George Pelecanos - Hell To Pay

The second book in the Derek Strange and Terry Quinn series, 2002

GARFIELD Potter sat low behind the wheel of an idling Caprice, his thumb stroking the rubber grip of the Colt revolver loosely fitted between his legs. On the bench beside him, leaning against the passenger window, sat Carlton Little. Little filled an empty White Owl wrapper with marijuana and tamped the herb with his thumb. Potter and Little were waiting on Charles White, who was in the backyard of his grandmothers place, getting his dog out of a cage.

It dont look like much, does it? said Potter, looking down at his own lap.

Little grinned lazily. Thats what the girls must say when you pull that thing out.

Like Brianna, you mean? Your girl? She aint had no chance to look at it, cause I was waxin her from behind. She felt it, though. Made her forget all about you, too. I mean, when I was done hittin it she couldnt even remember your name.

She couldnt remember hers either, drunk as she had to be to fuck a sad motherfucker like you. Little laughed some as he struck a match and held it to the end of the cigar.

Im talkin about this gun, fool. Potter held up the Colt so Little, firing up the blunt, could see it.

Yeah, okay. Whered you get it at, man?

Traded it to this boy for half an OZ. Was one of those project guns, hadnt even been fired but once or twice. Short barrel, only two inches long, youd think it couldnt do shit. But this here is a three fifty-seven. They call it a carry revolver, cause you can carry this shit without no one knowin you strapped. I dont need no long barrel, anyway. I like to work close in.

Ill stick with my nine. You dont even know if that shits works.

It works. Yours jams, dont be askin me for mines.

Potter was tall, light skinned, flat of stomach and chest, with thin, ropy forearms and biceps. He kept his hair shaved close to the scalp, with a small slash mark by way of a part. His irises were dark brown and filled his eyes; his nose was a white boys nose, thin and aquiline. He was quick to smile. It was a smile that could be engaging when he wanted it to be, but more often than not it inspired fear.

Little was not so tall. He was bulked in the shoulders and arms, but twiggish in the legs. A set of weights had given him the show muscles upstairs, but his legs, which he never worked on, betrayed the skinny, malnourished boy he used to be. He wore his hair braided in cornrows and kept a careless, weedy thatch of hair on his chin.

Both wore carpenter jeans and button-down, short-sleeve plaid Nautica shirts over wife-beater Ts. Potters shoes were whatever was newest in the window of the Foot Locker up at City Place; he had a pair of blue-and-black Air Maxes on now. On Littles feet were wheat-colored Timberland work boots, loosely laced and untied.

Little held a long draw in his lungs and looked ahead, exhaling a cloud of smoke that crashed at the windshield. Here comes Coon. Lookit how hes all chest out and shit. Proud about that dog.

Charles White was walking his pit bull, Trooper, past a dying oak tree, its leaves nearly stripped bare. A tire hung on a chain from one of the branches. When he was a puppy, Trooper had swung on the tire for hours, holding it fast, strengthening his jaws.

That aint no game dog, said Potter. Coon aint no dog man, neither.

White had Trooper, brown with a white mask and golden-pink eyes, on a short leash attached to a heavy-ringed, wide leather collar. Troopers ears were game-cropped at the skull. White, of average size and dressed similarly to his friends, moved toward the car, opened the back door, and let the dog in before getting inside himself.

Sup, fellas, said White.

Coon, said Little, looking over the bench at his friend. Others thought Whites street name had something to do with his color, dark as he was. But Little knew where the name had come from. Hed been knowing Coon since they were both kids in the Section Eights, back in the early nineties, when White used to wear a coonskin hat, trying to look like that fool rapper from Digital Underground, that group that was popular then. There was the other thing, too: White had a nose on him, big and long like some cartoon animal. And he walked kind of pitched forward, with his bony fingers spread kind of like claws, the way a critter in the woods would do.

Gimme some of that hydro, Dirty.

Dirty was Littles street name, so given because of his fondness for discussing womens privates. Mens, too. Also, he loved to eat all that greasy fast food. Little passed the blunt back to White. White hit it deep.

Your champion ready? said Potter.

What? said White.

It was hard to hear in the car. Potter had the music, the new DMX joint on PGC, turned up loud.

I said, is that dumb animal gonna win us some money today? said Potter, raising his voice.

White didnt answer right away. He held the smoke down in his lungs and let it out slow.

He gonna win us mad money, D, said White. He reached over and massaged the dense muscles bunched around Troopers jaw. Troopers mouth opened in pleasure and his eyes shifted over to his masters. Right, boy?

Sure hes strong enough?

Shoot, he was strong enough to drag a log down the block yesterday mornin.

I aint ask you can he do circus tricks. Can he hold his shit in a fight?

He will.

Well, he aint showed me nothin yet.

What about that snatch we did with that boys dog over on Crittenden?

Potter looked in the rearview at White. That dog at Crittenden wasnt nothin but a cur. Trooper a cur, too.

The hell he is. Youre gonna see today.

We better see. Cause I aint wastin my time or my green paper on no pussy-ass animal. Potter slid the Colt under the waistband of his jeans.

I said, youre gonna see.

Cmon, D, said Little. Lets get a roll on, man.

Garfield Potters street name was Death. He didnt care for it much since this girl he wanted to fuck told him it scared her some. Never did get that girls drawers down, either. So he felt the name was bad luck, worse still to go and change it. His friends now called him D.

Potter turned the key in the ignition. It made an awful grinding sound. Little clapped his hands together and doubled over with laughter.

Ho, shit! said Little, clapping his hands one more time. Cars already started, man, you dont need to be startin it again! Maybe if you turned that music down some youd know.

Noisy as this whip is, too, said White.

Fuck you, Coon, said Potter, talkin mad shit about this car, when youre cruisin around town in that piece-of-shit Toyota, lookin like a Spanish Cadillac and shit.

All this money we got, said Little, and were drivin around in a hooptie.

Well be gettin rid of it soon, said Potter. And anyway, it aint all that funny as yall are makin it out to be.

Yeah, you right. It just hit me funny, is all. Little took the blunt that White handed to him over the front seat and stared at it stupidly. I aint lyin, boy, this chronic right here just laid my ass out.

THE dogfights were held in a large garage backing to an alley behind a house on Ogelthorpe, in Manor Park in Northwest. The fights went down once a week for several hours during the day, when most of the neighbors were off at work. Those neighbors who were at home were afraid of the young men who came to the fights, and did not complain to the police.