Soul Circus (34 page)

Mario walked down the darkened street to the corner where the market was still open and the streetlight stood. It was quiet out now. He didn’t wear a wristwatch and hadn’t thought to check the time. But he knew it must be late.

He stood on the corner, one hand in his pocket, his posture slouched.

A car came and went, and it was nothing. Then another came, five minutes later, and slowed down. The driver rolled his window down and Mario went there and they caught a rap. It was even easier this time, knowing when to listen and what to say. He was busy selling the driver a couple of dimes, so he didn’t notice the old gray Toyota as it passed.

Mario did his business and the car drove away. He pocketed two twenties for a double dime and walked back to the corner and stood under the light. He put one hand in his pocket and jiggled the vials he had left. He looked furtively around the street.

Mario heard light footsteps behind him. Before he could turn, he felt something hard and metallic pressed against the base of his skull.

“Deion,”
said a dry, raspy voice.

He didn’t hear the shot or anything else. The bullet blew his brains and some of his face out onto the street.

“SO you got no idea where your boy is,” said Strange.

“None,” said Donut, sitting on the couch, his knees scissoring back and forth. “I told the other cop all this already. How many of y’all they gonna send over before someone believes what I got to say?”

Quinn was standing by the shelf holding Donut’s video collection. He picked
The Black Six
out of the row and had a look at its box.

“Hey, Derek, you know Carl Eller starred in a movie?”

“Black Six,”
said Strange. “Mean Joe Greene, Mercury Morris. Gene Washington was in it, too.”

“Like a
Magnificent Seven
with black guys, huh?”

“Except they didn’t need seven. Eller counted as two.”

“Don’t mess with that,” said Donut. “Please.”

Quinn returned the tape to its space. He was just killing time while Strange worked the ugly little man. It had taken them a while to find his apartment. This time of night, Donut’s neighbors had been reluctant to answer the knocks on their doors. But an old man on the first floor had given them Donut’s unit number.

“Donut,” said Strange. “You don’t mind I call you by your nickname, do you?”

“Ain’t nobody call me anything else.”

“We’ll leave right now, you tell us where Mario is.”

“Believe me, if I knew, I would.”

Strange stared down at him, all sweat and nerves. “Maybe you could put us up with his brother.”

“That wouldn’t be such a good idea.”

“We got time. We could sit around here, see if the phone rings. Mario calls you, we’d all know you been lying to us. That’s obstruction in a homicide. I’m guessing, and it’s just a guess, mind you, that you might have some priors.”

“Shit, y’all just enjoy fuckin’ with a man, don’t you?”

“Dewayne’s number?”

“I got it somewhere in this mess,” said Donut. “But don’t tell him where you got it from, hear?”

After they’d left, Donut watched from his window as the salt-and-pepper team walked across the parking lot.

Donut smiled, pleased with himself. All these police trying to get him to talk, and not one of them had. He could hardly wait for Mario to call him, so he could tell his boy that he hadn’t gave him up.

STRANGE and Quinn walked toward their cars.

“Surprised he even let us in,” said Strange.

“You impersonating a police officer had something to do with it.”

“I only told him I was with the police. As in, I’m
behind
them one hundred percent.”

“Okay. You gonna call Dewayne?”

“I don’t know what I’ll say to him. But I can’t think of anything else to do.”

Strange’s cell rang. He unclipped it from his belt. The caller ID read “Unknown.”

“Derek Strange here.”

“It’s Nathan Grady. Where you at?”

“Southeast.”

“Mario Durham’s been shot to death. I’m at the crime scene right now. Thought you and your partner would want to know.”

“Damn.”

“He went cleaner than the Elliot girl. You can come over if you want to have a look at him. I’m gonna be here awhile.”

“Give me the directions,” said Strange.

Strange told Quinn the news, then followed him into Far Northeast.

DEWAYNE Durham was sleeping on the mattress in the second-floor bedroom when his cell rang and woke him. He had not heard or even been subconsciously aware of the two shots McKinley had fired out in the alley. Durham had been in a very deep sleep, and he had been dreaming. As he reached for the phone, he tried to bring back pieces of his dream. Something about his mother, but he couldn’t recall what it was.

That homicide detective, Grady, was on the phone. He was calling to tell Dewayne that his brother, Mario, had been shot dead over in Northeast. One bullet to the head, close range. “What kind of gun?” said Dewayne. Grady found the question odd but told him that it had most likely been a .45, as a spent shell casing had been found near Mario’s body. Dewayne asked him how they knew it was Mario, and Grady described his Redskins getup, telling him that the clothing description coming over the radio was what had sent him to the scene.

Dewayne shook his head. Fool never even thought to change his shit.

Grady told Dewayne that he’d called him first as a courtesy. That he would call his mother next if he wanted him to. Dewayne said he’d prefer to go to her place, give her the news in person. Then he could come to the scene and identify the body if that was what the detective wanted him to do. Grady said fine, and not to rush, since the ME crew and photographers would be there for some time. He gave Dewayne the address and cut the line without saying good-bye.

Dewayne Durham sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed at his face. If he was gonna cry, then now would be the time. Get it done up here, alone, then go down and tell Zulu what was going on. But he couldn’t even will himself to cry.

He’d shed tears with his mother later on, he supposed. Seeing her cry, that would be what would set him off. But for now all he could think of was the get-back. Wondering who hated him enough, and who was bold enough, to do something like this to a member of his family. Because that person had to know that he’d signed his own death certificate tonight.

Dewayne picked up the stainless Colt .45 with the rosewood checkered grips that lay on the floor and got up off the mattress. He slipped the gun under his waistband and slanted it so that the butt was within easy reach of his right hand. Then he went down the stairs.

Bernard Walker sat at the card table in the soft glow of the candlelight. There were a couple of Slim Jims and an open bag of chips lying on the table, along with Walker’s Glock. Walker was listening to some go-go, the new 911 PA tape he’d bought off a street vendor, on his box, but the volume was way down low.

“I kept it soft,” said Walker, looking up at Durham, “so you could sleep.”

“I’m up now,” said Durham. “And I got some news.”

ULYSSES Foreman handed Horace McKinley a full magazine. McKinley slapped the clip into the butt of his Sig.

“There we go,” said McKinley, smiling. His gums were spiderwebbed red, and some of the blood had seeped into the spaces between his teeth. “Don’t feel so naked now.”

“Brought you that first-aid shit you asked for,” said Foreman, eyeing the big man’s saddlebag chest. There was a damp burgundy stain on his wife-beater, where his right tit was.

“Gimme it,” said McKinley. He holstered the Sig in his warm-up pants and reached for the white plastic bag that held the gauze and tape. “What I owe you for that?”

“Nothin’,” said Foreman.

“You can take your jacket off, you want to.”

“I’ll just leave it on.”

“Got your shit on underneath, right?”

“You
know
I do.”

“Have a seat,” said McKinley. “I’ll be right back.”

Foreman watched McKinley go into a hall toward the kitchen. It was shorter to go through the dining room, but McKinley would have trouble squeezing through the space. Fat motherfucker must have stock in McDonald’s, Burger King, and KFC all at the same time, thought Foreman. He couldn’t understand how a man could let his body go like that.

In the kitchen, McKinley washed himself over the sink. He had water and electric, unlike those Little Orphan Annie motherfuckers across the alley. As he thought of them, he glanced through the back-door window and saw the house on Atlantic, lit by candlelight. Looked like Dewayne Durham and Bernard Walker were having one of those romantic dinners and shit. Now would be a good time to interrupt him.

McKinley made a pad from the gauze and tape. He grunted, holding his flap of nipple flat as he stuck the gauze on his chest. He was still bleeding some. He’d have to go to the clinic tomorrow, maybe get some stitches put on there to hold it tight. But that was tomorrow. He needed to find Mike, warn him to move the boy someplace safe. And he had some business with Foreman, too.

He phoned Monkey Mike but got a dead line.

He went back out to the living room where Foreman sat. He had a seat himself and smiled at the man with the show muscles who, after all those years out of uniform, still looked like a cop. Being a cop was like having those grass stains he used to get on the knees of his jeans when he was a kid. You could never get those out.

“I feel better now,” said McKinley.

“You want a cigar?”

“Never turn down one of your Cubans.”

McKinley slid two out of the inside pocket of his leather, handed one to McKinley, lit his own, lit McKinley’s. They sat there in the living room in the light of the bare-bulb lamp, smoking, getting their draws.

“Nice,” said McKinley. “Look here, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression on the phone a while back. I was just
agitated
at the time.”

“Ain’t no thing,” said Foreman, looking at the spot, still leaking, on McKinley’s chest. “What happened?”

“Someone took advantage of the fact that I was alone here, unarmed, and made the mistake of tryin’ to step to me. I’m gonna take care of that situation my own self.”

“Where’s your boy at?”

“Mike? I’d like to know myself.” McKinley chin-nodded in the direction of Foreman’s leather. “What you holdin’, man?”

“My Colt.”

“That’s a pretty gun, too, got those ivory handles. What else?”

Foreman reached into his jacket and slid the revolver from one of the shoulder holsters. He handed it butt out to McKinley, who weighed it in his hand. He turned the gun, admiring the contrast of the polished rosewood grips against the stainless steel.

“LadySmith Three fifty-seven,” said Foreman.

“It’s light.”

“Yeah, but you could put your fist through the hole it makes. ’Specially on the exit. It’s light ’cause it’s made for the hand of a woman. That’s Ashley’s gun right there.”

McKinley handed the gun back to Foreman, who holstered it.

“How is your woman?” said McKinley.

“She’s good.”

“Bet that pussy’s good, too. I ain’t never had a white girl I ain’t paid to have. It’s all pink anyway, right?” McKinley laughed, reached over and clapped Foreman on the arm, watching his narrowed eyes. “Oh, shit, c’mon, big man, we just talkin’ man-to-man here. I mean you no disrespect.”

Foreman sat back and dragged on his cigar. “Say why you brought me out here, for real.”

“Okay, then. This situation we got, you sellin’ to my competition, I come to the conclusion it ain’t workin’ for me. Two of my boys just got deaded by one of your guns; you
know
this.”

“And they lost two of theirs the same way. I’m sorry those boys had to die, but it ain’t none of my concern. I didn’t pull those triggers, any more than the dealer plunges the needle into a junkie’s arm.”

“Like I said, it ain’t workin’ for
me
. You tryin’ to stay neutral, all right, you’ve made yourself clear. But Durham’s done, man, finished. All’s that’s left is for someone to come along and throw some dirt on him. I’m gonna take over his territory soon, you can bet on that like the sunrise.”

“That ain’t none of my business, Horace.”

“I’m gonna be
all
your business, man. ’Cause eventually it’s just gonna be me and my troops down here, understand?”

“So?”

“What we gotta do now is make that happen tonight. Cement our relationship so we can move forward, man.”

Foreman tapped ash off his cigar. “No.”

“What you mean,
no
?”

“I mean I won’t do it. You askin’ me to cross a line that I won’t cross.”

“It’s gonna be good for your future, man.”

Foreman kept his tone friendly. “Thanks for thinkin’ of me, but I’m already doin’ all right.”

“I’m not talkin’ about you doing better. I’m talkin’ about you makin’ the right decision here so you can keep what you got.”

Foreman stared through the roiling smoke at McKinley. He nodded slowly, his dark eyes shining wet in the light.

“You should have got straight to the point from the get-go. I understand you now, Horace.”

“Good. It’s just a short walk from here to there.”

“Who we talkin’ about, exactly? And how many?”

“Dewayne. Zulu, I expect.”

“You got some kind of plan?”

“Simple. We walk on over there, cross that DMZ, and knock on their door. Tell ’em we want to give them, what do you call that, one of them olive branches. Tell ’em we want to talk. There’s been too much killin’ lately, can’t we all get along, some bullshit like that. They let us in the house, we take ’em down. Like I said, simple. We outnumber their guns, and we got surprise on our side. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“When?” said Foreman.

McKinley said, “They’re over there right now.”

Foreman stood out of his chair, dropped his cigar to the scarred hardwood floor, and crushed it under his shoe. He released the safeties on both of his guns, reholstered the revolver, racked the slide on his Colt .9, reholstered it, and straightened out his leather.