremely hard for black people to move up the economic ladder in the ’50s, yet we lived very comfortably in what at the time was an integrated neighborhood.

  Growing up I idolized my older brother. I can still remember when he walked me to school every day in kindergarten. I felt so happy, safe, and confident. Each day when he dropped me off with my teacher, he’d tell me: “Baby sis, you hang in there girl. I’ll be right down the hall if you need me. And you better not cry.”

  Even at home I would follow him all around the place. His little shadow I was. Years later, as I thought about our childhood, I concluded that, periodically at least, I was a pain in his ass. Even when he had his friends over or when they were out playing in the streets doing their boy things, I’d make it my business to be a part of the action.

  “No, Fee-Fee, stop!” my brother would shout. “Go play with the girls…No, you can’t play stickball—get yo’ butt outta here before I call Mama!”

  Then I’d start to pout and cry and cry, and when I couldn’t cry no more, I’d fake the tears until I got my way. I didn’t realize it then, but my brother really knew how to manipulate people. Where I had it in my little child’s mind that I was going to do exactly what my brother and the boys did, my brother would always talk me into something like an “important cheerleader role.” And with my little dumb-ass self, I’d end up on the sideline shouting out some silly “Rahrah-hip-hip-hooray-for-the-gang” bullshit as they played. Yet still loving every moment of it.

  I can’t pinpoint exactly when the high affection for my brother began its decline, but I do remember when he dropped out of high school in the tenth grade and started hanging out on the street with his friends instead of being at home. Both matters led to major arguments between him and my father, which months later erupted into a horrendous fight—right smack in our living room, as me, Mama, and Nanny looked on and begged them to stop.

  Daddy ended up knocking Junior to the floor—then started shouting at him: “Nigger, get yo’ ass up and get the fuck outta my house. You don’t wanna go to school, you don’t wanna work. Get the fuck out and don’t come back until you get some sense.”

  Junior slowly got up off the floor, walked straight out the door, and I didn’t see him again for months. He was sixteen years old at the time and I’d recently turned twelve.

  Junior would drift periodically back into the house. During the few weeks or months that he was home, we’d share some good times. But something was missing. Things just weren’t the same. The streets had taken over Junior, and I could see in his eyes how extremely anxious he was to get back out there to do whatever he was doing.

  As I entered my teen years, my life became humdrum. My hero Junior was no longer there to play with, learn from, and help me to stay on course. My father continued to work two jobs and was too tired to do anything other than eat and sleep when he got home, and Mama had become much too strict and demanding for me to try to talk over anything with her. Nanny was rapidly aging. I was still her “precious little pumpkin,” even as early stages of Alzheimer’s set in.

  Gradually, boys became the excitement in my life. Boys, boys, and more boys. I had to have them. I had a crush on this particular seventh-grade classmate named Richard Armstrong. This was one cool, ultrafine manchild. His coffee-with-a-splash-of-cream complexion fit so well on his handsome face. And his slim, trim yet muscular physique simply turned me on. Plus, he had this roguish, street-smart attitude and confidence about himself—with a sexy-ass swagger that immediately started my juices flowing whenever I saw him. Every girl in my school, Langley Junior High, worshipped this boy, and rumor had it that an estimated ninety-five percent of the young ladies who were virgins upon entering the school all became virginless within ninety days, and that Richard was single-handedly responsible for a whopping percentage of the deflowering. A fact for sure, though, is that I am a statistic in whatever Richard’s true percentage is, because I happily lost—no, gave—my cherry to him at the ripe age of fourteen.

  Word travels quickly, I learned, when a female is promiscuous. My brother was the first in the family to find out about my sexual activities and sneak-off-partying lifestyle. Even though Junior himself had completely adopted sinful ways, he still looked down on me and started to lash out. We would run into each other at various places, and every encounter turned into a fierce battle of nasty exchanges. He even smacked me
so hard once that I discovered how a person can literally get the taste slapped out of her mouth. My hero didn’t exist anymore.

  My mother and grandmother died the same year, 1966, two months and three days apart. My mother had undetected diabetes—she suddenly fell into a coma and just as suddenly passed away. Nanny died of a heart attack.

  After their deaths, nothing inside of the Taylor home was the same. Daddy went into a shell. He quit one of his jobs and merely went through the motions of working the other. We seldom talked or did things together, and it wasn’t long before I was out on the streets nearly all the time, completely falling in love with the games, drugs, and fun. But equally so with a very powerful, handsome, and sexy new man.

  I met Zack Amos when I was sixteen years old through my girlfriend Kim, who was his cousin. I knew about him and had seen him on a number of occasions, but we hadn’t actually spoken until the day Kim told me that Zack was interested in meeting me, and that he’d arranged a gathering of four at his favorite club, Evelyn’s. The four would be me, Zack, Kim, and her man, Oje Simpson.

  Kim was very street smart and knew just about everybody in D.C., particularly all the major players in the hustling world. She was gorgeous, of the Pam Grier nature. It became very easy for me to function smoothly on the streets after being taken under her wing and taught the tricks of the trade.

  Zack Amos was twenty-five then and he had already taken over much of the drug trade in D.C., which he inherited from his uncle, Hazel “Cookie” Ferguson. Cookie had been busted under the Rico Conspiracy Act three years earlier and is now incarcerated at Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary serving a life sentence.

  Zack stood six-foot-two and had the same glorious physical traits as my former teenage lover, Richard Armstrong. But where Richard was a sexy manchild, Zack was a superman in every way, and I instantly fell in love with him.

  Located at the corner of 9th and U Streets, N.W., Evelyn’s Nightclub was a modest facility, unlike its counterpart, the Fantasy, which was a monstrosity of width, height, glitter, and raucous activities. Evelyn’s was a classy spot that catered to a sophisticated and older jazz-loving crowd who also enjoyed a dose of mellow R&B.