Soul Circus

by George P. Pelecanos

  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.

  “How much?” said the young man.

  “Two ninety-five for the blue finish. The stainless will run you another fifty.”

  “I’ll take the blue.”

  “It’s for you?”

  “Nah, it’s for her.”

  The young woman smiled. She was pretty and looked innocent enough. Strange wondered if she knew, exactly, what she was doing. If she thought this was just a favor for her boyfriend, or if she imagined herself to be a player in some kind of adventure.

  “You’re a Virginia resident, right, sweetheart? Over twenty-one?”

  “Yeah,” said the girl.

  “You’ll need to fill out a form, and then I have to call it in. Instant check. I can have you out of here in ten minutes. The government hasn’t screwed that part up yet, not in the commonwealth, anyway.”

  The little man got the form, and while the young woman was filling it out, he approached Strange.

  “Can I answer any questions for you quick?”

  “I’m lookin’ for some home protection myself. But right now I’m just scouting around.”

  “I’ll be finished up here soon and we can talk.”

  Strange resumed his browsing. The little man was right. Didn’t take but ten minutes after the girl had filled out the form, and the transaction was nearly done. The part left was the money. The young man removed some large bills from his wallet and handed them to the girl, who paid the merchant and got a receipt. Then they walked out of the shop with a handgun and a box of ammunition.

  Obviously the gun was for the young man. He had paid for it with his own money in plain sight. But the form had been filled out by the girl, who was of age and had no prior convictions. That was all that was required for the two of them to make the straw purchase. The merchant had done nothing illegal and technically had obeyed every law. Another handgun would now be circulated in D.C. It would end up being used, most likely, in some kind of violent crime.

  “Now,” said the little man, coming back to Strange. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing,” said Strange, looking into the man’s eyes.

  Strange left the shop.

  QUINN tailed McKinley to the house on Yuma and kept driving as the Benz came to a stop. There wasn’t a turnoff nearby, and he had gotten too close to their car. The only option was to keep moving, just plow straight on ahead.

  Passing by the Benz, Quinn did not look their way. But he felt the eyes of McKinley and his sidekick on him as he went by. It wasn’t a surprise to Quinn that he’d been made. Strange had been riding him to get a work vehicle less conspicuous than his Chevelle for some time now. And he was white. Unless he was some kind of cop, or buying drugs, there was no good reason for him to be in this part of town. Still, he was angry at himself for not paying full attention to the street layout as he’d neared their house.

  Quinn looked in his rearview as he prepared to make a left at the next corner. McKinley was getting out of the passenger side of the vehicle, staring at the Chevelle.

  Quinn punched the gas, going up 9th. He headed for the salon off Good Hope Road.

  The strip center was quiet as Quinn entered the lot. He parked his car two rows away from the salon, facing it. From this space he could look through its plate glass storefront. Even with his poor long vision, he could make out the tiny owner, talking on the phone. The Stokes girl was there, looked like she was working on a customer. He could see her son, walking around and then dropping to the floor, in there, too. All of them were secure in the shop. It didn’t look to Quinn that the girl or her boy was in any kind of danger.

  Those couple of hours of weekday activity, people getting off work and grabbing groceries and fundamentals on their way home, had come and gone. Until now, Quinn had not even noticed that the day had passed. The rumble in his stomach told him that he had not eaten anything since the meeting at the diner. The sun was dropping fast, lengthening the shadows in the parking lot as it fell.

  The customer came out of the shop, examining her nails in the last light of day before dusk. She walked out into the lot and got into an old green Jag. Quinn sat for a little while longer, then phoned Strange.

  “Derek here.”

  “Where you at?”

  “Someplace on Richmond Highway, near the city. I’ll tell you where I been when I see you. I’m gonna catch the Beltway and come around now. Where are you?”

  “Baby-sitting Stokes, like you told me to. McKinley’s at his place on Yuma.”

  “Three-Ten to Yuma.”

  “Was wondering when you were gonna make that connection.”

  “I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

  “I’m gonna roll over to Naylor, check on that Welles lead.”

  “Your call. You think the girl’s okay, go ahead.”

  “Looks like business as usual in there. She looks fine.”

  “I’ll meet you back there, then,” said Strange. “In the lot.”

  “THERE he goes,” said McKinley, talking into his cell, watching through the windshield of the Benz as the Chevelle backed out of its space and drove from the parking lot.

  “That Strange’s boy?” said Montgomery, his cell to his ear, sitting behind the wheel of his late-model Z in the lot near the Benz.

  “His partner.”

  “How you know?”

  “The Coates cousins said some white boy was in Strange’s car while he went to talk to Stokes at her apartment.”

  And I been told.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Boy’s stupid, too. Trying to be all undercover and shit, driving a loud-ass car. Anyway, we better hurry up. Man’s prob’ly just going to take a pee.”

  “We gonna go in the back?”

  “Like we said. Let me get off here and call Inez. You follow me then, behind the store.”

  In the salon, Devra sat at her work station, watching as Inez Brown went to the phone. She spoke to the caller briefly, then ended the call. Inez went around the counter, taking her keys with her, and locked the front door.

  Devra looked out into the parking lot. It had begun to get dark.

  “Come here, Juwan,” said Devra. The boy got up from where he was playing, his action figures scattered around him, and walked to her. She brought him into her arms.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” said Juwan. He could see something funny in his mother’s eyes.

  “Nothin’. You just stay here with me, now.”

  Inez Brown went into the back room, then quickly returned to the front of the shop, coming over to where Devra sat in a chair, holding the boy.

  “Why you lockin’ the door?” said Devra. “It ain’t closin’ time.”

  “It is for you,” said Brown, showing a little row of white teeth. It was the first time Devra could remember seeing her smile. The smile scared her some.

  “Why you doin’ this?”

  “You don’t know? Girl, you fucked up. Runnin’ that pretty-ass mouth of yours.”

  “I never did you no wrong.”

  “I just don’t like you, is what it is. Did I mention that you were fired, too?” Brown laughed from somewhere shadowed and deep. As she laughed, Horace McKinley walked in from the back room.

  “Let’s go,” said McKinl
ey. “Out the back.”

  “Where?” said Devra, her voice catching as she stood, keeping her hand on her son’s shoulder.

  “You’re coming with me,” said McKinley. “The boy’s gonna stay with Mike.”

  “No.”

  “No nothin’. I got no time to argue with you. You didn’t listen, and now we got to do somethin’ else. We’re just gonna put you somewhere, let you think about the things you did that I told you not to do. See how quick you get to missing your little boy.”

  Devra backed up a step. McKinley reached over and grabbed her arm. She flinched as his fingers dug into her flesh. He pulled her toward him and she let him, grabbing her purse off the table as she went past. Her knees were weak, but she moved and brought the boy along. They stopped to pick up a few of the wrestling figures and kept on. It felt like she was floating as they made their way to the back room. The back door was open, and they stood in the frame. McKinley’s Benz was in the alley and a black Z was idling behind it. The one named Mike, who had kind eyes and played nice with her son, was standing beside the driver’s door.

  “I don’t want to hear no screamin’ or nothin’ like it,” said McKinley. “Say good-bye quick.”

  Devra got down on her haunches so that she was close to her son. He was crying, but trying not to.

  “Baby,” said Devra, “I want you to go with that man. The one you were playing with before?”

  “I want to go with you.”

  “You know where home is, right?” said Devra. She whispered the street name and apartment number in his ear, and the name of Mrs. Roberts, who lived on their floor.

  “I know.”

  “We gonna be there together, real soon. I’ll catch up with you, hear? It’s gonna be all right.”

  She kissed him roughly and smelled his scalp. She turned him then and pushed on his back until he took a few steps. She watched him walk toward the black car. Mike opened the passenger door for him, and he got inside the Z.

  Devra moved toward the Benz. Nearing the car, she caught the eyes of Mike Montgomery and held his gaze. Looking at Montgomery deep, she wasn’t so afraid for her son anymore. But she wondered if she’d ever hold him again.

  THE girl had come home from work, taken a shower, and then was just gone. She’d left without telling him where she was going. Said something about some sodas in the refrigerator and a key in a bowl by the front door, that was it. He heard the door close, and that was how he’d known she’d left out the place. He hadn’t said nothin’ out of line to her or nothin’ like that. Girl just wasn’t social, is what it was.

  Mario was bored. He hadn’t talked to no one since Donut had called him that last time, and his brother hadn’t called all day. He had turned on the TV, but there wasn’t anything on worth watching. Bitch didn’t even have the cable. Who the fuck didn’t have cable these days? Even the no-job-havin’ motherfuckers he knew paid for the service. If she had it, at least he could sit and watch some of those joints they ran on 106 amp; Park, that video show they had on BET.

  He decided to go out on the street and try his luck, sell a couple of vials of that fake crack.

  He was off his turf. Somewhere in Northeast – he hadn’t bothered to take notice of the particulars when Dewayne drove him to the woman’s place. Truth was, he didn’t know where he was. No idea. But that was cool. An opportunity, since no one around here knew who he was. He could sell some of these dummies and then disappear. Move on, soon as the heat died down. All he had to worry about was the police.

  He gathered up his shit and went out the door. Going down the stairwell of the apartment house, he could smell himself, and it wasn’t pretty. It was the clothes he’d been wearing these past few days, that’s what it was. He could put some deodorant on; he’d seen some in that girl’s medicine cabinet. Or take a shower, like he’d done at Donut’s, if he had the time.

  He went down to the corner. It had gotten dark out. Not full dark yet, but near to it. There was some kids out playin’, but nobody else. A market was on the corner, but wasn’t anybody hanging outside of it. And on the corner was a street lamp that hadn’t been broken. That would be a good place to stand, under that light.

  He went there and assumed the position. One hand in his pocket, kind of staring out into the street. Like he was waiting for a ride but in no hurry to get it. He’d seen enough of these boys to know how they did it.

  Some cars passed. A white car turned the corner, and Mario stepped back into the shadows. It was a Crown Victoria with big side mirrors, but it wasn’t the police. Just some kids who liked to drive the same kind of car the Five-O drove. Stupid-ass kids.

  A gray Toyota hooptie slowed down nearing the corner and came to stop in the middle of the street. Two hard-looking young men were in the front seat. The driver had marks on his face, looked like he’d been cut.

  “You sellin’?” said the driver in a dry, raspy voice.

  “I might be,” said Mario.

  “Come closer, man. I can’t hear shit with you standing there.”

  Mario walked out to the car and leaned his elbows on the frame of the open window. He could smell that the driver and his friend had been drinking beer, and they were wearing fucked-up clothes. These two couldn’t be undercover or nothin’ like that. No one could make themselves look that ghetto ’less they were ghetto for real.

  “I got some rock.”

  “Talk about it.”

  “What you want, a dime?”

  “Do I look like a dime-smokin’ motherfucker to you? Gimme a fifty, man.”

  Mario looked around and reached into his pocket. He brought out some vials Donut had given him and found one that he had filled with what looked like fifty dollars’ worth of rock. He put it in the hand of the driver while the one in the passenger seat checked the mirrors for any signs of law.

  The driver scowled. “Fuck is this shit?”

  Mario’s heart beat hard in his chest. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “This looks like a hundred dollars’ worth, not fifty. Fuck you tryin’ to pull?”

  “I’m new on this strip,” said Mario. “Just tryin’ to be generous so I can get some of that repeat business.”

  The driver studied Mario’s face. “This shit better be right.”

  “It is,” said Mario, nodding his head quickly.

  The driver paid Mario with a ten and two twenties. The bills were damp.

  “Pray you ain’t fuckin’ with me, Deion,” said the driver. His friend was laughing as the Toyota pulled away.

  Yeah, okay, thought Mario. I’ll fuck with you anytime I want. ’Cause I am gone up out of this piece, soon as things cool down. And you ain’t never gonna see my face again.

  “Bitch,” he said under his breath.

  He puffed out his chest, feeling bold right about then. But soon he began to lose his nerve and he walked back toward the woman’s apartment, his head down low. He could come out later, he wanted to, and sell a little bit more. In the meantime, he’d go and kick back on that girl’s couch. See if there was anything worth watching on the box. Maybe take a shower, he had time.

  Chapter 29

  QUINN pulled over on Naylor behind a new red Solara, tricked out with gold-accented alloys. He let the car idle as he looked up to the three-story, bunkerlike structure that sat atop a rise of dirt and weeds. The pipes on his Chevelle were sputtering and loud, and the young men on the front stoop all turned their heads at the sound. Quinn cut the engine and let himself relax, but not to the point of inaction. He knew if he deliberated too long, if he was sensible, he’d just pull away.

  Do your job.

  He grabbed the manila folder on the seat beside him and got out of the car. He locked it down and walked up the steps to the apartment unit.

  There were chuckles and comments as he neared. All of them were staring at him now. He sensed that they hadn’t moved since the afternoon. A halogen light that hung from the building cast a yellow glow on the stoop. The light bled to nothing as the h
ill graded down. Quinn stopped walking ten, fifteen feet away from the group.

  A couple of them were drinking from brown paper bags. The air smelled of marijuana, but none was going around; a faint fog of smoke hung in the light. The young men’s eyes, pink and hooded, told him they were up.

  “Terry Quinn.” He flashed his license, which looked like a badge. “Investigator, D.C.”

  A couple of the young men looked at each other, smiling. He heard someone mimic him, “Terry Quinn. Investigator, D.C.,” in the voice of a game-show announcer, and there was low laughter then, and movement as several of them adjusted their positions. One of them, wearing a napkin bandanna and smoking a cigarette, leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. He was bone skinny, no older than thirteen, with the flat eyes of a cat.

  “I remember you,” said a heavyset young man with a blown-out Afro, his shirttails out over his jeans. Quinn remembered him, too. He was the smiling one from earlier that afternoon.

  “I was looking for a girl named Linda Welles,” said Quinn. “I’m still looking. Last time she was seen was in this neighborhood. Her family’s worried about her. She’s fourteen years old.”

  He removed a flyer from the folder and held it out to the heavyset young man. The young man looked at it, and his eyes flared, but just as quickly lost their light. Quinn knew with certainty then that this one could help him find the girl.

  “Take it,” said Quinn, still holding out the flyer. But the young man left his hands at rest. He hadn’t moved at all since Quinn had come up on the group.

  It was quiet now. They were all staring at Quinn, and even the drinkers were holding their bags still between their knees.

  “You know where the girl is, don’t you?” said Quinn.