Drama City

by George Pelecanos

  “Okay, Mr. Lorenzo. Bye, Jazz Man.”

  He watched them walk up the street. When he saw them reach the school grounds, he moved on.

  At the park, near the baseball diamond, Lorenzo stamped his feet against the cold while Jasmine defecated in the grass. He slipped his hand inside the plastic bag, made a glove of it, and picked up her steaming feces. He turned the bag inside out and tied it off. A couple of teenage boys, school age but not in school, walked across the field and chuckled at him, standing there wearing a uniform and holding a bag of shit, as they passed.

  Go ahead and laugh, thought Lorenzo. I don’t care.

  LORENZO DROVE SLOWLY down Morton Place. He was going to pick up a cat on a spay call at the Park Morton apartments before heading up to the office. Gray snow, the remnants of the previous week’s storm, was patched along the curbs. Touts and runners, boys in their midteens, stood on corners, doing their dirt. They wore long white T-shirts under their parkas and down coats. Some had bandannas tied around their necks or legs. All worked for Deacon Taylor.

  Within days of Nigel Johnson’s murder, the majority of the drug business in the southern portion of Park View had gone over to Deacon Taylor. It was said that this had been his ambition all along. In the transfer of power, Deacon had absorbed most of Nigel’s people. Among them was Lawrence Graham.

  The police had quickly triangulated the murders of DeEric Green and Michael Butler, the murders at 46th and Hayes, and the assault on Rachel Lopez. Rico Miller’s prints, left at Melvin Lee’s apartment, were matched to the prints on the shoe box full of money found in his house. The shoe box carried the prints of Green and Butler as well. Also, police had the murder guns and the knife used in the assault. What police did not have was a lead in the killing of Nigel Johnson. They had forensic evidence but no witnesses or anyone who would talk.

  The breakthrough came, as they usually did, through information triggered by an arrest in an unrelated crime. A Columbia Heights resident, Jason Willis, was picked up for heroin distribution and, as was procedure, asked if he knew of any recent murders in the area that he would be willing to “clean up” for police in exchange for a consideration come sentencing time. Williams, facing his third felony conviction, claimed that he had personal knowledge of a murder committed in August by a young man named Marcus Griffin, an enforcer for Deacon Taylor. Griffin had bragged on the murder to Williams one night when they were sharing some weed. Griffin was promptly arrested and charged. In his apartment, police found the murder weapon, a Desert Eagle .357 Magnum with a bright nickel finish. In the box, Griffin confessed to the killing of Nigel Johnson. The markings on the slug removed from Johnson were deemed to match the .357. When asked why he had not disposed of the weapon earlier, Griffin explained that he could not bear to part with such a “pretty gun.”

  In exchange for detailed testimony against Deacon Taylor, who Griffin said had ordered the hit, Griffin would get a ride in the Witness Security program. Griffin was currently in custody in a low-numbered cell in the Correctional Treatment Facility, a privately run unit near the D.C. Jail. The CTF, otherwise known as the Snitch Hive, housed government witnesses and informants. Griff would be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. As for police and prosecutors, they would finally get their shot at Deacon Taylor, whom they had been after for some time.

  So Deacon, it seemed, might soon be done. But as Lorenzo drove down Morton, it looked as if nothing had changed. Deacon’s troops were still out there, working his corners. And if they were to go away, there would always be other young men to replace the Marcus Griffins, Lawrence Grahams, Nigel Johnsons, and Deacon Taylors. Lorenzo understood why boys went down to the corners; he had been one of them, and he knew. Still, the knowledge didn’t lessen the bitterness he felt.

  Lorenzo picked up the cat, a Persian, from a woman in Park Morton and drove north. Going up Georgia Avenue, he saw single mothers moving their children along the sidewalks, young girls showing off their bodies, church women, men who went to work each day, men who did nothing at all, studious kids who were going to make it, stoop kids on the edge, kids already in the life, a man smoking a cigarette in the doorway of his barbershop, and the private detective with the big shoulders talking to a white dude on the sidewalk in front of his place, had the sign with the magnifying glass out front. It was a city of masks, the kind Nigel had said hung in theaters. Smiling faces and sad, and all kinds of faces in between.

  “THAT’S IT,” said Lorenzo Brown. He reached out and turned down the volume of the CD player in the dash. “Can’t take it anymore.”

  “I was listening to that,” said Mark Christianson, behind the wheel of the Tahoe.

  “Said I can’t take it.”

  “That’s the New York Dolls.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the Yankees and the Knicks, I do not want to hear it. Man’s got a personality crisis, he needs to keep it to his self.”

  They drove slowly down the alley behind 35th Street in Northeast. They passed houses with deep backyards, once lush with vegetable and flower gardens, now only showing the muted shades of winter.

  “Where is it?” said Mark.

  “Where those cars are at, up ahead.”

  They came upon the house they were looking for. A restored Impala, a Mercedes coupe, a silver 3-Series BMW, and mounds of excrement, both dried and fresh, sat in its yard. Farther back, a black rottweiler stood on a concrete deck beside a pit-style grill constructed of brick. The male rot came forward, passing a freestanding garage, and stood at the fence. He looked at the truck and its occupants, and barked one time. Lorenzo rolled down his window and whistled softly.

  “You all right, Champ,” said Lorenzo, and the dog wiggled his rump.

  “Looks like he’s got entropia.”

  “And those scars on his ears are from flies. The owner never does clean the feces out his yard.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Calvin Duke. I spoke to him already. He still ain’t learned.”

  Mark took a couple of photographs, then backed out of the alley and drove around to the front of the house. He idled the Chevy on 35th Street as he wrote out the Official Notification form.

  “Irena says you haven’t been in to sit with her for a while,” said Mark, not looking at Lorenzo as he made notations on the warning.

  “She worried about me?”

  “She likes you, Lorenzo.”

  “I like her too. But I don’t feel the need to visit with her every day like I used to. I figure this work thing is gonna go on for a long time. I can’t be lookin’ for her to hold my hand forever.”

  “All I’m sayin’ is, you ever need to talk to us —”

  “Y’all are there,” said Lorenzo. “I know.”

  Mark put a long strand of black hair behind his ear and touched the handle of the door. “You coming along?”

  “I think I’ll hang out here. Last time we spoke, me and Duke didn’t see eye to eye.”

  Ten minutes later, Mark returned, tossing his clipboard into the backseat. “I’m ready for lunch.”

  “You go on,” said Lorenzo. “I got something else I need to do.”

  “I AIN’T NEVER gonna be cured of this sickness I got,” said a light-skinned man with big freckles dotting his nose. “But I feel better today than I did yesterday. And yesterday? I felt better than I did the day before. So thank you for letting me share.”

  “Thank you for sharing,” said the group.

  “Anyone else?” said the guest host, an addict who had lost it all and recovered three separate times.

  “My name is Shirley . . .” said the short young woman with the deep chocolate skin and almond eyes.

  “Hey, Shirley.”

  “. . . and I’m a substance abuser.”

  The meeting room, in the basement of the church on East Capitol, was full to capacity. The holidays were especially tough on addicts and alcoholics, not only because it was the season of temptation, but because of the painful memories of f
amilies betrayed and lost. The chairs of all four rows semicircling the scarred lectern where the host stood were occupied today.

  Rachel Lopez smiled hearing Shirley’s voice. In the same row, down toward the left side, sat Lorenzo Brown.

  “I saw my little girl today,” said Shirley. “She was going into her school, over there at Nalle Elementary. My grandmother was walking her in. My baby was wearing this pink quilted coat I bought for her and a matching backpack for her books and stuff. I had it all on layaway. I’d been payin’ on it for a while, and I got it out before Thanksgiving. She looked real pretty in that coat today.

  “I was standing behind this tree, the same tree I stand behind most mornings when I watch her go in. And she saw me there. Either she saw me or sensed me, I don’t know how. She stopped and said something to my grandmother, and my grandmother let go of her hand. My baby walked right over to where I was standin’. I’m not gonna lie, I was shaking. I didn’t know what to say. But she helped me out and said somethin’ first: ‘Thank you for my coat, Mama.’ I said, ‘You’re welcome, sweetheart,’ and she leaned forward then. I bent down, and she kissed me on my cheek, and I brought her in for a hug and smelled her hair. She smelled the way I remembered her. I was . . .”

  Shirley’s voice cracked. She lowered her head.

  “My little girl goes to Nalle,” said a woman in the last row, breaking the silence that had fallen in the room.

  Shirley wiped tears off her face. “This here is gonna be the best Christmas I had in a long time. I got a job over at that big dollar store over on H Street. It’s seasonal employment, and I ain’t doin’ nothin’ but cleanin’ the bathrooms they got, but still. God bless all of you. And thank you for letting me share.”

  “Thank you for sharing.”

  “My name is Sarge . . .” said the grizzled man with the dirty Redskins cap, seated near Shirley.

  “Hey, Sarge.”

  “. . . and I’m a straight-up addict. I had a funny thing happen to me the other night, thought y’all might appreciate. I got this efficiency down by the Shrimp Boat, has this little common patio on the back. I was out there, cooking a rib-eye steak on that hibachi I got.”

  “In the cold?” said a man.

  “You know that don’t stop me. I even had my music set up, this box I got plays cassettes and CDs. I was listening to this old song I like, by this boy out of Philly, singin’ on how he about to bust a nut ’cause he wants to get with this girl real bad, and he don’t have the control to put it off. ‘Love Won’t Let Me Wait,’ that’s the name of that song.”

  “Norman Conners,” said the same man.

  It’s Major Harris, thought Lorenzo. Nigel’s mother had the record.

  “It’s Major Harris,” said Sarge. “Not that it matters, but I’m tryin’ to paint the whole picture for you, and the details are important. Now, normally when I’m cookin’ out and listenin’ to a little music, I get the urge, you all know this. And I ain’t talkin’ about the urge for sexual companionship, case you think I am. I don’t try to get with females too much anymore. I just do ’em wrong anyway.”

  “Hmph,” said a man.

  “I ain’t sayin’ I don’t like females,” said Sarge.

  “You gonna tell your story?” said Shirley.

  “I already did,” said Sarge, “in my roundabout way. I’m sayin’, I didn’t get the urge to get high that night, the way I usually do when I cook on the grill. And I guess what I’m really tryin’ to say is, well, you know I been critical sometimes, bringin’ negativity up in these meetings. But this shit here . . . this works. Anyway, it’s workin’ some for me.”

  “’Bout time,” said a man, followed by some easy laughter from the group. Even Sarge cracked a smile.

  “I ain’t done.” Sarge cleared his throat. “There’s been this one friend I made here, in particular, who helped me out. . . .” Sarge’s eyes cut toward Shirley for a brief moment. He tightened his cap on his graying head. “I just want to thank that special friend. And all a y’all, matter of fact. Thank you for letting me share.”

  “Thank you for sharing.”

  “Would anyone else like to say something?” said the host.

  “My name is Rachel Lopez . . .”

  “Hey, Rachel.”

  “. . . and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for three months and nineteen days.”

  The group applauded. Lorenzo closed his eyes. He prayed for his daughter, and for Rayne and little Lakeisha, whom he had grown to love like his own.

  “. . . I thought my drinking gave me power. I thought that in bars, at night, I could do what I hadn’t been able to do with my parents or my offenders. That I could exercise some kind of control. I had to hit bottom to see that I was all wrong. I had no power. I was just a drunk, and I was alone.”

  Lorenzo said a prayer for all the people who had looked after him and were looking after him still: Mark Christianson and Irena Tovar, his grandmother, and Miss Lopez.

  “. . . I’m dating a man, a police officer. I don’t know where it’s going, but it’s good today. And that’s what I’m focusing on now: today.”

  Lorenzo said a special prayer for the soul of Nigel. When he was done, he opened his eyes.

  “. . . so thank you for letting me share,” said Rachel Lopez.

  “Thank you for sharing.”

  The basket was passed around the room, and then the group gathered in a large circle. Lorenzo stood beside Rachel, her hand on his shoulder, his on hers. The group recited the Serenity Prayer, and then the Lord’s Prayer, and said “Amen.”

  “Narcotics Anonymous,” said the guest host.

  “It works if you work it.”

  OUTSIDE THE CHURCH, the group dispersed quickly, as the weather did not encourage loitering or idle conversation. Some got into cars with their friends and sponsors or walked toward their residences or places of employment. Others gathered in the Plexiglas bus shelter on East Capitol, out of the wind.

  Rachel and Lorenzo stood on the edge of the parking lot as Rachel found a cigarette, lit a match, and cupped her hands around the flame. Mark Christianson had pulled the Tahoe into the lot and was waiting. They could hear muffled barking sounds coming from inside the truck. It sounded like more than one dog.

  “That you?” said Rachel.

  “Yeah. My partner was supposed to go to lunch. He must have made an unscheduled stop instead.”

  From the driver’s-side window, Mark smiled at Lorenzo, then made woof actions with his mouth and wiggled his eyebrows.

  “He looks nice,” said Rachel.

  “He’s odd,” said Lorenzo. “But I guess he’s all right.”

  Lorenzo looked her over as she smoked. A shock of gray had come into her hair, a thick streak against the black. It had appeared soon after the assault. There was a horizontal scar, a thin razor line on one of her cheeks, and a large circular scar, like a heat scorch, in the palm of one hand. That hand had yet to recover its full dexterity. The largest scars were on her chest. The stitch marks were prominent and would be there for the rest of her life. He could see part of them now, pink and raised, coming from the V-neck of her sweater beneath her open coat. She looked small. She looked like she had aged ten years.

  “You ought to quit them cigarettes,” said Lorenzo.

  “Hard to quit everything at once,” said Rachel.

  Shirley and Sarge, walking together, emerged from the church and came toward them. Sarge kept on without a greeting. Shirley stopped to say hello.

  “Can I get a Marlboro, Rachel?” said Shirley.

  Rachel shook one from the deck. Shirley put it behind her ear and accepted Rachel’s matchbook, gotten at a convenience store, as well.

  “You comin’?” said Sarge, calling to Shirley from the sidewalk.

  Shirley smiled at Rachel and Lorenzo. “Y’all have a blessed day.”

  “You also,” said Rachel.

  Shirley joined Sarge. The two of them walked down the street.

  “I got cal
ls to make,” said Lorenzo.

  “So do I,” said Rachel. “You been to the clinic lately?”

  “I been meanin’ to.”

  “You need to get over there and drop a urine.”

  “You know I’ll be droppin’ negative too.”

  “No doubt.”

  She looked into his eyes. Both of them smiled.

  “All right, then, Miss Lopez,” said Lorenzo, touching the sleeve of her coat. “Let me get on out of here and see what my partner’s got in that truck.”

  “Stay on it, Lorenzo.”

  “I plan to.”

  Lorenzo went to his vehicle; Rachel went to hers. There was light left in the day, and work to do.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Adam Parascandola, Mitch Battle, and Rosemary Vozobule of the Washington Humane Society for their valuable assistance, and for all their good work. Likewise, my thanks go out to the police, probation officers, ex-offenders, and members of Narcotics Anonymous in Baltimore and Washington, D.C., who allowed me to look into the world that would shape the foundation of Drama City. Shout-outs to Reagan Arthur, Sloan Harris, Alicia Gordon, Michael Pietsch, Heather Rizzo, Tracy Williams, and Betsy Uhrig, who were among the many people who helped make this happen. And: Emily, Nick, Pete, and Rosa. Remember: “D.C. Don’t Stand for Dodge City.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  George Pelecanos is a screenwriter, an independent-film producer, and award-winning journalist, a producer on the HBO hit series The Wire, and the author of a best-selling series of novels set in and around Washington, D.C., where he lives with his wife and children.