Soul Circus

Chapter 33

“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 go

Qui

“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.”

Qui

“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 Qui

“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 go

“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 go

“Give me the directions,” said Strange.

Strange told Qui

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 go

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 A

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.