Soul Circus

by George Pelecanos

  “Couple of associates of mine,” said Foreman from behind them, not bothering to state their names.

  “Horace McKinley. Pleased to meet you, baby.” Horace turned to the young man, then made a gesture to the Avalon with the Virginia plates parked in the drive.

  “That you?”

  “Yeah,” said the young man, smiling with pride.

  “Why don’t you get you a real car? Avalon ain’t nothin’ but a Camry with some trim on it, and a Camry ain’t nothin’ but shit.”

  The young man didn’t know how to react. He had been disrespected in front of the girl, but he wasn’t going to step to this Horace McKinley. Probably a dealer, ’cause that’s who Foreman did business with. Looking at him, wasn’t no probably about it; with all that ice, the four-finger ring and the necklace, he was a drug dealer for sure. Wouldn’t do any good to his health to show the fat man any kind of defiance.

  “I got my eye on a Benz I like,” said the young man, but McKinley had already moved his attention back to Foreman, standing at the bottom of the steps.

  “Where we goin’?” said McKinley.

  “Down to the rec room,” said Foreman.

  “Nah,” said McKinley. “Nice day like this? Why don’t you get me one of them good cigars you smokin’, and a cold beer or two, and meet us out on the back deck. We can do our business out there.”

  “Fine. Go on through the house and I’ll see y’all out there.”

  McKinley and Montgomery went into the house. Foreman came up to the porch, reached into his jeans, and extracted a roll of bills. He peeled some money off and handed it to the young man.

  “Let me give this to you now,” said Foreman, “lighten up this wad I got.”

  “What you want me to get?” said the young man, taking the money and slipping it into his khakis.

  “I got to think on it,” said Foreman. “Come down to the basement while I take care of him. You and your girl can kick back and shoot some pool, or just watch some TV, while I’m working things out with the fat man.”

  The young man grinned sheepishly. “Can I get one of them cigars, too?”

  “THAT didn’t take long,” said Strange.

  “I followed your scent,” said Quinn. “Fill me in.”

  “Nothin’ for a while now.” Strange looked at the house. “Dude with muscles, between your age and mine, lives there. He met McKinley and his boy out front. That’s their Benz, the one followed me the other day. The Toyota with the chrome on it belongs to a young man, has a nice-looking girl with him.”

  “And?”

  “Muscled-up dude gave the young man some cash and they all went into the house. I moved around some and saw McKinley on the back deck. Came back here to meet you so you wouldn’t get lost. You remember the path you took?”

  “I dropped some bread crumbs on the ground on my way in, just in case.” Quinn reached for Strange’s binoculars, took them, and looked at the house through the glasses. “You get what you needed from Stokes?”

  “Yeah. Right after I talked to her I went to the post office and mailed the tape to Ives. Then I drove over to Yuma, the six hundred block, and watched this shit-hole-lookin’ house where McKinley hangs.”

  “Stokes gonna be okay?”

  “Long as we keep an eye on McKinley.” Strange gave Quinn the details of McKinley’s assault on Devra Stokes.

  “Guy’s a real gentleman.”

  “Man does that to a woman is a coward. I’d like to get him alone and see how he holds up.”

  “Maybe you’ll get your chance.”

  Strange looked Quinn over. “Nice work finding that boy Donut.”

  “Like your boy Stefanos said, just hang out and listen.” He handed the binoculars back to Strange. “What do you think’s up with all this?”

  “They got me all curious now,” said Strange. “Let me get closer and take the plate numbers off that Caddy and the Avalon. You got a pen on you, something to write on?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll read the numbers out to you, unless you want to read ’em off to me.”

  “Your eyes are better than mine.”

  “I know that, man. Just didn’t want you feeling like my lackey, is all.”

  When Strange had gotten the numbers off the plates closer in, they moved back to their spot in the woods.

  “Now let’s move around to that place I found before,” said Strange. “Get a better look at that deck.”

  WHILE the young man shot some pool, smoked a cigar, and tried to impress his girl, Foreman put some red felt over one of those trays he used to rest his food on while he watched TV. Then he laid the rest of his inventory, the Sig Sauer .45, the Heckler & Koch .9, and the Calico M-110, atop the tray. He placed bricks of corresponding ammunition above the guns, a couple of beers with pilsner glasses on the side, and two cigars laid out just so. Presentation was everything in this business. It was his trademark, setting him apart from the other arms dealers in town.

  “Don’t be drinkin’ none of my beer while I’m gone,” said Foreman to the young man. “I want you together when you go down to that store.”

  “I don’t drink no beer nohow,” said the young man, winking at the girl. “My drink is Cris.”

  Foreman could have guessed. These young studio gangsters were all the same. “I won’t be too long, hear?”

  Foreman carried the tray up the stairs and out through the sliding doors to the back deck. McKinley had made himself comfortable on one of the deck chairs, came with two others and a lounger, recently purchased at one of those outdoor-furniture stores. Looked like McKinley was testing the weight limit on it, the way the cushion was riding low. Montgomery stood with his back against the wooden rail.

  “Here we go,” said Foreman, placing the tray on a circular glass table Ashley had insisted they buy with the set.

  McKinley managed to get himself out of the chair. Foreman handed him a cigar and lit it for him, holding the flame so that McKinley could get a good draw. He offered a cigar to Montgomery, who declined. Foreman almost double taked checking out Montgomery’s arms. Boy was a knuckle-draggin’ motherfucker. Wasn’t no mystery why they called him Monkey Mike.

  “Let’s see what you got,” said McKinley.

  Foreman lifted the Heckler & Koch off the tray and handed it butt out to McKinley.

  “H and K nine,” said Foreman. “Ten-shot magazine, stainless, got a roughed-up stock so it don’t slip out your hand. German engineering.”

  “Like my car.”

  “High quality. You know how they do.”

  “How much?”

  “Seven fifty.”

  McKinley returned the gun to Foreman. “Let me see that other one right there.”

  Foreman picked up the Sig Sauer. He turned it so it caught the sunlight. He admired it before handing it over, stroking the checkered black grip, making a show of its beauty. He knew McKinley liked the gun and had deliberately waited before giving it to him.

  “That’s the deluxe Sig right there,” said Foreman. “Forty-five with the eight-shot magazine. Double action, slide stays open after the last shot so you know to reload. Trigger guard’s squared off, like them combat guns. I got it tricked out with all the options. Nickel slide, and those Siglite sights for the nighttime.”

  “Nice,” said McKinley. “What you want for it?”

  “Nine hundred, for you.”

  “For me? Shit.”

  “I could sell you a Davis for a lot cheaper, I guess. I figured, you driving a Mercedes, you don’t want to be carrying the kind of gun be in the glove box of a Neon.”

  “True. But that don’t mean I’m gonna take my money and burn it in the street.”

  “Nine hundred is damn near close to my cost. And I’m gonna throw in another brick of bullets for you, like I always do.”

  “What about another magazine?”

  “I got one. But you’re gonna have to purchase that.”

  “Just the bullets, then, man.”

  Mc
Kinley sighted down the barrel, then inspected the piece. The truth was, he knew as little about guns as he knew about cars. But he always ordered the most expensive item on the menu. Man had to show off the rewards of his hard work, otherwise none of it meant shit.

  McKinley placed the gun back on the tray. He poured some beer into a pilsner glass and had a long swig. “That young boy downstairs, he makin’ a buy for you today?”

  “Yeah, he’s leaving soon.”

  “I’m lookin’ for somethin’ on the low-end side. A revolver, maybe, for one of my troops.”

  Foreman had planned to lay a cheap piece on Durham, to simmer him down over the mix-up with Mario. Now he’d have to think of something else.

  “I can do that,” said Foreman.

  “Might have some trouble coming up; want to make sure all my people are ready.”

  Foreman nodded. He didn’t want to talk about Dewayne Durham if that’s where this was going. He had always stayed at a distance during these wars, and he was determined to remain neutral in this latest conflict.

  “Might need you to deliver it to me, later on,” said McKinley.

  “Prefer to do it right here,” said Foreman in a friendly way. “You can always send one of your boys, you don’t want to come back out yourself.”

  “You don’t want to get involved, huh?”

  Foreman shrugged. He looked over at Montgomery, who was kind of staring off, not paying much attention to the two of them.

  “You ain’t afraid of Dewayne Durham, are you?” said McKinley.

  “I sell to everyone,” said Foreman. “I told you that the first time I met you. The thing is, I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I was taking sides. Someone like Durham might see me over at your place on Yuma, get the wrong idea. And why wouldn’t he see me? He ain’t but across the alley. Wouldn’t be good for my business.”

  “He’s gonna go down,” said McKinley. “When he does, I’m gonna remember who stood next to me. That might be good for your business.”

  As you’ll go down, too. You all do. And you ain’t all that special, either, thinkin’ you’re the only one’s gonna keep me in business. There’s never a shortage of young men down here to take your place.

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Or maybe I should tip on back here,” said McKinley, “seein’ as how I missed your woman. I do like to look at her.”

  Foreman felt his face grow warm at the implied threat. He knew of McKinley’s violent reputation with women.

  “You’re always welcome,” said Foreman, forcing a smile. “I’ll call you later, soon as my boy comes back with that piece.”

  “Here’s your money,” said McKinley. He rested the beer glass on the tray and peeled off nine hundred-dollar bills from a roll. He holstered the Sig in the waistband of his warm-up pants and dropped the matching top out over the band. Montgomery picked up a box of bullets without asking if he should.

  “I’ll meet you out front with that brick,” said Foreman.

  “Nice doin’ business with you.”

  Foreman shook McKinley’s sweaty hand. “You too, dawg.”

  McKinley head-motioned Montgomery. “Let’s go, Mike.”

  STRANGE and Quinn walked through the woods to their original vantage point, where they could see the front of the house. Soon they watched McKinley and his sidekick emerge from the door, pass under the pink awning, and stand by the Benz in the circular drive.

  “They’re leaving,” said Quinn, keeping his voice low.

  “Fat boy got his new gun,” said Strange, “so I guess they’re done. Least we know now what’s going on in that house. I’ll be giving Blue the plate numbers off muscleman’s Caddy. If I’m guessing right, that’s his ride. I’m sure the MPD and the PG County boys, not to mention the ATF, will be happy to get a local arms dealer off the street.”

  “Why are they hanging around?”

  “Maybe that salesman’s gonna give them a good-bye kiss. I wonder what that young man and his girlfriend are doing for this guy.”

  Quinn watched as the man in the muscle shirt walked out of the house. “What now?”

  “McKinley and his boy know my car. I got away with tailin’ him a little while ago, but I was lucky. I’m gonna need you to follow McKinley, you don’t mind. Shame you got that car says, Look at me, but you play it smart and don’t get too close to him, you’ll be all right. When you’re satisfied he’s not going after the Stokes girl, get over to the nail salon where she works and sit tight in the lot. I’ll meet you there later on.”

  “What are you gonna do about the girl then? You can’t watch her all night.”

  “I was thinkin’ I’d take her home, to Janine’s, I mean, for a couple of days. Until me and Ives can get her someplace else.”

  “Look, I got some business to take care of,” said Quinn, thinking of Linda Welles and the boys at the apartment house on Naylor Road. His reluctance to talk to them earlier had been eating at him since.

  “Still looking for Sue’s runaway?”

  Quinn nodded. “I want to check out a lead.”

  “Fine. I know you don’t want to get involved in the Granville case. But this here is something else; you’ll be doing one of those good things you been wanting to do. Just make sure Devra’s all right.”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  “Follow that young couple, they move out of here. Like I said, I’m curious.”

  “Leave your cell on,” said Quinn.

  Strange shook Quinn’s hand. Quinn turned and booked through the trees.

  chapter 28

  LOOKING at the needle on his gas gauge, Strange began to worry that he was going to run out of fuel. He’d been driving for a half hour now, following the Avalon, and as yet the young man behind the wheel had shown no signs of nearing a destination.

  The Avalon was on Route 1 in Virginia, heading south. Strange had tailed him and the woman on the Beltway, over the Wilson Bridge, and onto 1, at that point called Richmond Highway.

  To Strange, Virginia’s Route 1 looked the same as Maryland’s stretch of Route 1 from Laurel to Baltimore, a blacktop badland now dominated by chain and family-style restaurants and big-box retailers but still littered with trick-pad motels, last-stand truck stops, and drinker’s bars. Confederate flag stickers appeared on some cars the farther south he drove, “Tradition, Not Hatred” written below the stars and bars. Strange realized just how far off his turf he had come.

  The road had stoplights but was straight and heavily trafficked, the easiest kind of tail job. Being made wasn’t the problem, though. The problem was keeping up, as the boy was a lane changer with a lead foot.

  Strange listened to Let’s Stay Together, front to back, on the trip. The one had Green looking like a high school kid on the cover, “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” a highlight of the set. Ordinarily he’d enjoy a drive like this, the window down, the Reverend Al at his peak on the box. But he was worrying about the gas gauge, and the Stokes girl, and Quinn. And wondering if the boy in the Avalon was ever going to slow down.

  Down below the Marine Corps base in Quantico, on a stretch of deep forest–lined highway absent of any commercial enterprise, he saw the Toyota’s right turn signal flash. The car pulled off on the shoulder and then went into a graveled lot cut out of the woods. Strange stayed behind a Chevy pickup and kept his foot on the gas, glancing over at the Avalon as he kept his speed. The boy was parking in front of what looked like an old house, standing alone well back off the road. A sign, going the width of the house’s porch, said “Commonwealth Guns.”

  Strange drove for another mile or so, found a cut in the median strip intended for official use only, and made an illegal turn. He drove north and made the same kind of turn a mile past the store. He drove into the graveled lot and parked beside the Avalon. These were the only two cars in the lot, and anyway, there wasn’t any place to hide his car. If the young man hadn’t made him yet, he’d be all right.

  Strange walked about fifty yards
up a path to the house. He stepped onto the front porch, where a Harley Softail was chained and padlocked to a post. He entered the shop.

  It had the feel of a sportsman’s store at first glance. The displays showed rods, bows, and knives, in addition to rifles and shotguns. Signs supporting gun ownership and gun owners’ rights were hung on all the walls. Accessories, holsters, and cleaning kits crowded the aisles. The aisles led to the destination point, a glass case in the back of the store.

  Strange went directly to the case. The young man and his companion were there, looking down at the handguns housed under the glass. A little white man stood behind the case. He greeted Strange and told him he’d be with him as soon as he finished with these folks. Strange told him to take his time. The young man glanced over, perhaps only registering Strange’s size, gender, and race, and returned his attention to the guns.

  Strange stayed to the right side of the case and examined its contents. The guns seemed to be arranged by type and caliber, with brands kept together and graduated by price. Davis and Lorcin went to Taurus, S&W, and Colt; Hi-Point went to Beretta, Glock, Browning, Ruger, Sig Sauer, and Desert Eagle. Derringers moved into revolvers and then on to automatics. The highly priced, coveted Dan Wesson revolvers, long-barreled .357s and .44 Mags, were set off from the rest.

  The young man was holding a Taurus revolver, hefting it in his hand.

  “It’s meant to be heavy,” said the little man. “Thirty-four ounces, most of it’s in the barrel. Soft rubber grip. Good stopping power. Similar to what the police used to use before they went over to autos. Your basic thirty-eight special. This here is one of my most popular models. Perfect for protection. All those home invasions you hear about—in the city, I mean. I can’t keep these in stock.”

  Strange knew the police pitch was intended to sell the young man. The rest was just bullshit. The little man wore an automatic holstered on his waist. It looked large on his narrow hips. Strange figured that big motorcycle outside was his, too. Big gun, big bike, little man. Wasn’t anything surprising about that.