Hell To Pay

chapter 10

RICK’S was a stand-alone A-frame establishment located a few miles east of North Capitol on New York Avenue, a bombed-out-looking stretch of road that was the jewel-in-the-crown introduction to Washington, D.C., for many first-time visitors who traveled into the city by car.

The building now holding Rick’s had originally been built as a Roy Rogers burger house. It had mutated into its current incarnation, a combination sports bar and strip joint for working stiffs, when the Roy’s chain went the way of corded telephones.

The conversion had been simple. The new owners had gutted the fast-food interior, keeping only a portion of the kitchen and the bathroom plumbing, and hung some Redskins, Wizards, and Orioles memorabilia on the walls. The omission of Washington Capitals pennants was intentional, as hockey was generally not a sport that interested blacks. The final touch was to brick up the windows that had once wrapped around three sides of the structure. Bricked windows generally meant one of three things: arson victim, gay bar, or strip joint. Once the word got around on which kind of place Rick’s was, the owners didn’t even bother to hang a sign out front.

Rick’s had its own parking lot, an inheritance from the Roy’s lease. A couple of locals had been shot in this parking lot in the past year, but pre-sundown and in the early evening hours, before the liquor turned peaceful men brave, then violent, the place was generally safe.

Strange pulled his Caprice alongside Quinn’s blue Chevelle, parked in an empty corner of the lot. Quinn got out of his car as Strange stepped out of his. They met and shook hands. Quinn made a show of sniffing the air.

“Damn, Derek. You smell kinda, I don’t know, sweet. Is that perfume?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man.”

It was the lotion that girl had rubbed on him back in Chinatown. Strange knew that Quinn was remarking on it, in his own stupid way.

They walked toward Rick’s.

Strange nodded at the JanSport hanging off Quinn’s shoulder. “What, we goin’ mountain climbing now? Thought we were just gonna have a beer or two.”

“My briefcase.”

“You been waitin’ on me long?”

“Not too long,” said Quinn.

“You coulda gone inside,” said Strange, giving Quinn a long look. “I bet I would have spotted you right quick.”

“I’d be the one on the bottom of the pile.”

“With the red opening in his neck, stretchin’ from one ear to the other.”

“Not too many white guys in this place, huh?”

“Seeing a white guy at Rick’s be like spottin’ a brother at a Springsteen concert.”

“I figured I’d just wait for you to escort me in.”

“No need to tempt fate. It’s what I been telling you the past two years. You’re learning, man.”

“I’m trying,” said Quinn.

They went into Rick’s. Smoke hovered in the dim lights. The place was half filled, just easing into happy hour. A bar ran along one wall where the order counter for Roy’s had been, and beyond it was a series of doors. Guys sat at the stick, watching the nostalgia sports channel, Packers uniforms dancing in a flurry of snow, “Spill the Wine” playing on the stereo throughout the house. In two corners, women danced in thongs, nothing else, for groups of men seated at tables. Waitresses wearing short shorts and lacy tops were servicing the tables. Big men with big shoulders and no headsets were stationed around the room.

Floor patrons fish-eyed Strange and Quinn as they stepped up to the bar. Those seated at the bar barely noticed their presence, as their eyes were glued to the television set mounted on the wall.

Strange nodded up at the set. “You want to get a man’s attention, put on any Green Bay game where it got played in the snow. Guy’ll sit there like a glassy-eyed old dog, watchin’ it.”

“It’s like when they run The Good, the Bad and the Ugly on TNT.”

“You mean, like, every week?”

“Tell me the truth; if you’re scanning the channels with the remote and you see Eastwood, or Eli Wallach as Tuco-”

“‘Otherwise known as the Rat.’”

“Right,” said Quinn. “So, when you recognize that movie, have you ever been able to scan past it? I mean, you always sit there and watch the rest of the film, don’t you?”

“The Wild Bunch is like that, too,” said Strange. “How many times you figure you’ve seen that one?”

Quinn pumped out two short strokes with his fist. “With my pants on, or with them around my ankles?”

Strange chuckled as the bartender, a young guy with a hard face, arrived before them. “What can I get y’all?”

“I’ll take a Double R Bar burger and a saddle fulla fries,” said Quinn, but the bartender didn’t smile.

“Heineken for me,” said Strange.

“Bud,” said Quinn.

“In bottles,” said Strange. “And we’re gonna need a receipt.”

The tender returned with their beers. Quinn paid him and dropped a heavy tip on the bar, placing his hand over the cash. “Which one of the girls is Eve?”

“That’s her right there,” said the bartender, chinning in the direction of a big-boned dancer working one of the corners of the room.

“When does she stop?”

“They work half hours.”

“Any idea how long she’s been at it?”

“’Bout ten years, from the looks of her.”

“I meant tonight.”

“Ain’t like I been clockin’ her.”

“Right,” said Quinn. He took his hand off the money, and the bartender snatched it without a word. He had never once looked Quinn in the eye.

Strange saw two men get up from their table near Eve’s corner. He folded the bar receipt, put it in his breast pocket, and said to Quinn, “There we go, that’s us right there.”

They crossed the floor, one of the stack-shouldered bouncers staring hard at Quinn as they passed. “Sweet Sticky Thing” came forward from the house system. Quinn and Strange had a seat at the deuce. Strange leaned forward and tapped his beer bottle against Quinn’s.

“Relax,” said Strange.

“I get tired of it, is all.”

“You expect all the brothers to show you love, huh?”

“Just respect,” said Quinn.

They drank off some of their beers and watched the work of the woman the bartender had identified as Eve. She was squatting, her back to a group of men, her palms resting atop her thighs, working the muscles in her lower back. Her huge ass jiggled rapidly, seemingly disconnected from the rest of her. It moved wildly before the men.

“Someone ought to give that a name,” said Strange.

“She does have a nickname: All-Ass Eve.”

“Bet it didn’t take long to come up with it.”

“You like it like that?”

“Is seven up?”

“She doesn’t hold a candle to Janine.”

“That’s what I know. You don’t have to tell me, man.” Strange smiled and pointed to one of the speakers suspended from the ceiling by wires. “Listen to this right here. The third verse is comin’ up.”

“So?”

“The horn charts behind this verse are beautiful, man. The Ohio Players never did get much credit for the complexity in their shit.”

“That’s nice,” said Quinn. “You know, Janine was askin’ where you were when I was back in the office.”

“You tell her I was in Chinatown?”

“I don’t like lying to her.” Quinn’s eyes cut off Strange’s stare. “No, I didn’t say where you were.”

Strange had a sip of beer. “You met with Sue Tracy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you think?”

“She’s a pro. She’s nice.”

“Bet you didn’t find her all that hard to look at, either.”

“Knock it off.”

“Just wanted to make sure you still had some red blood runnin’ through your veins. While you’re sittin’ over there judgin’ me with your eyes.”

Quinn didn’t respond. Strange said, “Ron give you the sheet on the Marshall girl?”

“I got it.”

“What did it tell you?”

“She got popped for solicitation. It’s a no-paper, so we won’t be finding her in court.”

“She put an address on the form?” said Strange.

“A phony. But the spot where she wrote down her contact was interesting. A guy named Worldwide Wilson.”

“Worldwide.”

“Yeah, looks like she gave up the name of her pimp.”

“She give out his phone number, too?”

“She did write one down. But it’s got one of those number symbols after it.”

“Must be his pager.”

“Genius.”

“Just tryin’ to help you out, rookie.”

“Anyway, I’ll find out tonight.”

They watched the rest of Eve’s performance. The music programmer stuck with the Ohio Players and moved into “Far East Mississippi” and “Skin Tight.” Strange and Quinn ordered two more beers. Eve finished her shift and walked off through one of the doors behind the bar, accompanied by the stack-necked bouncer who had hard-eyed Quinn. A woman arrived, built similarly to Eve, and she began to dance in the same way Eve had danced, this time to a tune by the Gap Band. The woman’s behind rippled as if it were in a wind tunnel.

“This here must be strictly an ass joint,” said Quinn.

“And they asked me when I took you on, Will he make a good detective.”

“It’s like their signature dish.”

“Ledo’s Pizza got pizza. The Prime Rib’s got prime rib. Rick’s got ass.”

“You black guys do love the onion.”

“Was wonderin’ when you were gonna get to that.”

Soon Eve came out of the back room wearing a sheer top with no bra and matching shorts showing the lines of her thong. She was going around to the tables, shaking hands with the men, some of whom were slipping her money in appreciation of her performance. The stack-necked bouncer was never far from Eve. He had braided hair and a gold tooth. Quinn thought he looked like Warren Sapp, that football player. He was big as one.

“She’ll be here in a second, Terry. I’ll ask the questions, you don’t mind.”

“My case. Let me handle it, all right?”

Eve was a large woman, in proportion with her backside. Her nose was thick and wide, and her lips, painted a bright red, were prominent; her hands and feet had the size of a man’s. She had sprayed herself with some kind of sweet perfume, and it was strong on Strange and Quinn as she arrived at their table.

“Did you gentlemen like my performance?” she said, giving them a shy smile, her hand out.

“I did,” said Strange.

Quinn extended his hand, a twenty-dollar bill folded in it so that she could see the denomination. He pulled it back as she reached out for it.

“C’mon back when you have a minute,” said Quinn. “My friend and I want to talk to you.”

Eve kept her smile, but it twitched at one corner. Strange noticed her bad teeth, a common trait among hos.

“Management says I can’t sit down with the customers,” said Eve, “’less they buy me a cocktail.”

“Bet you like those fruity ones,” said Strange, “loaded up with all kinds of rums.”

“Mmmm,” said Eve, licking her lips clumsily.

“We’ll see you in a few,” said Quinn.

The bouncer gave him one long, meaningful look before he and Eve went off to the next table full of suckers.

“That drink’s gonna cost you, like, another seven,” said Strange.

“I know it.”

“Won’t even have no liquor in it.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Make sure you get a receipt. We’ll charge it to your girl Sue.”

Eve returned after a while and pulled a chair over from another table, sliding it in between Strange and Quinn. She carried a collins glass filled with pinkish liquid and held it up by way of salute to her new friends before taking a sip. The bouncer had a seat on a stool positioned a table away and stared at Quinn. Kool and the Gang’s “Soul Vibration” played loud on the sound system. Strange watched the dancers bring it down a notch to catch the groove of the song.

“Thanks for the drink,” said Eve. She wiped her mouth and placed the drink on the table. Her lipstick had made a kiss mark on the glass. “You two wouldn’t be police officers, would you?”

“We’re not with the police,” said Quinn, pushing the yellow flyer he had taken from his pack across the table. He dropped the twenty on top of the flyer, careful not to cover the photograph of Jennifer Marshall. “You recognize this girl?”

Eve’s eyes held their neutral vacancy. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I said no. Was I talkin’ too soft for you?”

“I can hear you fine. I don’t believe you is what it is.”

Eve’s smile, like a death rictus, remained upon her face. “You’re cuttin’ me deep, white boy.”

Strange looked over at the bouncer, then around the room. He recognized one guy, an older cat with a cool-fish handshake he’d seen at church now and again. Anything went down, this cat would be no help at all.

Quinn leaned forward. “You never seen her, like at a bus station, nothin’ like that? How about over by P Street Beach?”

Eve’s smile faded, and with it any facade of love.

“Ever hear of a guy named Worldwide Wilson?” said Quinn.

Eve’s eyes were dead now, still on Quinn. She shook her head slowly.

“You steer girls over to Wilson, Eve. Isn’t that right?”

Eve reached for the twenty on the table. Quinn put a hand over her wrist and pushed his thumb in at her pressure point. He pressed just enough for her to feel it. But if she felt it, it didn’t show. In fact, the smile returned to her face.

“All right, Terry,” said Strange. “Let her go.”

The bouncer was still staring at Quinn but hadn’t moved an inch. Eve slowly pulled her hand free. Quinn let her do it.

“You know why you still conscious?” said Eve, her voice so soft it was barely audible above the sounds in the club. “’Cause you don’t mean a motherfuckin’ thing to nobody up in here.”

“I’m lookin’ for this girl,” said Quinn just as softly, tapping his finger on the flyer.

“Then look to the one who gave you my name.”

“Say it again?”

“Do I look like I hang on P Street to you?” Eve took the twenty off the table and slipped it into the waistband of her shorts. “White boy, you got played.”

Eve stood out of her chair, letting her eyes drift over Strange, then walked away.

“You done?” said Strange. “Or you want another beer?”

“I’m done,” said Quinn, looking past Strange into the room.

“We could buy the house a round. Sing some drinking songs with all your new friends, like they do in those Irish bars-”

“Let’s go.”

As they moved toward the bar, Quinn’s and the bouncer’s eyes met.

“Check you later, slim,” said the bouncer, and Quinn slowed his step. It was something you said to a girl.

Strange tugged on Quinn’s T-shirt. At the stick, Strange settled the tab while Quinn kept his back at the bar, watching the patrons in the house, many of them now staring at him. Some were grinning. He felt the warmth of blood that had gone to his face. He wanted to fight someone. Maybe he wanted them all.

“We’re gone,” said Strange, handing the receipt to Quinn.

Vapor lights cast a bleached yellow on the lot outside the club. They walked the asphalt to their cars.

“That was good,” said Strange. “Subtle, like.”

Quinn kept looking back to the door of the club.

“Wanna go back in, huh?”

“Drop it.”

“Terry, one thing you got to learn to do is, don’t take all this bullshit too personal.”

“Guess I ought to be more detached, like you.”

“You need to manage some of that anger you got inside you, man.”

“Tomorrow’s Wednesday. We got practice in the evening, right Derek?”

“Six o’clock on the dot,” said Strange.

“I’ll see you then.”

Quinn drove his Chevelle out of the lot while Strange killed some time, fumbling with his car radio and such. When Quinn was out of sight, Strange locked up his car and walked back into Rick’s.