D.C. Noir Read online

  ALSO IN THE AKASHIC NOIR SERIES:

  Dublin Noir, edited by Ken Bruen

  Brooklyn Noir, edited by Tim McLoughlin

  Brooklyn Noir 2: The Classics, edited by Tim McLoughlin

  Chicago Noir, edited by Neal Pollack

  San Francisco Noir, edited by Peter Maravelis

  FORTHCOMING:

  Manhattan Noir, edited by Lawrence Block

  Baltimore Noir, edited by Laura Lippman

  Twin Cities Noir, edited by Julie Schaper & Steven Horwitz

  Los Angeles Noir, edited by Denise Hamilton

  London Noir, edited by Cathi Unsworth

  Miami Noir, edited by Les Standiford

  Havana Noir, edited by Achy Obejas

  Lone Star Noir, edited by Edward Nawotka

  Wall Street Noir, edited by Peter Spiegelman

  This collection is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Series concept by Tim McLoughlin and Johnny Temple

  D.C. map by Sohrab Habibion

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2006 George Pelecanos

  ePub ISBN-13: 978-1-936-07025-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-888451-90-0

  ISBN-10: 1-888451-90-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2005925467

  All rights reserved

  First printing

  Printed in Canada

  Akashic Books

  PO Box 1456

  New York, NY 10009

  [email protected]

  www.akashicbooks.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Introduction

  PART I: D.C. UNCOVERED

  GEORGE PELECANOS Park View, N.W.

  The Confidential Informant

  KENJI JASPER Benning Heights, S.E

  First

  JIM PATTON Chinatown, N.W.

  Capital of the World

  RICHARD CURREY Shepherd Park, N.W.

  The Names of the Lost

  PART II: STREETS & ALLEYS

  JENNIFER HOWARD Hill East, S.E

  East of the Sun

  ROBERT ANDREWS Georgetown, N.W.

  Solomon’s Alley

  ROBERT WISDOM Petworth, N.W.

  The Light and the Dark

  LAURA LIPPMAN Chevy Chase, N.W.

  A.R.M. and The Woman

  PART III: COPS & ROBBERS

  QUINTIN PETERSON Congress Heights, S.E/S.W.

  Cold as Ice

  LESTER IRBY Edgewood, N.E.

  God Don’t Like Ugly

  RUBEN CASTANEDA Mount Pleasant, N.W.

  Coyote Hunt

  JIM BEANE Deanwood, N.E

  Jeanette

  PART IV: THE HILL & THE EDGE

  JAMES GRADY Capitol Hill, N.E/S.E.

  The Bottom Line

  DAVID SLATER Thomas Circle, N.W.

  Stiffed

  NORMAN KELLEY Cardozo, N.W.

  The Messanger of Soulsville

  JIM FUSILLI K Street, N.W.

  The Dupe

  About The Contributors

  INTRODUCTION

  NOTES ON D.C. NOIR

  Recently, on the way to a witness interview on the 1600 block of W Street, S.E. with detectives from Washington, D.C.’s MPD Violent Crimes Branch, I passed through the low-rise, government-assisted dwellings off Langston Place in Ward 7. There, in a dirt and concrete courtyard patched with the last of winter’s snow, was a make-shift memorial of sorts to a teenaged murder victim who had allegedly been in the life himself. Grouped around a steel pole were various forms of stuffed animals, teddy bears and the like, along with plastic flowers and some balloons, long depleted of their helium, lying on the ground. The site contained no R.I.P. tags or name identifications of any kind. It’s what’s known as a “tribute” in this part of town.

  That night, in the comfort of my home, I sat down to read the Washington Post. The above-the-fold story on the front page of the Style section, which jumped inside and took up many column inches, concerned an author from wealthy, mostly-white Ward 3, who had written a book about the anxiety of today’s Washington woman, who has to deal with “soul-draining perfectionism,” shuttling kids to soccer matches, nighttime Girl Scout cookie meetings, and finding the right art camp and piano teacher for her kids. Buried in the Metro section of that same newspaper were the latest crime fatalities, all occurring far away from those houses on the high ground of Cleveland Park and Chevy Chase. The victims, many unnamed, all young, got two paragraphs of space inside the section.

  By now you may think you know where this is going. But the truth is, it’s just an anecdote that describes “that thing” D.C.-area residents live with every day. The reason so much space was devoted to the article about “today’s Washington woman” was because it would be read by a large number of Washingtonians, who could relate. Yet just as many read the Crime and Justice capsule inside Metro, because they might have heard the gunshots outside their doors, or they might have known the victims or the shooters, or both, when they were children. Yes, this city is polarized, but that’s a too-easy observation, and it denies the District’s complexity as a whole. In fact, it would be inaccurate to repeat the notion that there are two D.C.’s.

  Here’s another myth debunked: This is not a transient city, as it is often ludicrously described. A very small percentage of the population comes and goes every four-to-eight years, blowing in and out of town with whatever presidential administration sets up temporary camp. The vast majority of the citizens, many who came up from the South, have lived here for generations. Others came and still come from overseas, or emigrated from other states, chasing opportunity and riding the great prosperity boom/hiring rush of the post—World War II years. Many arrived with a desire to be a part of early-’60s Camelot.

  I imagine they stayed because they liked it. There are easier places to live, but few as interesting. Nowhere in this country is the race, class, and culture divide more obvious than it is in Washington, D.C. And the conflict does not bubble below the surface—this American experiment is disected and discussed, in-your-face style, every day.

  Other things: The citizens of Washington have no vote or meaningful representation in the House or the Senate of the U.S. Congress. No taxation without representation, except for the citizens of the nation’s capital. The federal government controls the purse strings here, and the policymakers dole out the money according to their own motives. Since there is no vote to massage, politicians and presidents have historically ignored the neediest people of this city, as there’s little upside to reaching out. Walk into any public high school in the District, take a look around, and see a stark illustration of an absolute failure of governance.

  That the kids always suffer is nothing less than a national disgrace. But the communities, realizing that the financial gatekeepers have turned a blind eye toward their children, have dug deep and looked in their own backyards for solutions. Coaches, teachers, big brothers and sisters, mentors, church groups, and other volunteers are the real heroes of this city, and have stepped up in a big way to impact the lives of our young men and women. Still, there is a great deal of bitterness on the part of Washingtonians toward the federal government.

  So don’t expect all the locals to get misty-eyed over monuments, inauguration balls, or care about the society sightings inside Style. What might get them emotional is the sight of someone who shares their memories. The ones who remember Riggo breaking that tackle in ’83, Len Bias’s jersey number, Phil Chenier’s baseline jumper, Frank Howard’s swing, or Doug Williams throwing downfield like God was talking in his ear. The ones who
saw Aretha as a child performing with her father onstage at the Howard, or Sinatra at the Watergate barge, or Trouble Funk at the old 9:30, or Hendrix at the Ambassador, or Bruce at the Childe Harold. The ones who play Frankie Beverly or EWF at Sunday picnics in Rock Creek Park. The ones who have Backyard Band, Minor Threat, Chuck Brown, William DeVaughn, Shirley Horn, and Bad Brains in their record collections. The ones who know that Elgin Baylor came out of Spingarn, or that Adrian Dantley and Brian Westbrook were DeMatha Stags. The ones who hear the voice of Bobby “The Mighty Burner” Bennett on the radio and can’t help but grin. The ones who bleed Burgundy and Gold. The ones who will claim that they know your distant cousin, or tell you they like the looks of your car, or, if it needs to be replaced, mention that it’s a hooptie. Or the woman at the Safeway who hands you your receipt and tells you to “have a blessed day.” Or the matriarch on your street with the prunish, beautiful face who raised six sons and now lords over a house holding many of their children.

  It’s about the collective memories of the locals, and also about the voices. If you close your eyes and listen to the people of this city, you will hear the many different voices, and if you’ve lived here long enough, the cadences and rhythms, the familiarity of it, the feeling that you are home, will make you smile.

  This is a collection of short stories that, in the context of crime/noir fiction, attempts to capture those voices. Why crime fiction? It involves a high degree of conflict, which drives most good fiction. It also allows us to explore social issues and the strengths and frailties of humanity that are a part of our everyday lives here.

  In the interest of inclusion, we have tried to explore every quadrant of the city and many of the neighborhoods within them, and have not forgotten the federal city and downtown. We have enlisted the well-known and the someday-will-be. The writers include lifelong Washingtonians, imports and exports, a gentleman who is currently incarcerated, a police officer, an actor, bloggers, journalists, blacks, whites, Hispanics, males and females, and yeah, even a Greek American.

  With pride, and always with hope and anticipation, here’s a look at our D.C.

  George Pelecanos

  Washington, D.C.

  November 2005

  PART I

  D.C. Uncovered

  THE CONFIDENTIAL INFORMANT

  BY GEORGE PELECANOS

  Park View, N.W.

  I was in the waiting area of the Veteran’s Hospital emergency room off North Capitol Street, seeing to my father, when Detective Tony Barnes hit me back on my cell. My father had laid his head down on the crossbar of his walker, and it was going to be awhile before someone came and called his name. I walked the phone outside and lit myself a smoke.

  “What’s goin’ on, Verdon?” said Barnes.

  “Need to talk to you about Rico Jennings.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not on the phone.” I wasn’t about to give Barnes no information without feeling some of his cash money in my hand.

  “When can I see you?”

  “My pops took ill. I’m still dealin’ with that, so…make it 9:00. You know where.”

  Barnes cut the line. I smoked my cigarette down to the filter and went back inside.

  My father was moaning when I took a seat beside him. Goddamn this and goddamn that, saying it under his breath. We’d been out here for a few hours. A girl with a high ass moving inside purple drawstring pants took our information when we came in, and later a Korean nurse got my father’s vitals in what she called the triage room, asking questions about his history and was there blood in his stool and stuff like that. But we had not seen a doctor yet.

  Most of the men in the waiting room were in their fifties and above. A couple had walkers and many had canes; one dude had an oxygen tank beside him with a clear hose running up under his nose. Every single one of them was wearing some kinda lid. It was cold out, but it was a style thing, too.

  Everyone looked uncomfortable and no one working in the hospital seemed to be in a hurry to do something about it. The security guards gave you a good eye-fuck when you came through the doors, which kinda told you straight off what the experience was going to be like inside. I tried to go down to the cafeteria to get something to eat, but nothing they had was appealing, and some of it looked damn near dirty. I been in white people’s hospitals, like Sibley, on the high side of town, and I know they don’t treat those people the way they was treating these veterans. I’m saying, this shit here was a damn disgrace.

  But they did take my father eventually.

  In the emergency room, a white nurse named Matthew, redheaded dude with Popeye forearms, hooked him up to one of those heart machines, then found a vein in my father’s and took three vials of blood. Pops had complained about being “woozy” that morning. He gets fearful since his stroke, which paralyzed him on one side. His mind is okay, but he can’t go nowhere without his walker, not even to the bathroom.

  I looked at him lying there in the bed, his wide shoulders and the hardness of his hands. Even at sixty, even after his stroke, he is stronger than me. I know I will never feel like his equal. What with him being a Vietnam veteran, and a dude who had a reputation for taking no man’s shit in the street. And me…well, me being me.

  “The doctor’s going to have a look at your blood, Leon,” said Matthew. I guess he didn’t know that in our neighborhood my father would be called “Mr. Leon” or “Mr. Coates” by someone younger than him. As Matthew walked away, he began to sing a church hymn.

  My father rolled his eyes.

  “Bet you’d rather have that Korean girl taking care of you, Pops,” I said, with a conspiring smile.

  “That gal’s from the Philippines,” said my father, sourly. Always correcting me and shit.

  “Whateva.”

  My father complained about everything for the next hour. I listened to him, and the junkie veteran in the next stall over who was begging for something to take away his pain, and the gags of another dude who was getting a stomach tube forced down his throat. Then an Indian doctor, name of Singh, pulled the curtain back and walked into our stall. He told my father that there was nothing in his blood or on the EKG to indicate that there was cause for alarm.

  “So all this bullshit was for nothin’?” said my father, like he was disappointed he wasn’t sick.

  “Go home and get some rest,” said Dr. Singh, in a cheerful way. He smelled like one them restaurants they got, but he was all right.

  Matthew returned, got my father dressed back into his streetclothes, and filled out the discharge forms.

  “The Lord loves you, Leon,” said Matthew, before he went off to attend to someone else.

  “Get me out this motherfucker,” said my father. I fetched a wheelchair from where they had them by the front desk.

  I drove my father’s Buick to his house, on the 700 block of Quebec Street, not too far from the hospital, in Park View. It took awhile to get him up the steps of his row house. By the time he stepped onto the brick-and-concrete porch, he was gasping for breath. He didn’t go out much anymore, and this was why.

  Inside, my mother, Martina Coates, got him situated in his own wheelchair, positioned in front of his television set, where he sits most of his waking hours. She waits on him all day and sleeps lightly at night in case he falls out of his bed. She gives him showers and even washes his ass. My mother is a church woman who believes that her reward will come in heaven. It’s ’cause of her that I’m still allowed to live in my father’s house.

  The television was real loud, the way he likes to play it since his stroke. He watches them old games on that replay show on ESPN.

  “Franco Harris!” I shouted, pointing at the screen. “Boy beast.”

  My father didn’t even turn his head. I would have watched some of that old Steelers game with him if he had asked me to, but he didn’t, so I went upstairs to my room.

  It is my older brother’s room as well. James’s bed is on the opposite wall and his basketball and football t
rophies, from when he was a kid all the way through high school, are still on his dresser. He made good after Howard Law, real good, matter of fact. He lives over there in Crestwood, west of 16th, with his pretty redbone wife and their two light-skinned kids. He doesn’t come around this neighborhood all that much, though it ain’t but fifteen minutes away. He wouldn’t have drove my father over to the VA Hospital, either, or waited around in that place all day. He would have said he was too busy, that he couldn’t get out “the firm” that day. Still, my father brags on James to all his friends. He got no cause to brag on me.

  I changed into some warm shit, and put my smokes and matches into my coat. I left my cell in my bedroom, as it needed to be charged. When I got downstairs, my mother asked me where I was going.

  “I got a little side thing I’m workin’ on,” I said, loud enough for my father to hear.

  My father kinda snorted and chuckled under his breath. He might as well had gone ahead and said, Bullshit, but he didn’t need to. I wanted to tell him more, but that would be wrong. If my thing was to be uncovered, I wouldn’t want nobody coming back on my parents.

  I zipped my coat and left out the house.

  It had begun to snow some. Flurries swirled in the cones of light coming down from the streetlamps. I walked down to Giant Liquors on Georgia and bought a pint of Popov, and hit the vodka as I walked back up Quebec. I crossed Warder Street, and kept on toward Park Lane. The houses got a little nicer here as the view improved. Across Park were the grounds of the Soldier’s Home, bordered by a black iron, spear-topped fence. It was dark out, and the clouds were blocking any kinda moonlight, but I knew what was over there by heart. I had cane-pole fished that lake many times as a kid, and chased them geese they had in there, too. Now they had three rows of barbed wire strung out over them spear-tops, to keep out the kids and the young men who liked to lay their girlfriends out straight on that soft grass.

  Me and Sondra used to hop that fence some evenings, the summer before I dropped out of Roosevelt High. I’d bring some weed, a bottle of screw-top wine, and my Walkman and we’d go down to the other side of that lake and chill. I’d let her listen to the headphones while I hit my smoke. I had made mix-tapes off my records, stuff she was into, like Bobby Brown and Tone-Loc. I’d tell her about the cars I was gonna be driving, and the custom suits I’d be wearing, soon as I got a good job. How I didn’t need no high school diploma to get those things or to prove how smart I was. She looked at me like she believed it. Sondra had some pretty brown eyes.