Hell To Pay

chapter 5

HOLD on a second, Derek,” said Karen Bagley. “I’m going to conference you in with Sue.”

Strange held the phone away from his ear and sat back in the chair behind his desk. He watched Lamar Williams climb a stepladder to feather-dust Strange’s blinds.

“You coming with me to practice tonight, Lamar?”

“You want me to, I will.”

“I was just wonderin’ on if you could make it. If you had to sit your baby sister again, I mean.”

“Nah, uh-uh.”

“’Cause I saw you outside the Black Hole Friday night.”

Lamar lowered the duster. “Yeah, I was there. After I did what I told you I had to do.”

“Kind of a rough place, isn’t it?”

“It’s a place in the neighborhood I can listen to some go-go, maybe talk to a girl. I don’t eye-contact no one I shouldn’t; I ain’t lookin’ to step to nobody or beef nobody. Just lookin’ to have a little fun. That’s okay with you, isn’t it, boss?”

“Just tellin’ you I saw you, is all.”

Strange heard voices on the phone. He put the receiver back to his ear.

“Okay,” said Strange.

“We all here?” said Bagley.

“I can hear you,” said Tracy. “Derek?”

“I got what you needed,” said Strange. “It’s all on videotape.”

“That was quick,” said Bagley.

“Did it Friday night. I thought I’d let the weekend pass, didn’t want to disturb your-all’s beauty sleeps.”

“What’d you get?” said Tracy.

“Your bad john is a cop. Unmarked. But you two knew that, I expect. The flag went up for me when you said he was talkin’ about ‘I don’t have to pay.’ Question is, why didn’t you just tell me what you suspected?”

“We wanted to find out if we could trust you,” said Tracy.

Direct, thought Strange. That was cool.

“I’m going to give the tape and the information to a lieutenant friend of mine in the MPD. I been knowin’ him my whole life. He’ll turn it over to Internal and they’ll take care of it.”

“You’ve got a videotape of his car,” said Bagley, “right? Did you get his face?”

“No, not really. But it’s his car and it’s a clear solicitation. He might say he was gathering information or some bullshit like that, but it’s enough to throw a shadow over him. The IAD people will talk to him, and I suspect it’ll scare him. He won’t be botherin’ that girl again. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Bagley. “Good work.”

“Good? It was half good, I’d say. You two ever see that movie The Magnificent Seven?”

Bagley and Tracy took a moment before uttering a “yes” and an “uh-huh.” Strange figured they were wondering where he was going with this.

“One of my favorites,” said Strange. “There’s that scene where Coburn, he plays the knife-carryin’ Texican, pistol-shoots this cat off a horse from, like, I don’t know, a couple hundred yards away. And this hero-worship kid, German actor or something, but they got him playin’ a Mexican, he says something like, ‘That was the greatest shot I ever saw.’ And Coburn says, ‘It was the worst. I was aiming for his horse.’”

“And your point is what?” said Bagley.

“I wish I could’ve delivered more to you. More evidence, I mean. But what I did get, it might just be enough. Anyway, hopefully y’all will trust me now.”

“Like I said,” said Tracy, “there’s no such thing as an ex-cop. Cops are usually hesitant to turn in one of their own.”

“There’s two professions,” said Strange, “teaching and policing, that do the most good for the least pay and recognition. But you want to be a teacher or a cop, you accept that goin’ in. Most cops and most teachers are better than good. But there’s always gonna be the teacher likes to play with a kid’s privates, and there’s always gonna be a cop out there, uses his power and position in the wrong way. In both cases, to me, it’s the worst kind of betrayal. So I got no problem with turnin’ a cat like that in. Only…”

“What?” said Tracy.

“Don’t keep nothin’ from me again, hear? Okay, you did it once, but you don’t get to do it again. It happens, it’ll be the last time we work together.”

“We were wrong,” said Bagley. “Can you forget it?”

“Forget what?”

“What about the other thing?” said Tracy. “The flyer we gave you.”

“I’ve got a guy I use named Terry Quinn. Former D.C. cop. He’s a licensed investigator in the District now. I’m gonna give it to him.”

“Why not you?” said Bagley.

“Too busy.”

“How can we reach him?” said Tracy.

“He’s not in the office much. He works part-time in a used-book store in downtown Silver Spring. He can take calls there, and he’s got a cell. I’m gonna see him this evening; I’ll make sure he gets the flyer.”

Strange gave them both numbers.

“Thank you, Derek.”

“You’ll get my bill straightaway.” Strange hung up the phone and looked over at Lamar. “You ready, boy?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s roll.”

STRANGE retrieved the videotape of the cop and the hooker, wedged in the football file box, and shut the trunk’s lid.

“This here is you,” said Strange, handing the tape over to Lydell Blue.

“The thing you called me about?”

“Yeah. I wrote up a little background on it, what I was told by the investigators who put me on it, what I heard at the scene, like that. I signed my name to it, Internal wants to get in touch with me.”

Blue stroked his thick gray mustache. “I’ll take care of it.”

They walked across the parking lot toward the fence that surrounded the stadium, passing Quinn’s hopped-up blue Chevelle and Dennis Arrington’s black Infiniti I30 along the way.

Strange knew Roosevelt’s football coach – he had done a simple background check for him once and he had not charged him a dime – and they had worked it out so that Strange’s team could practice on Roosevelt’s field when the high school team wasn’t using it. In return, Strange turned the coach on to some up-and-coming players and tried to keep those kids who were headed for Roosevelt in a straight line as well.

“You and Dennis want the Midgets tonight?”

“Tonight? Yeah, okay.”

“Me and Terry’ll work with the Pee Wees, then.”

“Derek, that’s the way you got it set up damn near every night.”

“I like the young kids, is what it is,” said Strange. “Me and Terry will just stick with them, you don’t mind.”

“Fine.”

Midgets in this league – a loosely connected set of neighborhood teams throughout the area – went ten to twelve years old and between eighty-five and one hundred and five pounds. Pee Wees were ages eight to eleven, with a minimum of sixty pounds and a max of eighty-five. There was also an intermediate and junior division in the league, but the Petworth club could not attract enough boys in those age groups, the early-to-mid-teen years, to form a squad. Many of these boys had by then become too distracted by other interests, like girls, or necessities, like part-time jobs. Others had already been lost to the streets.

Strange followed Blue through a break in the fence and down to the field. About fifty boys were down there in uniforms and full pads, tackling one another, cracking wise, kicking footballs, and horsing around. Lamar Williams was with them, giving them some tips, also acting the clown. A few mothers were down there, and a couple of fathers, too, talking among themselves.

The field was surrounded by a lined track painted a nice sky blue. A set of aluminum bleachers on concrete steps faced the field. Weed trees grew up through the concrete.

Dennis Arrington, a computer programmer and deacon, was throwing the ball back and forth with the Midgets’ quarterback in one of the end zones. Nearby, Terry Quinn showed Joe Wilder, a Pee Wee, the ideal place on the body to make a hit. Quinn had to get down low to do it. Wilder was the runt of the litter, short but with defined muscles and a six-pack of abs, though he had only just turned eight years old. At sixty-two pounds, Wilder was also the lightest member of the squad.

Strange blew a whistle that hung on a cord around his neck. “Everybody line up over there.” He motioned to a line that had been painted across the track. They knew where it was.

“Hustle,” said Blue.

“Four times around,” said Strange, “and don’t be complaining, either; that ain’t nothin’ but a mile.” He blew the whistle again over the boys’ inevitable moans and protests.

“Any one of you walks,” yelled Arrington, as they jogged off the line, “and you all are gonna do four more.”

The men stood together in the end zone and watched the sea of faded green uniforms move slowly around the track.

“Got a call from Jerome Moore’s mother today,” said Blue. “Jerome got suspended from Clark today for pulling a knife on a teacher.”

“Clark Elementary?” said Quinn.

“Uh-huh. His mother said we won’t be seein’ him at practice for the next week or so.”

“Call her back,” said Strange, “and tell her he’s not welcome back. He’s off the team. Didn’t like him around the rest of the kids anyway. Doggin’ it, trash-talking, always starting fights.”

“Moore’s nine years old,” said Quinn. “I thought those were the kind of at-risk kids we were trying to help.”

“They’re all at risk down here, Terry. I’ll let go of one to keep the rest of the well from getting poisoned. It’ll school them on something, too. That we’re tryin’ to teach them somethin’ more than football here. Also, that we’re not gonna put up with that kind of behavior.”

“Way I see it,” said Quinn, “it’s the giving up on these kids that makes them go wrong.”

“I’m not giving up on him or anyone else. He straightens himself out, he can play for us next season. But for this season here, uh-uh. He blew it his own self. You agree with me, Dennis?”

Dennis Arrington looked down at the football that he spun in his thick hands. He was Quinn’s height, not so tall, built like a fullback. “Absolutely, Derek.”

Arrington gave Quinn a short look. Quinn knew that Arrington wouldn’t agree with him on this or anything else. Arrington was quick with a smile, a handshake, and a back pat for most any black man who came down to this field. And Quinn did like him as a man. But he felt that Arrington didn’t like him, or show him respect. And he felt that this was because he, Quinn, was white. Quinn had gotten that from some of the kids when he’d first started here as well. The kids, most of them, anyway, had gotten past it.

Strange turned to Quinn. Quinn’s hair was cropped short. He had a wide mouth, a pronounced jaw, and green eyes. Among friends his eyes were gentle, but around strangers, or when he was simply in thought, his eyes tended to be flat and hard. In full winter dress he looked like a man of average height, maybe less, with a flat stomach and an ordinary build, but out here in sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his veins standing on his forearms and snaking up his biceps, his physical strength was evident.

“Before I forget it, some women might be callin’ you, Terry. I gave them your number-”

“They already called me. Got me on my cell while I was driving over here.”

“Yeah, they do work quick. I brought you the information, if you’re interested.”

“Do you want me to take it?”

“It’s a money job for both of us.”

“It would mean more jack for you if you just took it yourself.”

“I’m busy,” said Strange.

The boys came back in, sweating and short of breath.

“Form a circle,” said Blue. He called out the names of the two captains who would lead the calisthenics.

The captains stood in the middle of the large circle. They commanded their teammates to run in place.

“How ya’ll feel?” shouted the captains.

“Fired up!” responded the team.

“How y’all feel?”

“Fired up!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

“Breakdown.”

“Whoo!”

With each command the boys went into their breakdown stance and shouted, “Whoo!” This running in place and vocal psych-out lasted for a few more minutes. Then they moved into other calisthenics: stretches, knuckle push-ups, and six inches, where they were instructed to lie on their backs, lift their legs a half foot off the ground, keep their legs straight, and hold the position, playing their bellies like a tom-tom until they were told they could relax. When they were done, their jerseys were dark with sweat and their faces were beaded with it.

“Now you’re gonna run some steps,” said Strange.

“Aw!” said Rico, the Pee Wee starting halfback. Rico was a quick, low-to-the-ground runner who could jook. He had the most natural talent of any of the players. He was also the first to complain.

“Move, Reek,” said Dante Morris, the tall, skinny quarterback who rarely spoke, only when he was asked to or to motivate his teammates. “Let’s get it done.”

“C’mon Panthers!” shouted Joe Wilder, sweeping his arm in the direction of the bleachers.

“Little man gonna lead the charge,” said Blue.

“They’re following him, too,” said Strange.

A few more mothers had arrived and stood on the sidelines. Joe Wilder’s uncle had shown up, too. He was leaning against the fence that ran between the track and the bleachers, his hand dipped into a white paper bag stained with grease.

“Humid tonight,” said Blue.

“Don’t make ’em run those steps too long,” said Strange. “Look, I gotta run back up to my car for a second. Wanted to give you the Midget roster, since you’ll be takin’ them permanent. Be right back.”

Strange crossed the field, passing Wilder’s uncle, not looking his way. But the uncle said, “Coach,” and Strange had to stop.

“How’s it goin?” said Strange.

“It’s all right. Name’s Lorenze. Most call me Lo. I’m Joe Wilder’s uncle.”

“Derek Strange. I’ve seen you around.”

Now Strange had to shake his hand. Lorenze rubbed his right hand, greasy from the french fries in the bag, off on his jeans before he reached out and tried to give Strange the standard soul shake: thumb lock, finger lock, break. Strange executed it without enthusiasm.

“Y’all nearly through?”

“We’ll be quittin’ near dark.”

“I just got up in this motherfucker, so I didn’t know how long you been out here.”

Lorenze smiled. Strange shifted his feet impatiently. Lorenze, a man over thirty years old, wore a T-shirt with a photograph of a dreadlocked dude smoking a fat spliff, and a pair of Jordans, laces untied, on his feet. Strange didn’t know one thing for certain about this man. But he knew this man’s type.

Blue called the boys off the bleachers. Exhausted, they began to walk back toward the center of the field.

“I’ll be takin’ Joe with me after practice,” said Lorenze. “I ain’t got my car tonight, but I can walk him back to his place.”

“I told his mother I’d drop him at home. Same as always.”

“We just gonna walk around some. Boy needs to get to know his uncle.”

“I’m responsible for him,” said Strange, keeping his tone light. “If his mother had told me you’d be comin’, that would be one thing…”

“You don’t have to worry. I’m kin, brother.”

“I’m taking him home,” said Strange, and now he forced himself to smile. “Like I say, I told his mother, right? You got to understand this.”

“I ain’t gotta do nothin’ but be black and die,” said Lorenze, grinning at his clever reply.

Strange didn’t comment. He’d been hearing young and not-so-young black men use that expression around town for years now. It never did settle right on his ears.

They both heard a human whistle and looked up past the bleachers to the fence that bordered the parking lot. A tall young man was leaning against the fence, smiling and staring down at them. Then he turned, walked away, and was out of sight.

“Look,” said Strange, “I gotta get something from my car. I’ll see you around, hear?”

Lorenze nodded absently.

Strange walked up to the parking lot. The young man who had stood at the fence was now sitting behind the wheel of an idling car with D.C. plates. The car was a beige Caprice, about ten years old, with a brown vinyl roof and chrome-reverse wheels, parked nose out about four spaces down from Strange’s own Chevy. Rust had begun to cancer the rear quarter panel on the driver’s side. The pipe coughed white exhaust, which hovered in the lot. The exhaust mingled with the marijuana smoke that was coming from the open windows of the car.

Another young man sat in the shotgun seat and a third sat in the back. Strange saw tightly braided hair on the front-seat passenger, little else.

Strange had slowed his steps and was studying the car. He was letting them see him study it. His face was impassive and his body language unthreatening as he moved along.

Now Strange walked to his own car and popped the trunk. He heard them laughing as he opened his toolbox and looked inside of it for… for what? Strange didn’t own a gun. If they were strapped and they were going to use a gun on him, he couldn’t do a damn thing about it anyway. But he was letting his imagination get ahead of him now. These were just some hard-looking kids, sitting in a parking lot, getting high.

Strange found a pencil in his toolbox and wrote something down on the outside of the Pee Wees’ manila file. Then he found the Midget file that he had come to get for Blue. He closed the trunk’s lid.

He walked back across the lot. The driver poked his head out the window of the Caprice and said, “Yo, Fred Sanford! Fred!”

That drew more laughter, and he heard one of them say, “Where Lamont at and shit?”

Now they were laughing and saying other things, and Strange heard the words “old-time” and felt his face grow hot, but he kept walking. He just wanted them gone, off the school grounds, away from his kids. And as he heard the squeal of their tires he relaxed, knowing that this was so.

He looked down toward the field and noticed that Lorenze, Joe Wilder’s uncle, had gone.

Strange was glad Terry Quinn hadn’t been with him just now, because Quinn would have started some shit. When someone stepped to him, Quinn only knew how to respond one way. You couldn’t answer each slight, or return each hard look with an equally hard look, because moments like this went down out here every day. It would just be too tiring. You’d end up in a constant battle, with no time to breathe, just live.

Strange told himself this, trying to let his anger subside, as he walked back onto the field.