What It Was

FOUR

Coco Watkins’s place of business was located on 14th, Northwest, between R and S, on the second floor of an old row house. On the ground floor was a neighborhood market, once a DGS store owned and operated by a Jew, now run by an ambitious Puerto Rican. Fourteenth, from U Street north to Park Road, had gone up in flames the night of Dr. King’s assassination, and though the major fires had not burned this far south, the event had made the once-grand street a near commercial dead zone. But not every enterprise had been negatively affected. There was still a steady nightly stream of customers, married suburbanites and white teenage boys looking to lose their virginity, who kept one part of the local economy alive.

Coco was a madam, technically, but the title meant nothing more than manager for a multi-bed operation housing six small, cut-up rooms, each of which held a bare mattress, a particleboard dresser, a freestanding rack with wire hangers, and a low-watt lamp. The girls made their connections out on the street, leaning into the open windows of idling cars, and handed over the prepaid fee, thirty for the act, five for the room, to Coco before entering with their johns.

There was no pimp involved in this particular operation. It was fairly unusual for a woman to have such unchallenged control over a stable, but it was known that Robert Lee Jones was Coco’s man, and Red’s hard rep was such that she stayed protected. Even when Jones was incarcerated, few had tried to mack on Coco’s woheimen.

Coco and Jones sat in her office, which fronted 14th. A nice big room with a bar, a king-size, brass-headboard bed, red velvet couch and chairs, desk, compact stereo, and a couple of windows giving to a view of the wide street below. Coco was lounging on the couch in a negligee, her hair high and elegant, a live Viceroy in hand, the cluster-stone ring on her finger. Jones was in a chair, using an oiled cloth to polish one of two.45s he owned, classic Colts with stainless slides and black checkered grips. He had broken the.22 on a guardrail near the Anacostia and thrown its pieces into the river.

“Where you about to go with that heater?” said Coco.

“Me and Fonzo got business.”

“Contract?”

“Freelance.”

“Be mindful. The Odum thing’s still warm.”

“They got nothin.”

“What I been hearin, that Detective Vaughn caught the case.”

“The one they call Hound Dog.”

“Him. Girl I know name Gina Marie told me he been askin around.”

“Least they put a man on it.”

Coco dragged on her cigarette. “That dude got no quit.”

“Do I look like I care?”

After coming to the city from West Virginia at an early age, Jones had grown up in one of D.C.’s infamous alley dwellings, way below the poverty line. No father in his life, ever, with hustlers in and out the spot, taking the place of one. A mother who worked domestic when she could. Half brothers and sisters he barely knew or kept track of. Twenty-five dollars a month rent, and his mother could rarely come up with it. All of them hungry, all the time. Being poor in that extreme way, Jones felt that nothing after could cut too deep. Take what you want, take no man’s shit. No police can intimidate you, no sentence will enslave you, no cell can contain your mind.

Jones stood, holstered the.45 in the dip of his bells, dropped the tail of his shirt over the bulge. His chest looked flat under clothing, but he was just shy of concrete. Five hundred push-ups a day in lockup, the same regimen on the outside. Legend was, an ambitious young dude had tried to shank him in jail and the blade had broken off in Red’s chest. It wasn’t a legend. Homemade shiv, but still.

“My Fury’s in the alley,” said Coco.

“We taking Fonzo’s short,” said Jones. He bent down, kissed her full red mouth. His fingers grazed the inside of her bare thigh, and she got damp.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“Bet,” said Jones.

He left the room and walked down the hall, where a young working woman, a big mark above her lip, stood outside a Cooda›“Bet, room in a sheer slip, huffing a smoke.

“Red,” she said.

“Girl.”

Out on 14th, Alfonzo Jefferson pulled up in his ’68 Electra, a gold-over-black convertible with 360 horses, a Turbo-400 trans, wide whitewalls, and rear-wheel skirts. It was a big, pretty beast, one of the nicest deuce-and-a-quarters on the street. Jones slid into the passenger side and settled on the bench. Jones and Jefferson had first met in the D.C. Jail and, when they could, had worked together since. Jones liked Jefferson’s fierce nature, and his style.

Jefferson, small and spidery, looked like a man-child under the wheel. He wore a button-down synthetic shirt, slacks with a wide stripe, and a neat brimmed cap pulled low over his bony face. He had two-tone stacks on his feet. His front teeth were capped in gold. His voice was husky, and he was quick. Johnnie Taylor’s “Jody’s Got Your Girl and Gone” was playing through an eight-track deck in the car.

“What it is, Red?”

“What it will be.”

They gave each other skin.

“Got some blondes behind your seat,” said Jefferson. “Opener’s in the glove box.”

Jones retrieved a couple Miller High Lifes, golden in clear glass bottles, and popped their caps. He handed one to Jefferson. Jefferson took a long swig, fitted the bottle between his legs, and pulled off the curb.

Roland Williams lived on T Street, between 13th and 14th, in a house he rented, paying cash, always on time, no references required, no questions asked. The owner of the house was one of several slumlords who had bought run-down properties, pre-and post-riot, and methodically flipped them at an enormous profit to the U.S. government for their “urban renewal” projects. In the late ’60s, the practice had been exposed in a series of Washington Post articles that had made a splash in the newspaper industry and on Capitol Hill. Reporters won prizes and promotions, but their work had little impact down here; five years later and the area continued to be in the grip of poverty and opportunists.

Williams’s row house, on the outside, was as blighted as any other on the block, but inside it was well furnished and nicely appointed. Williams had money. He was the neighborhood heroin dealer, known to most as such, and went untouched and unmolested by the law. Williams paid protection money to Mike Hancock, a Popeye who worked the Third District.

Williams was of the older school of heroin dealer who worked peacefully out of his house. He copped ounces, called “jumbos,” at 116th and 8th, up in Harlem. He bought from minor leaguers, black dudes who had scored from Italian button men who were low on the food chain themselves and connected to the Family. The run to Little Baltimore was Williams’s pleasure; he liked to go “up top” to the big city, do his thing, eat in one of those nice checkerboard-tablecloth restaurants they had, take his time, drive home slow.

Williams used mannite and quinine to cut his heroin, which generally was 4 to 12 percent Cto they had, pure when it hit the end user. Four was garbage, 12 a smoker. The temptation was to keep stepping on the dope to maximize profit, but if it was diluted too much a dealer would soon be out of business with a rep for selling trash product. Williams was not greedy, and he was known for delivering an honest kick.

He was a heroin user, but he had that under control. Like many in his line of work, he was functional. He laughed when he saw the TV shows with bad actors in dark-eye-circle makeup, playing strung-out junkies who had fucked up their lives. In Williams’s circle, it was macho to be an addict and know how to carry it.

It spoke to a general point of attitude. In his time, criminals were not amateurs. The burglars, car thieves, dope cutters, pickpockets, and flimflam artists he knew were all driven by the skills of their profession and pride in their work. There were few kids in the game. No one realized how soon all this would change.

This last batch of dope he’d copped had not yet been paid for. Williams was short on money at the time of purchase, as he’d recently put a deposit down on a sweet ’69 Mark IV that he didn’t need but wanted. His contact up top, man named Jimmy Compton, had let him slide because he was a longtime customer in good standing. Williams had brought the product home, cut it down, and packaged it in bundles of twenty-five glassine dime bags. Runners, paid with a shot, would deliver the dimes to residences and places of business. Clients were listed in a book he kept well hidden. Williams had the bundles in paper bags in two locations: the suit carrier in his closet and in a wall cutout behind a hutch in his living room. His intent was to sell the shit, give his New York connect his payment, and add a little bonus to it, to acknowledge the man’s trust.

Williams put on some nice threads, as he always did this time of night, and prepared to leave his place for a little something at Soul House, his favorite bar, on 14th. It was a cave, really, just a simple dark room with low music coming from the juke. A spot where he felt comfortable. There he played the role of up-and-coming businessman, sitting at the stick, having himself a quiet drink. Mid-shelf scotch in hand, sometimes with a young lady seated beside him. Thinking, I’ve made it.

They parked on the 1300 block of T, drank off a couple more High Lifes, smoked cigarettes, and waited for near dark to come. They were watching a white brick row house with blue shutters, had a little old-time porch on the front. Jefferson had been watching the house for several nights.

“There he goes now,” said Jones.

“Told you,” said Jefferson. “He leaves out the same time, early in the evening. Goes to that bar, Soul House, on Fourteenth. You can set your watch to it. How they do in London, England, with that big clock they got.”

“Roland Williams,” said Jones.

“That’s Ro-Ro, went to Cardozo?”

Jones shook his head. “Long Nose Roland, outta Roosevelt.”

“I can see it,” said Jefferson.

Roland Williams, with the nose of an aardvark, late twenties, wearin Cntiightg big-bell jeans and a print shirt. He locked the door of the house behind him and walked down the sidewalk.

“Let’s go,” said Jones.

They got out of the Buick and crossed the street. They came up quick behind Williams, who had turned his head and quickened his step but too late. Jefferson produced an old police-issue.38 with cracked wood grips held fast by electrical tape, and put the barrel of it to the small of Williams’s back.

“Keep walkin, slick,” said Jefferson. “Straight to the alley.”

Williams complied. He moved surely and did not appear to be too shook. They turned into an alley that ran behind Williams’s block, uneven stones in concrete, hard beneath their feet.

“Stop and turn around,” said Jones. “My man’s got his thing on you, so don’t be funny.”

Williams turned to face them. Somewhere near, a big-breed dog, housed behind a chain-link fence, barked lazily. There was no light back here, save the faint bleed of a streetlamp situated at the end of the alley. It was hard to read Williams’s face, but his voice was steady.

“Y’all want my money,” said Williams, “go on and take it.”

“Give it here,” said Jones.

Williams removed folding money from his front pocket and held it out. Jones took it and without examination stuffed it in the patch pocket of his bells.

“Now the key to your crib,” said Jones.

“For what?” said Williams.

“ ’Bout to help myself to your heroin. I know you’re holdin.”

“Who…”

“Never mind who. He kissin dirt.” Jones nodded with his chin. “Give it up. I don’t want no loose dimes, neither. The bundles.”

“You don’t understand what you gettin into, brother. I got that shit on consignment.”

“Say what?”

“I don’t own it.”

“You got that right. It’s mine now.”

Williams sighed. They heard his breath expel and saw his shoulders sag.

Jefferson grew impatient and touched his pistol to the man’s cheekbone. “Tell him where the dope at.”

“What I got is in my bedroom closet,” said Williams. “In a suit bag.”

“That’s it?” said Jones.

“All of it,” said Williams. “Swear for God.” Williams was a poker player, and they could not read the lie in his eyes.

“Gimme your key.”

Jones left the alley with the key to Williams’s house and the key to the Buick. Jefferson kept the gun loosely trained on Williams, who calmly lit a cigarette. Neither of them spoke.

Fifteen minutes later, Jones returned. Williams ground the butt under his foot.

“You get it?” said Jefferson.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

Williams studied them. The tall, light-skinned dude had a distinctive look and a rep to go with it. Had to be Red Jones, who some called Red Fury on account of his woman’s car. He knew nothing about the little one with the gold teeth.

“Can I get my house key back?” said Williams.

Jones tossed it in his general direction. Williams did not catch the key, and it fell to the ground with a small pathetic clinking sound. Jones and Jefferson chuckled low.

Williams felt unwise anger rise up inside him. “Y’all motherfuckers ain’t gonna last.”

“We gonna last longer than you,” said Jones, and he drew his.45 from the dip of his bells.

Williams took a staggering step back. Jones moved forward, pressed the gun’s muzzle high on Williams’s chest, and squeezed its trigger. The night lit up, and in the flash they saw the look of shock on Williams’s face as he left his feet and dropped to the alley floor. Blood pooled out from Williams’s back. His chest heaved up as he fought for breath. Then his eyes closed and he moved no more.

“Next time,” said Jefferson, “gimme some kind of warning. My ears are ringin, Red.”

“Boy talked too much shit.”

They left him for dead. It was a mistake.