Hell To Pay

by George Pelecanos

  “I’m tired.”

  “I’m tired, too. Tired of you talkin’ about bein’ tired and not earnin’ shit. Now go on out there and market that pussy, girl.”

  “My feet hurt, World.”

  “C’mere.” Carola leaned forward to let Wilson stroke her cheek. “You my bottom baby. You know this, right?”

  “I know it, World.”

  Wilson’s eyes dimmed. “Then don’t make me get out this car and take a hand to your motherfuckin’ ass.”

  Carola stood straight and backed up a step. “I’m goin’.”

  “Good, baby.” Wilson smiled, showing a row of gold caps. “I’ll give you a foot massage later on, hear?”

  But Carola was already off, walking down the block, Wilson thinking, Glad I got me that degree in pimpology. All you had to do was use a little psychiatry on these bitches, worked every time.

  He cut the engine on the Mercedes and untangled his frame from the car. Big man like he was, it was a struggle to get out of these foreign rides. But his time in Berlin had given him a permanent love for German automobiles, and, though they were more roomy, he never had liked the way Cadillacs and Lincolns drove.

  He stood beside his car, smoothed out the leather on his coat, and adjusted his hat. Before he closed the door of the Mercedes, he put one foot up on the rocker panel, then the other, and buffed the vamps of his alligator shoes with the palm of his hand. What was the point of spending five hundred dollars on a pair of gators if they didn’t have a nice shine? He closed the door and stood straight.

  Now he’d have to see what Carola was talkin’ about. See what some white boy was doin’ wandering around in his house without a woman he’d paid to fuck.

  “OH, shit,” said Stella, leaning forward, blinking hard behind her glasses. “There go World.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s his ride right there, the blue Mercedes. He’s talkin’ to Carola, up in the window there.”

  Sue Tracy watched the girl step away from the tricked-out car and walk off down the block. Then she watched Worldwide Wilson get out of his car. He wore a full-length leather coat with tooled-out skin, and a hat with a matching tooled band. Wilson stood tall, a good six three, his shoulders filling out the soft cut of the coat. He had the walk of a big cat.

  Tracy keyed the mic on the radio in her hand. There was no response.

  Wilson walked up the row house steps. He pulled on the front door and moved fluidly through the space. The door closed behind him, and he disappeared into the house.

  She tried the radio again and tossed it on the seat beside her.

  “Shit, Terry.”

  “What?” said Stella.

  Tracy didn’t answer. She ignitioned the van and slammed the tree up into first. She drove to the corner and cut a hard left.

  QUINN’S hand came off the shaky wooden banister as he stepped up onto the second-floor landing. The banister continued down a straight, narrow hall. The doors to the rooms, all closed and topped with frosted-glass transoms, were situated opposite the banister. Television cable ran from one room to the other in the hall, going transom to transom. Quinn heard no activity on the second floor. He took the hall to the next set of stairs.

  Sounds from above grew louder as he ascended the stairs. It was the sound of furniture moving on a hard floor. Talk from a radio and the human bass of a man’s voice and the unformed voice of a young girl.

  Up on the landing, Quinn checked the sash window at the back of the house. It was open a crack, and he lifted it further and looked down through the mesh of the fire escape to the alley below. The alley was unlit, unblocked, and looked to be passable by car.

  Quinn went to the first door, marked 3C in tacked-on letters broken off in spots. From behind the door came the talk radio and the man-girl sounds and the sound of bedsprings. The knob in his hand turned freely, and Quinn pushed on the door and walked inside.

  A fat middle-aged black guy was on top of Jennifer Marshall on the bed. His fat ass and his fat sides jiggled as he pumped at her, and Quinn was on him just as he turned his head. He pulled him back by the shoulders and then pushed him roughly against the wall that abutted the bed. The man’s head, bald on top and patched with black sides, made a hollow sound as it hit the wall.

  Quinn speed-scanned the room: high ceilings and chipped plaster walls. A bed and a nightstand that held a lamp and a radio, with a bathroom coming off the room. Clothing lay in a pile beside the bed.

  Jennifer had removed her skirt and panties only. She sat up against the headboard, her legs still spread. Her sex was pink and sparsely tufted with reddish brown hair. Quinn looked away.

  “Get your clothes on,” said Quinn to the man, “and get your ass out of here, now.”

  The man, naked except for a pair of brown socks, didn’t move. His face was still, and his swollen penis, sheathed in a condom, was frozen in place.

  “I told you to get going.”

  “What the fuck’s goin’ on?” said Jennifer.

  Quinn picked up Jennifer’s skirt and panties and tossed them before her on the bed. “Put ’em on.” And to the man he said, “Move.”

  The man began to dress. Jennifer slipped on her panties and got off the bed, her skirt in her hands. She was thin of wrist, with skinny legs. Up close the heavy makeup could not conceal her age. She looked like a child who had gotten into her mother’s things.

  “Hurry up,” said Quinn.

  “Who are you?” said Jennifer.

  “I’m an investigator,” said Quinn. “D.C.”

  The door opened. Worldwide Wilson stepped into the room.

  “An investigator, huh?” Wilson’s gold-capped smile spread wide. “You won’t mind then, motherfucker, if I have a look at your badge.”

  SUE Tracy pulled the van alongside the back of the building. Eyes glowed beneath a Dumpster, frozen in the fan of the headlights. As Tracy cut the engine and the headlights the alley went black. She let herself adjust to the sudden change of light. Lines of architecture began to take shape. A rat, then another, scampered across the alley in front of the van.

  Residual light bled out from the curtained windows of a sleeper porch on the second floor and a window topping the fire escape on the third.

  “That’s it, right?”

  Stella managed to get her head close to Tracy’s window and look up. “I guess it is.”

  Tracy took a wad of cash from her briefcase and stuffed it into the pocket of her slacks. “Wait here.”

  “You’re not gonna leave me, are you?”

  “I’ll be right back,” said Tracy.

  “Don’t leave me here in the dark,” said Stella.

  “You jet, you don’t get your money. Just remember that.”

  Tracy stepped out of the van and carefully pushed on the driver’s-side door. It closed with a soft click.

  WILSON reached behind him, not turning his head, and closed the bedroom door. It barely made it to the frame. The man on the bed averted his eyes. He struggled from the sitting position to put on his pants. Some change slipped from the trouser pockets and dropped to the sheets. Quinn kept his posture straight and his eyes on Wilson’s.

  “I didn’t do nothin’, World,” said Jennifer.

  Wilson took a few steps into the room, one hand in his leather, stopping several feet shy of Quinn. He looked down on Quinn and he looked him over and smiled.

  “So what you doin’ in here, man?”

  Quinn didn’t answer.

  “You ain’t datin’,” said Wilson, his voice smooth and baritone.

  Quinn said nothing.

  “What’sa matter, white boy? Ain’t you got no tongue?”

  “I came for the girl,” said Quinn.

  “You must be…” Wilson snapped the fingers of his free hand. “Terry Quinn. Am I right?”

  Quinn nodded slowly.

  The room was suddenly small. There was no window, and Quinn knew he’d never make it to the door. Wilson was a big man, but his fluid movemen
t suggested he would be unencumbered by his size. The only way to bring him down, Quinn reasoned, was to hit him low and wrap him up. It was what he always told the kids. Quinn edged one foot forward and put some weight on that leg’s knee.

  “Now you gettin’ ready to rush me, little man? That’s what you fixin’ to do?”

  Wilson produced a switchblade knife from his coat pocket. Four inches of stainless blade flicked open, the pearl handle resting loosely in Wilson’s hand.

  “Picked this up over in Italy,” said Wilson. “They make the prettiest sticks.”

  The man on the bed clumsily drew on his shirt. Jennifer began to step into her skirt.

  Wilson’s eyes flared. “You scared, Terry?”

  Again, Quinn did not reply.

  “Terry. That’s a girl’s name, ain’t it?” Wilson laughed and stepped forward. “Don’t matter much to me, Terry. I need to, I cut a bitch up just as good as a man.”

  The door was kicked open. Sue Tracy kicked it again on the backswing as she walked into the room. One arm was extended and holding a snub-nosed.38 Special. The other hand held her license case, flapped open.

  “Fuck is that toy shit?” said Wilson.

  “I’m an investigator,” said Tracy.

  “Aw,” said Wilson, “now y’all are gonna play like you police, huh?”

  “Shut up,” said Tracy, the muzzle of the revolver pointed at Wilson’s face. “Drop that knife.”

  Even as the words were coming from her mouth, Wilson was tossing the knife to the floor. He was still smiling, though, his eyes lit with amusement, going from Tracy back to Quinn.

  “Get outta here,” said Tracy to the fat man. She had a surge of adrenaline then, and she shouted, “Get the fuck back to your wife and kids!”

  The man picked what was left of his clothing up off the floor and quickly left the room.

  Wilson chuckled. “Damn, baby. You are like… you are like a man, you know it?” He head-motioned in the direction of Quinn. “You got a lot more man to you than this itty-bitty motherfucker right here, I can tell you that.”

  Tracy saw Quinn’s face flush. “Terry, get her out of here. I’m right behind you, hear?”

  Quinn stood frozen for a moment, his eyes dry and hot.

  “Take her!” said Tracy, still holding the gun on Wilson.

  “Cavalry gonna hold the Indians back while the women and children leave the fort,” said Wilson.

  Jennifer Marshall finished fastening her skirt. Quinn reached over and took her firmly by the elbow. She was shaking beneath his touch.

  “I didn’t do nothin’, World.”

  Wilson didn’t even look at the girl. He was smiling at Quinn, who was moving Jennifer out of the room, going around Tracy, careful not to impede the sight line of her gun.

  “Next time, Theresa,” said Wilson.

  Tracy heard their footsteps out in the hall. She heard them going out the open window. The sound of their bodies knocking the window frame faded. She kept her gun arm straight.

  “You got a name, too?” said Wilson.

  Tracy waited. She could hear them on the fire escape and soon that sound faded, too. Then there was the man talking from the radio and Wilson’s stare and smile.

  Wilson studied her shape. “Look here, I didn’t mean nothin’, callin’ you a man like I did. Blind man can see you’re all woman. I mean, you got some fine titties on you, baby. Can tell by the up-curve, even through that shirt. I bet they stand up real nice when you unfasten that brassiere. Do me a favor, turn around and let me get a look at that pretty ass.”

  Tracy felt a drop of sweat slide down her forehead. It snaked off her brow and stung at her eyes.

  “You got a nice pussy, too?”

  Tracy snicked back the hammer on the.38.

  “Go on, now,” Wilson said softly. “I ain’t gonna follow you or nothin’ like that. I don’t care to hurt a woman ’less she makes me. You ain’t gonna make me, are you, darlin’?”

  She backed out of the room. She backed down the hall and backed through the open window. She quickly looked down at the idling van in the alley as she got onto the fire escape, but she kept her eyes on the third floor and her gun pointed at the window all the way as she backed herself down the iron stairs.

  chapter 15

  QUINN drove out of the city, keeping to the speed limit and stopping for yellow lights. He had thanked Tracy when she got in the van, but they had barely spoken since. She knew that he was grateful for what she’d done. She also knew what kind of man Quinn was, and that he had been shamed.

  Jennifer and Stella argued loudly, sitting beside each other on the back bench, for most of the way out of D.C. But as they crossed the line their voices grew quieter, and their conversation softened further still as Quinn took the ramp onto the Beltway. By the time Quinn was on 270 North, he looked in the rearview mirror and watched them embrace. For the first time since the row house snatch, Quinn loosened his grip on the wheel.

  Tracy lit a cigarette and dropped the match out the window. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Can I have my radio back?”

  Quinn took it from his jacket and handed it over. “This thing works for shit, y’know it?”

  “Next time turn it on.” Tracy moved her hand to the tray and tapped ash off her cigarette. “You don’t have a problem with what happened back there, do you?”

  “No problem,” lied Quinn. “I’d be a class-A jerk if I did. I mean, you saved my ass.”

  Tracy grinned. “And the rest of you, too.”

  “That was pretty smooth, you bustin’ in like that. And you didn’t even tell me you were carrying a gun.”

  “My father gave it to me a long time ago. He bought it hot downtown. It’s an old MPD sidearm, before they went to the Glocks.”

  “It’s, uh, illegal to have one of those in the District. You know it?”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, you could get in a world of trouble, you get caught with it on your person. You could lose your license.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  “Just letting you know, is all.”

  “I wouldn’t walk into a situation like that without it.”

  “Okay.”

  “You tellin’ me you don’t own one?”

  “I do own one. I’m just surprised that you do, that’s all.”

  “I wanted to kill him, Terry. I mean, I was close. It scared me a little, back there. Even more than he did, you know? You ever get a feeling like that?”

  “All the time,” said Quinn.

  In fact, Quinn was visualizing the room in the row house and Worldwide Wilson now.

  “Anyway,” said Tracy, “nice work. You found her quick. Even the hero stuff you pulled back there. Good, solid work.”

  “Hero? Christ, what about you?”

  Tracy smiled crookedly. “What?”

  Quinn looked her over. “Bad-ass.”

  Tracy pointed to the detention center across the highway that had become visible on their left. Quinn put the van into the right lane and took the next exit.

  He parked in the lot of Seven Locks station. In the backseat, the two girls talked quietly. Stella was reaching into her football-sized handbag, pulling out a Walkman and then several CDs.

  “I’m gonna be a while,” said Tracy. “I don’t have to, but I think I ought to wait for her mother and father to get here while the cops process the paperwork. I like to talk to the parents when I can.”

  “No problem. You still want to grab a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bars’ll be closed by the time we’re done here. Thought I’d go snag a six while you’re inside.”

  “Make it a twelve-pack.”

  “I’ll be out here waiting,” said Quinn.

  Jennifer climbed out of the back of the van. Tracy tossed her pack of cigarettes back to Stella. Jennifer did not speak to Quinn as she passed by his window and went with Tracy up the sidewalk to the
station. Tracy kept her hand on Jennifer’s elbow all the way.

  “Think we can find a beer store out here in Potomac?”

  “I want one,” said Stella.

  “Forget it,” said Quinn.

  It took a while to locate a deli. When they returned to the lot Quinn cracked open a can of beer and took a long swig. Stella sat beside him and smoked one of Tracy’s cigarettes. She had Quinn half turn the ignition key so that she could get some power to the van, and she pushed the Mazzy Star tape back into the deck.

  “This is old,” she said, “but it still sounds pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, it’s nice.”

  “Bet it’s your partner’s tape.”

  “That’s right.” Quinn closed his eyes as he drank off some of his beer. It was cold and good.

  “You’re more like the Springsteen type.”

  “Uh-huh.” He looked at the brick building lit by spots, remembering back to that time in high school when he’d spent a night out here in one of the cells. A D &D charge at a house party that had gone on way too long. He’d beaten up the host’s father. Quinn wondered if the kid ever got over seeing his father on the ground, getting punched out by a seventeen-year-old boy. And all because the old man had looked at Quinn the wrong way and smiled.

  “Hey, you listenin’?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “My father likes Springsteen. The old Springsteen, he says, which means, like, the stuff that’s one hundred years old. Not that I’m comparing you to my father. You’re younger than him, for one.” Stella dragged on her cigarette. “My father was ‘weak and ineffectual.’ That’s what the shrink my parents took me to said. This shrink, he wasn’t supposed to say stuff like that to me, I know. But I was suckin’ his little dick right there in his office, so he said all kinds of stuff.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” said Quinn.

  “He said that I ‘gravitated toward strong men’ ’cause my father was weak. What do you think of that?”

  “No clue.”

  “It’s why I hooked up with World, I guess. Couldn’t find a much stronger man than him. He turned me out quick, too.” Stella double-dragged on her smoke and pitched it out the window. “But I couldn’t produce for him. Nobody wanted to pay for this stuff, not that I blame them. I’m not much of a woman, am I, Terry? Do you think I am?”