Soul Circus

by George P. Pelecanos

Quinn looked up a rise of dirt and weeds to a three-story bunker of brick. On the stoop sat several young men wearing wife-beaters and low-hung jeans revealing the elastic bands of their boxers, skullies and napkin bandannas. They were passing around a bottle in a brown bag. They looked down at the street, where Quinn’s engine rumbled. One of them, a heavyset young man with blown-out hair, looked directly at Quinn and smiled.

  Quinn pulled off from the curb. He had tried to interview that group earlier, remembered the smiler and his hair. He had had the sense then that they knew something about the fate of Linda Welles, but he hadn’t pushed it. He hadn’t done his job. He remembered feeling weak and punked as he’d driven away from them the last time. And he felt that way now.

  Quinn drove over to the area of Valley Green. He pulled the Chevelle up along some street-side kids on their bikes. He asked about Mario Durham and “a dude named Donut.” He got some shrugs and smart remarks, and watched impotently as the kids rode away, doing wheelies, laughing, cutting on one another and the white man in the old car.

  He parked at a small market and went inside. He questioned the woman behind the counter and got a shrug. He bought a pack of sugarless gum and thanked her for her time. Then he walked next door, into a Chinese carryout, where a thin man with fat freckles across the bridge of his wide nose stood in a small lobby in front of a Plexiglas wall with a lazy Susan in it. A Chinese woman stood behind the Plexiglas; her smile was welcoming, but her eyes were not. She looked friendly and frightened, both at once. Quinn got the woman’s attention and talked into a slotted opening above the lazy Susan.

  “I’m looking for a guy named Mario Durham,” said Quinn.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about a man they call Donut?”

  “You want food?”

  Quinn looked down at the linoleum floor and shook his head.

  “I know Donut,” said the man with the freckles. “Boy owes me ten dollas.”

  Quinn turned. “You know where he lives?”

  “The building he lives in ain’t but two blocks from here. I don’t know the apartment number where he stays at, though.”

  “The building’s good enough. He owes you ten?”

  “Boy took me for a Hamilton, like, a year ago. He thinks I forgot. But I’m gonna get it someday.”

  “You’ll get that ten sooner than someday,” said Quinn, “you give me the address.”

  “Make it twenty,” said the man, “and I’ll give it to you now.”

  HOMICIDE Detective Nathan Grady got a break soon after meeting with Strange and Quinn. A young man named Richard Swales, picked up on an intent-to-distribute beef, had offered his help, in exchange for some “consideration,” in locating Mario Durham. He told the arresting officer that he knew from talk on the street that Durham was wanted in a murder. From the substation, where they were keeping Swales in a holding cell, Grady was called and told of the lead. Grady said he’d be right in.

  In the interview room, Swales admitted that he did not know Mario Durham personally or his whereabouts. But there was a guy folks called Donut, Durham’s “main boy,” who most likely could point the police in the right direction. Grady learned that Donut’s real name was Terrence Dodson. He asked Swales where he could find Dodson. Swales said that he didn’t know, but he knew the “general area he stayed at.”

  “Can I get some love?” said Swales.

  Grady said that if the information he’d given him was correct, and if it led to an arrest, yes, it could help Swales’s case.

  That’s all Grady had been looking for. Someone less afraid of Dewayne Durham than he was of prison. A two-time loser about to strike out. It was how most cases were solved.

  It took a hot minute to find Terrence Dodson’s address in Valley Green and get a record of his priors. Grady took his unmarked and, accompanied by a cruiser and a couple of uniformed officers, went to the address. One of the uniforms stayed out on the street with the cars. The other uniform went with Grady into the building, where they found Dodson’s apartment door. Grady knocked, the uniform behind him, and the door soon opened. As it did, Grady flashed his badge.

  “Terrence Dodson?” said Grady, looking down on the small, ugly man who stood in the door frame, one eye twitching, trying to manage a smile.

  “That’s my given name. Ain’t nobody ever call me that, though.”

  Grady slipped his badge case back into his jacket. “Donut, then, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know a Mario Durham?”

  “Why?” said Donut, chuckling weakly. “He done somethin’? What, that fool spit on the sidewalk, sumshit like that?”

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “You got a warrant?” Donut barked out a laugh. “I’m just playing with you, officer, I got nothin’ to hide.”

  Donut stepped aside to let the white man pass. Big motherfucker, too. Looked like that man played in the sequels to that movie with Felton Perry, about the redneck sheriff with the bat. The ones that weren’t no good.

  HORACE McKinley sat in a vinyl nail-studded chair meant to look like leather in what used to be the living room of the house on Yuma. He talked on his cell as Mike Montgomery paced the room.

  McKinley flipped the StarTAC closed. His forehead was beaded with sweat. There was sweat under his arms and it ran down his sides.

  It had been a busy morning. He had learned from his own boys that Mario Durham was wanted in a murder. He had spoken to Ulysses Foreman, who had taken a call from Dewayne Durham, angry that the gun used by Mario had also been Jerome Long’s murder gun in the Coates killings. Foreman had called McKinley to give his condolences on the cousins, and also to assure him that he hadn’t known, of course, that one of his guns would be used against the Yuma Mob. McKinley saw an opportunity for an alliance with Foreman, and maybe to gain a favor or something free. He told Foreman that this was simply the cost of doing business for both of them and that no offense had been taken. And now that little old girl, ran his salon, had phoned with some disturbing news.

  “That was Inez,” said McKinley. “The Stokes girl’s been talking to that Strange again.”

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  McKinley breathed in deeply and heard a wheeze in his chest. He was carrying too much weight. Now would be a good time to give up on those Cubans, too.

  “Ice her down for a while, I guess.”

  “Kill her?”

  “No, I don’t want to kill the bitch ’less I have to. I was thinkin’ we’d hide her until she comes around. I figure, we separate her from her little boy for a few hours, she’ll change her mind about talking anymore.”

  “We could use some help.”

  “The troops been depleted, Mike. I got everyone on the street and I told them I needed a big cash night. It’s just you and me.”

  “You want me to stay with the kid?”

  “You’d do better with him than I will. Me, I’m better with the girls.” McKinley smiled at Montgomery, who was frowning. His long hands were jammed deep in the pockets of his jeans. “You gonna hold that boy tight? I don’t want you gettin’ soft on me now. This is business here; that’s all it is. We got to protect our own and what we got.”

  Montgomery nodded. McKinley was only a couple of years his senior, but he was the closest thing to a father he’d ever had.

  “I’m behind you, Hoss. You know this.”

  “No doubt. You my right hand, Mike.”

  “We gonna do this now?”

  “No. We can get over to the salon later, take care of the girl. She ain’t goin’ nowhere else today.”

  “What we gonna do now, then?”

  “Let’s roll over to Foreman’s first and buy us another gun. I spoke to him, and he’s still got this Sig I had my eye on for a while. He’s expecting another piece later on today, too, case we need it. He’s got a boy he uses, gonna make a run.”

  Montgomery pulled the keys to the Benz from his pocket and twirled them on his finger. “I�
��m ready.”

  “We gonna have us our little war, I guess.”

  “Might not happen too soon. Durham’s got his head turned around, lookin’ after that fool brother of his.”

  “That might be the time to hit him,” said McKinley, rising laboriously from the chair. “While he’s weak.”

  ULYSSES Foreman stood on the back deck of his house, smoking a cigar. Ashley was back in their room, packing for her trip down to her daddy’s in southern Maryland. She had the stereo on in there, Chaka Khan singin’ about “I’m every woman,” Ashley singing along. She loved Chaka. So did Ulysses, back when she was with Rufus. That was a fine motherfucker right there.

  Foreman held one arm out and flexed as he drew on his cigar. He needed to get over to the gym, looked like he was starting to atrophy. Man had to pay attention to his body, especially in times like these.

  It had been a morning. A call from Dewayne Durham about that brother of his and that goddamn gun. That was his own fault, renting the Taurus to Twigs. Once a fuck-up, et cetera. Foreman should have known. Apparently Mario had claimed that he knew about the gun being hot, too. Foreman had told Dewayne that this wasn’t so, but he wasn’t sure it had registered all the way. Now he’d have to do something for Dewayne just to keep his fire down. A gift, that would work; he could lay a gun on him, nothing too expensive, but no cheap-ass Lorcin, either, nothin’ like that. The kid from Alexandria was making a run for him today; he’d have him pick something up.

  Then he’d talked to Horace McKinley, who had acted all unconcerned that he had sold that gun to Durham’s boy Jerome Long, who’d gone and used it on the cousins. The fat man acting unconcerned, but always strategizing. Foreman wondered what he’d want in the end.

  Foreman moved his head around some, back and forth, trying to get the ache out his neck. Shit was just building up.

  “I’m ready,” said Ashley, behind him.

  He hadn’t heard her, with all that thinking he’d been doing. But he could smell that body spray she liked, raspberry, from that “collection” of Nubian Goddess fragrances she bought at the CVS.

  Foreman turned. She had on some shorts-and-top thing, looked like pajamas to him. When he’d said so she’d laughed and told him that it was a daytime outfit she’d bought at Penney’s. She was carrying a glass of chardonnay in one hand, had one of her Viceroys in the other.

  “You done packing?”

  “Said I was ready, sugar. I was wondering, should I take my gun?”

  “Leave it,” said Foreman. “You won’t need it down on that farm, anyway. And the way you drive with that lead foot of yours, you might get pulled over. No reason to risk that.”

  Ashley moved forward, held her cigarette away so that the smoke didn’t crawl up into his eyes. He could smell the wine and nicotine on her breath as she kissed him deep. The woman could hoover a man’s tongue. He had hit it that morning, just a couple of hours ago, but he felt himself growing hard again. He reached down and stroked the back of her thighs, felt the ridges and pocks there. He liked everything about her, even those marks.

  “I love you, Ulee.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Couldn’t you just say it back?”

  “I show you every day, don’t I?”

  “Wish you could come with me.”

  “So do I, but I got business to attend to. Keep your cell on, hear?”

  “I will.”

  “You always say you will, but then I get that voice says, Leave a message.”

  “I’ll keep it on.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  From the front steps, he watched her pull away in that Cougar of hers, feeling strange as she turned onto Wheeler Road, like maybe he should have gone with her this time, just gotten the fuck away. But this house, the woods, the seclusion, it had all been bought with sweat and hard work; none of it came easy. You needed to remember how much you loved your lifestyle when it came time to protect it. That’s why, despite the funny rumbling in his gut, he was hanging back here today.

  A car soon came down the drive, that boy was gonna make the buy and some girl he knew. A little while from now, Foreman figured, McKinley and that sidekick of his, one with the long arms they called Monkey, they were gonna be rollin’ in here, too.

  DETECTIVE Nathan Grady stood over Donut, who sat on the couch. Donut had invited Grady to have a seat with him, but Grady had said that he preferred to stand. Always look down on the person you were interviewing, and crowd them when you could.

  Donut’s legs were scissoring back and forth, and sweat had formed on his upper lip, betraying his friendly, accommodating smile.

  “So you don’t know about the whereabouts of your friend Mario.”

  “Nah, uh-uh.”

  “And you weren’t aware that he was wanted on a murder?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware of that situation right there.”

  “Seems like everybody in Anacostia’s heard about it but you.”

  “Now that you tell me, though, I feel real bad about that girl got herself dead.”

  “You haven’t heard from your friend in the past few days, have you?”

  “Been a long while. I was just wonderin’ today where he been at.”

  “I suppose we could go into your phone records. Ask around with your neighbors, too. Maybe they’ve seen him coming in and out of here.”

  “You should. I’d like to know my own self where he is.”

  Grady rocked back on the heels of his Rocksports. He looked back at the uniformed officer standing by the door, then lifted his head and made a show of sniffing the air. Donut watched him, thinking, Here it comes.

  “That marijuana I smell, Dough-nut?”

  “I don’t smell nothin’.”

  “You got some priors, so it made me think, you know, you might still be dealing.”

  “That was the old me. I been rehabilitated. And I go to church now, too.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind if I looked around?”

  Donut shrugged. This motherfucker did find something, it wouldn’t be but an ounce or so. What they call personal-use stuff. He’d be on the street in an hour, and the charge would get thrown out, anyway, come court date. He knew it, and so did this bobo with a shield. As for the stuff he had that looked like crack, shit, that wasn’t nothin’ but baking soda cooked hard. Make them all look stupid when they got it back to the lab.

  “You know what an accessory-to-homicide conviction would do to you, with your history?”

  “I got an idea. But, see, I don’t know where Mario is.”

  “We’re gonna talk again. You’re holding out on me, it’s not gonna go your way come sentencing time.”

  “You find Mario,” said Donut, “let me know. He borrowed a shirt from me and didn’t return it. A Sean John – wasn’t cheap, either.”

  “Anything else?” said Grady, his jaw tight.

  “Boy owes me five dollas, too.”

  QUINN drove down the block, saw the unmarked with the GT plates and the 6D cruiser outside Donut’s building, and kept his foot on the gas. He turned the corner and idled the Chevelle against the curb. He phoned Strange on his cell.

  “Derek.”

  “Terry, what’s going on?”

  “I found the building where Mario’s friend Donut lives. But I think Grady or some other cop might have found him first. They got cars outside the place now.”

  “We can visit him later on.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m tailing Horace McKinley as we speak. I waited for him near his place on Yuma after I finished up with Devra Stokes. I followed him and his boy when they drove out in their Benz.”

  “And?”

  “They’re headed out of the city, going onto Wheeler Road right now. Passing a Citgo station…”

  “Stay several car lengths back and try not to get made.”

  “Funny,” said Strange.

  “Want me to meet you?”

  “I’ll call you in a few minutes.
There they go, they’re turning.”

  “Into where?”

  Quinn waited. He could almost see Derek’s face, intense, as he watched the car up ahead.

  “Looks to me,” said Strange, “like they’re driving right into the woods.”

  Chapter 27

  STRANGE parked his Caprice beside the Citgo station, near the rest rooms and out of sight. He grabbed his 10 × 50 binoculars from the trunk, locked the car down, jogged around a fenced-in area holding a propane tank, and ran into the woods. He went diagonally in the direction that McKinley and his sidekick had gone, hoping that they were headed for a house set back not too far off Wheeler Road. He crashed through the forest like a hooved animal, unconcerned with the noise he made, and saw brighter light about a quarter mile in. He slowed his pace, approaching the light, which he knew to be a clearing, with care.

  Strange took position behind the trunk of a large oak. A brick rambler, looked like it had some kind of deck on the back of it, stood in the clearing at the end of a circular drive. Parked in the drive were a late-model red El Dorado, McKinley’s black Benz, and a green Avalon with aftermarket alloy wheels.

  Strange looked into his binos. McKinley and his sidekick, young dude with some long-ass arms, were getting out of the Benz. McKinley, big as he was, and with a strained look on his face, tired from all that weight, was getting out more slowly than the other young man.

  There were three people standing at the top of the rambler’s steps, on a small concrete porch under a pink awning. The color of the awning told Strange that a woman lived in the house. Two of the three people, a handsome young man and an attractive woman, were in their early twenties. The third was a bulked-up man heading toward the finish line of his thirties. The older man, smoking a cigar, wore a ribbed shirt highlighting his show muscles. He descended the steps to greet McKinley. With that barracuda smile of his, the bulked-up man looked like some kind of salesman.

  Strange lowered his binoculars. Was this McKinley’s drug connect? Probably not. Most of the major quantities sold down here came from out of town. But this here looked like more than a backyard barbecue. The muscleman was selling something.