Soul Circus (11 page)

“Damn, girl, where’s the fire?”

“You don’t know?”

“What I mean is, why the rush?”

“Quit fucking around.”

Soon he was all the way in her, her back arched to take it, her mouth cool on his, her damp muscled-up thighs flanking his sides. Quinn thinking, This is something God dreamed up, has to be. Something this good, it can’t be an accident.

STRANGE picked up Greco at the office and drove the dog up to the row house on Buchanan Street. Strange had lived here for many years before marrying Janine. He was perfectly content and comfortable at Janine’s place and as certain as any man could be that their marriage was going to last. But he still spent time at his old house. The house was paid for, so there weren’t any issues with money, and he had not considered selling it.

He told Janine that he needed this place to keep his duplicate case files and to work away from his primary office. But there were other reasons for his reluctance to give up the Buchanan residence. It had been his first and only real-estate purchase, and the pride of home ownership was, for him, still strong. And of course he needed to know that there was always some other place he could go to,
run to
, some would say, when the space between him and Janine and Lionel got too close. He had lived with women briefly, but in those cases there’d always been an exit door. He’d been a bachelor his whole life and he had married in his fifties. This new life, this whole new thing, was going to take some getting used to.

Strange went down to his basement and did three sets of ab crunches, lying on a mat. He then did a dumbbell workout and put in fifteen minutes on the heavy bag with a pair of twelve-ounce gloves, more than enough to break a good sweat. Then he showered, fed Greco, and went on up to the second floor to his office.

He tore the shrink-wrap off a couple of soundtrack CDs he had purchased through the Internet that had just come to this address in the mail today. A Morricone import called
Spaghetti Western
, which held six tracks from the film
A Gun for Ringo
, among others, had arrived in the shipment. He slipped the CD into the CPU of his computer and sat down behind his desk. The music came through the Yamaha speakers on his desktop, and he nodded his head. This was exactly what he had hoped it would be. He had been looking for this particular soundtrack for some time.

Strange filed that day’s Xeroxed records on the Granville Oliver case into the cabinets that supported the rectangle of kitchen-counter laminate that served as his desktop. He did some bills, killed more time listening to his CD, and then went looking for Greco, who was lying by the front door and ready to go. Strange grabbed some cruising music, locked the house down, and walked with Greco to his free-time vehicle, a black-over-black ’91 Cadillac Brougham with a chromed-up grille.

He popped some Blue Magic into the dash deck and drove north on Georgia Avenue. The school year had not quite ended, and night had fallen, but there were plenty of kids out, hanging on corners and walking the streets. In fact, he had seen his young employee, Lamar, heading on foot toward the Capitol City Pavilion, a go-go venue the young ones called the Black Hole, on a recent evening. Strange wondered, as he always did, what these kids were doing out so late, and he wondered about the adults who were responsible for them, why they had let them out of their sight.

Janine’s house was a clapboard colonial, pale lavender, set on a short, quiet, leafy street called Quintana, around the corner from the Fourth District police station in Manor Park. Lionel’s car, a Chevy beater he had recently purchased, was out front, and Janine’s late-model Buick was in the drive. Strange used his key to open the front door. He entered the house with Greco beside him, his nub of a tail twitching back and forth.

“It is me,” said Strange, his voice raised, not yet used to letting himself into Janine’s house.

“That you, Derek?” said Janine from back in the kitchen.

“Nah, it’s Billy Dee,” said Strange.

“Getting’ to look like him, too,” said Lionel, tall and filled out, coming down the center-hall stairs and patting his head, which barely had any hair on it at all.

“I know,” said Strange. “Didn’t have a chance to get that taken care of today. Gonna get to it tomorrow.”

“You know that album you got, has those guys with the big ratty Afros hanging out by the subway platform, talkin’ about, ‘do it till you’re satisfied’?”

“B.T. Express.”

“Yeah, them. You’re lookin’ like the whole B.T. Express put together.”

“Said I was gonna take care of it.”

Lionel reached his hand out as he hit the foot of the stairs. Strange took it, then brought him in for the forearm-to-chest hug.

“How you doin,’ boy?”

“I’m good,” said Lionel. “You gonna watch the game with me tonight?”

“You know it. What’s your mom got on the stove?”

“I think she made a roast or somethin’.”

“Was wonderin’ what it was,” said Strange, “smelled so good.”

“Smells like home,” said Lionel with a shrug.

Couldn’t put my finger on it, thought Strange. But, yeah, there it is.

They ate in the dining room after Strange said grace, and the food was delicious. Lionel was graduating from Coolidge High, and the ceremony was coming up soon. He had been accepted to Maryland University in College Park and would start there in the fall. He had been down on the fact that he would not be able to afford to live on campus, but Strange had bought the old Chevy for him, his first car, and that had somewhat offset his disappointment.

“How’s that car running?” said Strange.

“Good,” said Lionel. “I took it up to the detail place and had them brighten up the wheels.”

“You check the oil?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“ ’Cause you got to do that,” said Strange. “You need to change that oil every three or four months, at the outside.”

“Okay.”

“You want that car to last you, hear?”

“I said okay.”

“You don’t change the oil, it’s like gettin’ on with a woman without giving her a kiss.”

“Derek,” said Janine.

“It might feel real good when you’re doing it, but you want her to be there for you the next time you get the urge.”

“Derek.”

“What I mean is, a woman ain’t gonna be stayin’ around too long if you don’t treat her right. Car’s the same way.”

Lionel shifted in his seat. “You mean, like, changing the oil on the car is kinda like giving a woman flowers, right?”

“Exactly,” said Strange, relieved that Lionel had gotten him out of the woods.

Lionel cocked his head. “You supposed to do that every time you hit it, or every three or four months?”

“Lionel!”

“Sorry, Mom. It’s just,
Derek
is getting deep with me here, and I wanted to make sure I understood.”

Janine flashed her eyes at Strange.

“Dinner’s delicious, baby,” said Strange.

“Glad you’re enjoying it,” said Janine.

The three of them watched the game in the living room. Strange and Janine were for the Lakers, and Lionel was for the Sixers. It was a generational thing, like Frazier-Ali had been thirty years back.

On the television screen, Robert Horry was sinking foul shots like there was nothing on the line, though this was the championship series and the game was close, with less than a minute to play.

“Man is ice,” said Strange. “Experience beats youth, every time.”

“Girl at school told me today I look like Rick Fox,” said Lionel.

“Must’ve been a blind girl,” said Strange.

“Funny.”

“I’m playing with you. But what’s up with his hair?”

“The girls be geekin’ behind it.”

“You ever grow your hair like that, you and me are gonna have to have a talk.”

“You think all dudes are funny, don’t look a certain way.”

“He could afford a comb, at least, all that money he’s got.”

“You’re just old-time.”

“You think that’s what it is?”

“I got news for you. Women love that dude, Pop.”

Strange grinned. Lionel had been calling him “pop” more and more these days. He couldn’t even put into words the way it made him feel. Proud and happy, and scared, too, all at once.

“All I’m saying is,” said Strange, “you don’t need to be gettin’ any fancy hairstyles for the girls to like you. And anyway, you look good the way you are.”

Later, Strange and Janine sat on the couch splitting a bottle of beer. Lionel had gone out to see a girl he liked, who called the house several times a night. He had assured his mother that he wouldn’t be late.

“That was pretty smooth tonight,” said Janine. “Comparing women to cars.”

“Yeah, I know. You got to remember, though, I came to this game late. You had sixteen years of practice with that boy before I even came through the door.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I’m trying.”

“Oh, Derek, I almost forgot. Some man called today asking if he could talk to you about the Oliver case.”

“Was it one of the lawyers?”

“No, this was a white guy, and anyway, I recognize those lawyers’ voices by now. But this guy hung up before I could get a number.”

“Caller ID?”

“It said ‘No Data’ on the screen.”

“He’ll call back,” said Strange. He turned and kissed Janine on the side of her mouth. “Listen, we got some time before Lionel gets home. . . .”

“I don’t feel like going up just yet,” said Janine. “I’m happy sitting right here for a while, you don’t mind.”

“I’m happy, too,” said Strange.

And he was. He couldn’t think of anyplace he’d rather be. Strange didn’t know for the life of him why he was fighting all this. These were the people he loved, and this was home.

SUE Tracy lit a cigarette and got up naked off the couch. Quinn watched her move to the stereo to change the music and felt himself swallow. To have a woman, a woman who
looked
like a woman, all hips and breasts and just-fucked hair, parading around his crib without a stitch like it was the most natural thing in the world to do, this was what he had dreamed of since he was a boy, when he’d found those magazines behind the toolshed in his backyard. Quinn was so stoked now he wanted to phone his friends. But then he thought, Shit, my friend is right here in front of me. He had never figured on this part back when he was twelve years old. The stroke mags never taught you that.

“What?” said Tracy.

“What?”

“You’re staring at me and you’ve got a silly smile on your face.”

“You look nice.”

“Yeah, so do you. You want another beer?”

“Okay.”

He heard her washing herself in the bathroom, and soon she returned with two more beers and a towel for Quinn. She sat on the couch and stretched her legs out, her toes noodling with the hair on Quinn’s thighs.

“Good night,” said Tracy.

“Really good,” said Quinn.

They tapped bottles and kissed.

“You were late getting here,” said Tracy.

“I was finishing up something for Derek, over in Northeast. Confirming an address on a woman for a client of ours. It was a bullshit job, but I took care of it.”

“Why was it bullshit?”

“I don’t know,” said Quinn, the self-disgust plain in his voice.

“Why?”

Quinn looked away. “I had to lie to this kid, the son of the woman, to confirm the address. I tricked him, see? The look he gave me afterwards . . . I bet you money he’s been told all his life to distrust white people, that in the end white folks are always gonna fuck you over if you’re black. And you know how I feel, that it’s wrong to plant that kind of seed in any kid’s head, no matter what color you’re talking about, because it never gets unlearned. So it just got to me, to see that look he gave me, like everything he’d been taught had come true. And you know he’s never gonna forget.”

“Who’s looking for his mother?”

“A loser. That was the other thing that bugged me. That we just found this woman for this client, knowing this client’s type, without giving it any kind of thought. ’Cause whoever this client is, he’s no good, just a bad one to put anywhere near that boy’s life. But Derek and me, we treat it like a game sometimes, who’s got the bigger set of balls, like that, without thinking about the consequences. I don’t know; I’m just pissed off at myself, that’s all.”

“You’re angry.”

“As usual, right? Derek tells me I gotta relax.”

Tracy looked down at Quinn’s equipment, lying flaccid between his legs. “You look pretty relaxed to me.”

“I’m just resting. You want me to rally, I will.”

She touched his cheek. “Look, Terry. It’s just a job. You agreed to do something for money and you did it. Don’t make it more complicated than it is.”

“It’s wrong when there’s kids involved.”

“You’re probably worried about nothing.”

“I’m right about this,” said Quinn. “What we did today, it was fucked.”

THE street was quiet and inked with shadows as Mario Durham moved down the sidewalk, his head low. He shifted his eyes from side to side. On the surrounding blocks there had been some kids hanging out, but on this street there were none. No cars running, either. No kind of drug strip, nothin’ like that. Dogs barked in the alleys, and muted television and music sounds came from behind the walls of the apartments and row houses he passed. The nights were still cool, and the windows of the residences were shut or just opened a crack. Durham thinking, That’s good.

He went by Olivia’s hooptie, that old Toyota Tercel of hers, parked along the curb, then took a few steps up and went down a walkway to the address given him by that white-boy detective. He found the front door locked and was not surprised. There were a couple of rows of buttons outside the door, and he flattened out both of his palms and pushed on all the buttons at once. He had seen this done on TV shows. It always seemed to work on those shows, and it worked now. A click was audible as the lock was released, and he opened the door and went through it and then up a set of wooden stairs.

The second floor was unlit and held two apartments, one that faced the front of the house and one that faced the back. Two-B, Durham decided, would be the one to face the back. Durham went to that door. He could hear both television and stereo noise coming from inside the crib. Had to be Olivia in there, ’cause she liked to get high, watch TV and play her music at the same time. The door was heavy and wooden and had a peephole in its center. Durham knocked on it and stood back. He reached forward and knocked again.