Soul Circus (31 page)

“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.

The young man said nothing.

“You don’t tell me now, I’m gonna come back.”

“Why you gonna come back?” said the young man. “You here
now
.”

“I’m gonna come back,” said someone in that same announcer’s voice, and another voice said, “With the cavalry and shit.” Quinn heard chuckling and an “Oh, shit.”

The heavy young man pulled back the tail of his shirt and let it drop back against his waist. The butt of an automatic, stainless with black grips, rose out of his waistband and lay across the elastic of his boxer shorts. Quinn couldn’t seem to move. His face was hot. He was frozen there.

“You know why I remember you?” said the young man. “Wasn’t because of no girl.”

“What was it, then?” said Quinn.

“I remember you ’cause you were so little, and so white. Mini-Me, comin’ up here, acting so tough. ’Cause you knew that we wouldn’t hurt no white boy down here, bring all sorts of uniforms to our neighborhood. And you were right, the first time around. I don’t want to do no time over some miniature motherfucker like you, don’t mean shit to me
no
way. But you keep on standing around here, I might just go ahead and take my chances.”

Quinn could feel his free hand shaking and he balled it up to make it stop. He stood straight and kept his eyes locked on the heavy young man’s.

“You want somethin’ else?”

“I’m comin’ back,” said Quinn.

“Yeah, okay. But for now? Walk while you still can.”

Quinn turned and headed back toward his car. He heard someone say, “Mini-Me,” and a burst of laughter, and the slapping of skin. It was like he was a kid again, cutting through the woods at night. His humiliation was chasing him like something horrible, a screaming, maggot-covered corpse with an upraised knife. He was ashamed, and still he wanted to run.

Quinn dropped into the bucket of his car. It would be different if he still had the street power of a cop. But he knew he’d never have that kind of power again. He turned the ignition key and drove away from the curb.

Quinn wished he’d brought his gun.

THE salon was dark inside when Strange arrived. On the glass door was a hand-painted sign that gave the store hours. That Inez Brown had gone and closed the store up two hours early, but Devra had said she’d be working till closing time.

Strange paced the sidewalk while he phoned Devra from his cell. She wasn’t in, or wasn’t answering. He left a message on her machine.

Strange looked around. Where was that old man, the one who’d given him the information yesterday, when he needed him? The real question was, where the fuck was Quinn?

Even as he was thinking it, he watched the Chevelle pull into the lot, easing into a space beside the Caprice. Strange dropped off the sidewalk to the asphalt and walked to the driver’s side of the car. He put his palm on the roof as he leaned in the open window.

“Where’s Devra?”

“She’s not in there?” said Quinn. He looked through the windshield at the darkened shop.

“God
damnit
, Terry, I told you to keep an eye on her.”

“You said it was my call,” said Quinn, his face pale and taut. “Looks like I shit the bed.”

Strange studied Quinn’s troubled eyes and doughy complexion. “What’s wrong with you, man?”

“I found some guys who know where the Welles girl is, but I got nothin’ out of them. Matter of fact, I let myself get punked out.”

“Shit, that’s all this is?” Strange shook his head. “Terry, I let people out here disrespect me every
day
. It’s part of how we do our job. Let them have their little victory and get what you can.”

“It was worse than disrespect.”

“Besides, you come down here gettin’ violent on people, how long you think you’d be able to work these neighborhoods? You’d be a marked man, and it doesn’t even matter if the people you fucked with got put away. They have friends and relatives, and those people never forget. I started shakin’ down people like I was wearin’ a uniform again, I’d be out of business. Get it through your head, man, you’re not a cop.”

“This was something else,” said Quinn. He stared straight ahead, unable to look at his friend. “It never would have happened, I had my gun.”

“Nah, see, you don’t even want to be considering that. You had your gun, you’d a killed someone and got yourself some lockdown, or got your
own
self killed. Either way, you’d be fucked.” Strange put his hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Look, man, I don’t have time for all this now. I got to find that girl and her kid. Time to visit McKinley. You with me?”

“Let’s go,” said Quinn.

“I’ll follow you,” said Strange.

BERNARD Walker lit the candles on the first floor of the house on Atlantic and put a couple on the steps going up to the second floor. He came back into the living room, where Dewayne Durham sat at a card table ending a call. Durham flipped the cell phone closed and placed it on the table.

The house was oddly quiet. Dewayne had sent out all his people to work the school on Mississippi. He had told Walker that he didn’t want him playing that beat box tonight like he liked to do, and Walker had complied. So it was just the two of them and the silence now.

Dewayne nodded at the cell. “I just called my brother at the girl’s place. He ain’t there.”

“Maybe he’s taking a shower,” said Walker.

“He better be. What he better
not
be is out. I told him to sit tight.”

Durham rubbed his face and stood, walking into the hall that led to the galley kitchen and the door at the rear of the house. Walker followed. They stood beside each other and looked across the darkened alley at McKinley’s house on Yuma. All of McKinley’s people, it looked like they were out working, too.

McKinley had the lights on all over the first floor. Though the front of the house had wood in its windows, there wasn’t any plywood on the back windows, only curtains, and most of those had been torn down. They could see McKinley walking around in there slowly, gesturing to someone who was half his size.

“There go the Candyman right there,” said Walker. “Looks like . . . Shit, he’s got a woman with him.”

“Ain’t like him to be
any
goddamn where without that boy Monkey,” said Durham. “Much less with a woman.”

“He don’t know how to treat a woman
no
way,” said Walker.

Durham squinted. “Zu? Why is it we’re in here lightin’ candles and shit, worried about the police, when fat boy is over there with all the lights burning bright?”

“He’s bold, I guess.”

“Right,” said Durham. “He is bold. Just ain’t right, how bold he is.”

Walker felt his stomach rumble. “I’m hungry. Thirsty, too. You want to go out for a while, pick up somethin’?”

“Need to rest, think some,” said Durham. “I’m gonna go upstairs and lay out on that mattress for a while.”

“Aiight, then.”

“Swing by Mississippi, get the money from the troops while you’re there.”

“Anything else?”

“Bring me back a couple of sodas,” said Durham, “and a Slim Jim.”

“DAMN, boy, I am hungrier than a motherfucker.” McKinley punched in numbers on his cell, got the pizza joint on the line, was put on hold. “Girl, you want anything?”

“No.”

“We gonna be here awhile.”

“I don’t want no pizza.”

“Suit yourself.” The sucker who worked at the pizza place got back on, and McKinley ordered two pies with meat and a rack of super-sized sodas. He didn’t think he could eat two pizzas by hisself, but they had a special on, saved you money when you bought two. And you never could have too much soda round the house.

McKinley gave the sucker his address.

Devra was sitting on the hardwood floor of the living room, her back against the chipped plaster wall. Her purse was beside her; McKinley had checked it out and found nothing but her keys that she could hurt him with, and he had reasoned that she would never try. McKinley shut his phone down and put it in a holster he kept clipped to his side. He walked to Devra and stood over her. He noticed she had coiled up some as he approached.

McKinley’s warm-up top was zipped down and open, showing the wife-beater he wore underneath. He’d let his chains hang out. His new gun, the Sig .45, was under the waistband of his pants, the grip slanted and tight on his belly. The girls liked ice and automatics, this he knew.

Devra met his eyes, then took in the rest of him. He was sweating, and his fat belly was spilling out over his drawers, looked like dough was gonna swallow up that gun of his.

“You could sit in a chair,” said McKinley.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to make it too hard on yourself, girl. Ain’t like I got you chained up or nothin’ like that. You free to walk around. We just gonna sit tight together for a while till you come to your senses.”

“I want my son.”

“You’ll get him, too. Tell me you’re not gonna talk to that man no more, and I’ll put y’all back together. Tell me for real, though, ’cause I won’t take no more lies. I’ll keep you here for a couple of days, till they’re done crossing your old boyfriend Phil, and you can go free.”

“All’s we was doin’ was havin’ some ice cream.”

“That again? Shit. Fine as you are, I don’t believe you even eat ice cream.” McKinley smiled again, showing her his teeth. The girls liked that, too. “Look here, I’m sorry for touchin’ you rough yesterday. That don’t mean we can’t be friends
today
.”

“Mother
fuck
er,” said Devra, feeling her eyes get teary and trying to hold it in. “Why can’t you just . . . just leave me alone.”

“Damn, girl, you don’t have to get all upset.” McKinley rolled his shoulders. “Just sit your ass there, then. Don’t say nothin’, you can’t say nothin’ nice.”

McKinley walked away, wondering why the women did him like that. The only girls he’d had lately he’d had to pay for. Didn’t make any difference to him. Pussy was pussy. One way or another, it cost you money.

A half hour later, the pizza delivery boy arrived. McKinley undid the chain, flipped the dead bolt, and opened up the door. Boy was wearin’ some stupid-ass-striped shirt, looked like a barber pole. He put the pizzas and the sodas inside the door while McKinley counted out some money. He gave him two quarters on top of the bill. Boy didn’t even say thank you or nothin’. He had been staring kind of wide-eyed into the house the whole time he was standing out there on the stoop. Prob’ly looking at the girl, like any girl could go for him. Looked like a scared animal or something. Sucker with a minimum-wage job, out here armed with nothin’ but pizza, risking his neck at night with everything going on. Maybe he was seeing his future, why his eyes were wide. Boy was right to be scared.

McKinley closed the door and picked up the boxes that had been laid at his feet.

“Sure you don’t want none of this? It’s better when it’s hot.”

The girl didn’t answer, hugging herself against the wall.

McKinley said, “Suit your
own
damn self.”

STRANGE and Quinn were in the Caprice on Yuma, a half block down from the McKinley house, parked behind Quinn’s Chevelle. They watched the pizza boy deliver a load to the house and they watched him go back to his car, a rusted-out Hyundai.

As he pulled away, Strange ignitioned the Caprice and followed the delivery boy down to 9th. The Hyundai cut right on Wahler and headed toward Wheeler Road. At the stop sign at Wheeler, as the delivery boy slowed down, Strange goosed the gas and pulled up alongside the Hyundai on its left side. Strange honked his horn to get the driver’s attention. Quinn was already leaning out, his license case flipped open, holding it face out so the driver could see.

“Investigators,” said Quinn, “D.C.”

“What I do?” said the driver.

Strange’s Caprice looked like a police vehicle, down to the heavy chrome side mirrors. He slanted it in front of the Hyundai, as a cop would do, and kept it running. He and Quinn got out and went to the Hyundai. Quinn took the passenger side and Strange stood before the open driver’s-side window. Strange flashed his license.

“That house you just delivered to,” said Strange. “Tell me who you saw.”

“Some fat dude paid me.”

“Anyone else?”

“Girl was sittin’ in there on the floor, too.”

“Describe her, please.”

The delivery boy did, his hands tight on the wheel.

“The fat man, he have a bunch of locks on that front door?”

“Heard him turn somethin’ and slide a chain, is all.”

“You don’t need to be talkin’ to anyone about this, hear?”

“I won’t.” The delivery boy looked up at Strange. “You lookin’ at that fat boy for somethin’?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“I ain’t concerned. I hope you get him if he’s wrong, though.” The driver wiped his face. “Wearin’ all that ice, and all he could see to give me was fifty cents.”

“You have a good one,” said Strange. “And thank you for your time.”

AFTER getting out to move some debris blocking the entrance, Strange and Quinn cruised slowly down the alley between Atlantic and Yuma. Strange had killed his headlights and was navigating by his parking lights. There didn’t seem to be anyone out, not even kids. On the Atlantic side of the alley he saw houses, some bright, some dark, one lit dimly by the flicker of flames, all partitioned by chain-link fences in various states of disrepair.