That was Deacon,” said Melvin Lee. He closed the cover of his Samsung cell and placed the phone on the table by his chair.
“Figured it was,” said Rico Miller. “He ain’t happy, huh?”
Lee did not answer. Instead he rubbed at his face.
They were in the living area of Melvin Lee’s apartment, on the third floor of a row house on Sherman Avenue, near Irving Street, in Columbia Heights. The house had been subdivided into six apartments, two on each floor. It was not far from where Lee had been raised.
The apartment’s decor reflected Lee’s solitary lifestyle. The few pieces of furniture were secondhand. Only the electronics, a thirty-six-inch high-definition Sony television with theater sound and an Xbox video game system, were new. Lee rarely watched movies or programs, not even sports, on television. He preferred to sit on his threadbare couch for hours on end, playing Counter-Strike, Brute Force, and Project Gotham. Anything with guns or cars.
“Homicide already done visited Deacon,” said Lee. “They got them gang-task-force people, know all the players. You know how they do.”
“That means they been to see Nigel too.”
“That’s a bet.”
“Nigel ain’t gonna say a thing to the police. He gonna want to handle this his own way.”
“I expect.”
“Nigel and his want more blood, we gonna give ’em some. We soldiers, right?”
Lee looked across the room at Miller, who stood by the big picture window fronting the street. Miller had been pacing the room like an animal who’d got up on two legs for the first time. He’d been unsettled ever since he’d shown up at the apartment and described the murders in detail. Miller had expected Lee to be pleased. He was perplexed at Lee’s reaction.
“Why?” Lee had said upon hearing the news.
“Why I kill ’em?” said Miller. “Shit, they was gonna go at you, wasn’t they?”
“DeEric was just talkin’, Rico. He was doin’ his job. I been knowin’ DeEric since he was a boy. He was bold like that.”
“Too bold, you ask me.”
“And that kid. He wasn’t gonna hurt no goddamn one.”
“You right about that. That boy was a straight bitch.”
“You missin’ my point. Deacon say the kid was special to Nigel.”
“Nigel gone faggot now, huh?”
“ Listen to me,” said Lee, desperation and anger in his voice. “You ain’t hearin’ me, Rico. We got a problem here. We got to find a way to work this out.”
“Thought you’d be happy,” said Miller, lowering his head. “I did this thing for you.”
Lee had left the conversation lying there, like something dead in the room you stepped over on the way to somewhere else. There wasn’t any use in going on with this. Miller seemed to have no remorse for what he’d done. For the first time, Lee feared him. He’d heard about this kind of thing, had always thought of it as street bullshit passing for wisdom. But now he saw that it was true: Came a time in every relationship like this, you traded places. The father became the son.
And now the call had come from Deacon, a call Lee had expected and dreaded all morning long.
“What Deacon say to do?” said Miller.
“He wants you to sit tight right here. He don’t want you to go nowhere, ’cause if he wants to pull up on you personal, he need to know where you at.”
“He can get me on my cell.”
“That ain’t good enough. Since you don’t want to tell no one where you stay at, you gonna have to be within physical reach for now.”
“Where you gonna be?”
“I got to get my ass into work,” said Miller.
“What I’m gonna do here all day?”
“Play Xbox, you want to.”
“I don’t even like Xbox. I roll with PS2.”
“You gonna have to deal with that, Rico.”
Lee got up out of his chair, gathered his cell and keys, and went to the front door. He looked at Rico Miller, standing there with nothing but some peach fuzz on his face, slouched and gangly, deadlier than most men but really no older than a kid.
“Don’t be standin’ by that window,” said Lee.
“I ain’t stupid.”
“I’m just sayin’. Po-lice could put me together with them bodies somehow, might come calling on me.”
“I wouldn’t let no police fuck with you, Melvin.”
“I’m sayin’… Shit, Rico, I’m thinkin’ of you right now. Any law shows up here, you leave out the fire escape, through my bedroom window. It’ll lead you back to the alley. That ladder drops the way it supposed to. I know, ’cause I tried it out.” Lee put his hand on the doorknob, then thought of something else.
“You ain’t bring no gun in here, right?”
“What you think?”
“That’s a mandatory right there. I can’t be gettin’ violated.”
“Guns I used are put away.”
“You need to get rid of ’em. They dig the lead up out of those bodies, I’m talkin’ about the pistol lead, they can match it to that gun.”
“They won’t find the guns. Anyway, I picked up the casings off the street.”
“Anyone see you last night?”
“I don’t think so.” Miller cocked his head in a birdlike way. “You ain’t mad at me, right?”
Lee looked away. “We gonna work this out.”
Melvin Lee took the stairs down to the street and found his faded Camry, parked on Sherman behind Rico Miller’s shiny BMW. Driving up Georgia toward the car wash, he looked at the people out on the sidewalks and breathed the warm summer air rushing through his open window. He wanted to enjoy the sights and smells. He had the sick feeling that these things would be taken away from him again all too soon.
He could drive out of town right now, but he knew that someone would catch up to him eventually. He’d been running on a wheel, in a cage, his whole life.
He drove to work.
Deacon Taylor closed his disposable cell and settled himself in the driver’s seat of his S-Series Benz. He had parked on Luray Place in Park View and was waiting for Griff to roll up and report on his meet with Nigel’s enforcer, Lawrence Graham. Looked like Griff was coming his way now. Griff favored fast Japanese sedans, and drove a 260-horsepower midnight blue Infiniti G35.
Deacon had already had an eventful day. A Homicide team had come by his place and interviewed him about the murders. He had told them he knew nothing, and they had gone on their way. He had spoken to Melvin Lee and conveyed his extreme displeasure over the murders of Green and Butler. Then, on his personal cell, he had made a call to an officer in 4D he had been friendly with for some time.
Officer Muller was a careful man. He refused to finger informants, rough Taylor’s enemies, or make false arrests. He would not initiate anything that he felt would compromise his personal code. He did provide Taylor with information on occasion that he thought was of a harmless nature. Taylor, in turn, fed information to Muller that was equally benign. For this dialogue Muller accepted nothing in the way of cash or gifts. The first-name-basis familiarity with a drug dealer and the attendant camaraderie appealed to his self-image. Muller liked to think of himself as a cop who was hardwired to both sides of the street.
“What you hear about that double off Crittenden last night?” Deacon had said.
“Hold up, Deacon,” said Muller. “You need to tell me why you’re interested first.” Always reminding Taylor that he, Muller, was in charge.
“Ain’t no secret that it was two of Nigel Johnson’s got themselves dead. I’m just tryin’ to keep informed.”
“That’s all?”
“You and me don’t play games like that, big man,” said Deacon. In fact, he was playing Muller with every word.
“Just so we’re clear,” said Muller.
“We crystal clear.”
“Victim one died of shotgun wounds inside his SUV. Victim two was killed in the street by the same shotgun. Vic two also took bullets to the mouth and head.”
“Sounds like the shooter was angry about somethin’.”
“Prob’ly just one of those misunderstood youths we got out here.”
“Killer leave any prints?”
Muller did not reply. It was answer enough.
“No witnesses either, huh?” said Deacon.
Again, Muller said nothing.
“You keep me posted, hear?” said Deacon.
“I expect the same from you.”
“You know I will. This kind of violence is bad for business. Pretty soon the neighborhood gonna be crawling with bad elements like yourself.”
“You don’t want that, dawg.”
“Word,” said Deacon. He hadn’t used that expression to anyone but Muller in the last ten years.
Griff pulled his Infiniti up alongside the Mercedes and idled it in the street. They went nose to ass, the way police did, so they could speak.
Griff was serious, dependable, and strong of body and character. He dressed neatly and without show. He was Deacon’s most fearsome employee. Only fault he had was he talked too much, and bragged, when his head was up on weed. Maturity would cure that. Someday the boy would become a man and learn how to handle his high.
“What’s up, soldier?” said Deacon.
“I got up with Graham,” said Griff.
“Talk about it.”
“Nigel want to parley with you about this problem. Says he’ll do it somewhere neutral, just the two of y’all.”
“I’ll meet him,” said Deacon. “But I ain’t ready just yet. Need to think things out before we talk.”
“You got a plan?”
“I don’t plan,” said Deacon. “I look for opportunities.”
“You want to do this tonight?”
“Tonight’s good.”
“I’ll go back to Larry.”
“Don’t call him Larry to his face,” said Deacon. “I heard his mother named him after the bass player, and I heard he don’t like it.”
“What bass player?”
“Larry Graham,” said Deacon.
Griff shrugged and looked blankly at Deacon.
“Awright then,” said Deacon. “Go talk to Graham and set it up. Say, eight o’clock at the fort?”
“I’m on it,” said Griff.
“No doubt,” said Deacon. Griff pulled away in his car.
Deacon thinking, Boy don’t know who Larry Graham is, at least he should have pretended like he did. Tryin’ to make me feel all ancient out here.
Lorenzo Brown caught a quick tuna sub at his Subway and got back to work. He radioed in to Cindy, still on the desk, to see if there were any calls he needed to take. She told him about a chaining complaint over in Columbia Heights. He told her he would pass by the address on his way back to the office. She didn’t mention anything about the incident in Southeast. Leon Skiles had followed street code, as Lorenzo had expected, and not reported the assault.
Lorenzo started up the Tahoe and headed for Columbia Heights.
Eddie Davis was a cutter in a styling shop on Florida Avenue, in Trinidad, near Gallaudet. He was a slim man in his midfifties, quiet and gentle, with a trim mustache and kind eyes. Nothing about him suggested that he was the same person who in 1977 had stabbed a man repeatedly for looking at his girlfriend the wrong way in a Petworth bar. Eddie Davis, up on PCP, had left an Italian switchblade in the man’s neck after burying it to the hilt, and then resumed his drinking. No one had come near him until the police arrived. When he was smoking that boat, Eddie felt as if he had the strength of ten men and, feeling that way, he did. In fact, it took four police to subdue him that night.
The murder charge bought him a twenty-five-year sentence. He had fathered two sons before he went inside. As teenagers, without a strong male figure to keep them in line, both young men became involved in the crack cocaine trade, which hit Washington like a plague in the summer of ’86. As adults, Eddie’s sons eventually caught drug charges and were incarcerated for most of the nineties. Eddie himself was released and was promptly violated on possession-with-intent-to-distribute offenses. He returned to prison, where the one-two punch of Jesus and drug rehabilitation finally found traction with a man who realized he was both too old to play the game and lucky to be alive. As for Eddie’s sons, they were CSOSA cases: Transferred from Lorton to federal facilities, they had served out the rest of their terms far away from D.C. and now were out on paper, trying, like their father, to stay on the straight.
Rachel Lopez entered the styling shop, a unisex affair owned by an ex-offender named Rock Williams who aggressively employed men and women who had done time. The shop was full-service, with stylists, barbers, manicurists, and pedicurists, and specialized in hair coloring and extensions. Williams had a loyal clientele. Most of the customers had family members either in incarceration or on paper and were behind the concept of redemption through hard work.
“Mr. Williams,” said Rachel Lopez, approaching the broad-chested owner standing behind the register counter.
“Miss Lopez.” He extended his hand and she shook it. “You lookin’ for Eddie?”
“I am.”
“He’s around here somewhere. I’ll get him for you.”
Williams went past the styling area and through curtains to a back room. Rachel listened to the soft soul and jazz of the Howard University radio station, WHUR, coming from the house system. She got nods and eye contact from a couple of the cutters and a wink from a female manicurist working close to the counter. All had been told by Eddie Davis and Williams that Miss Lopez was a PO and that she was all right. She had never once caught attitude in the Rock Williams House of Style.
Davis emerged from the back room smiling. He met her at the counter and shook her hand. She drew him into her arms impulsively. He hugged her as he would a daughter.
“How do I look?” he said, stepping back.
Davis wore a black barber’s smock with “Eddie” stitched in cursive across the chest. Above his name was an embroidered tableau of crossed scissors over a barber pole. His hard life had aged him prematurely and considerably, but Rachel could still see the handsome man he once had been. Everything about him she needed to know was in his eyes. There was nothing bad there; it was impossible that there would be evil in him again.
“You look great,” she said.
“Do I look like a man who’s about to come off paper?”
“I wrote the termination letter a few days ago. I’m ready to send it in.”
“That don’t mean we gotta stop seein’ each other, right?”
“I’ll be around,” said Rachel. “And I’m gonna expect that Christmas card too.”
“You’re family, Miss Lopez. I ain’t never gonna take you off that list.”
They looked at each other for a few moments. She hoped that what he said was true. It was with mixed feelings that she let go of certain offenders. The fact that an Eddie Davis was going to make it validated her life’s work. That he was walking out of her world caused her sadness too.
“How are your sons?” she said.
“Good. Charles and Michael both cuttin’ heads in separate barbershops.” Eddie looked around to make sure that Williams was not within earshot. “Plan is, I’m gonna start up my own shop. Get my sons under my wing. I’m lookin’ at this little space over there on Good Hope Road. It’s close to my apartment. Want a place I can walk to every morning, turn that key.”
“Don’t worry about Rock hearing you,” said Rachel. “He’d be happy if you went out on your own.”
“I’m gonna do it, Miss Lopez. I am going to do it.”
“I believe you. Your sons are in Anacostia as well?”
“Yeah. Both of ’em bought little houses over there in Southeast. I helped ’em out with the down payments. I had a, what do you call that, motive for it. I want to be close to my grandchildren.”
“It’s all about family.”
“Yes,” said Eddie. He looked her over. “You look nice today, you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”
“I was feeling poorly this morning. But I’m better now.”
“You gonna be able to come by that barbecue this weekend? My sons and their kids are gonna be there. They’d love to see you.”
“I’ll try.”
Eddie pointed a gnarled finger in her direction. “I’m not gonna let you lose touch.”
“I promise. We’ve come too far together, you and me.”
“God is good,” said Eddie Davis.
He can be, thought Rachel. They hugged again before she left the shop.
Out in her Honda, Rachel looked through her files. She had one more stop to make before returning to the office. The offender had given her his work schedule, by her request. He was a person she needed to stay on top of, a career criminal who up to this point had been unable to leave the drug game behind.
Rachel wanted to interview the offender at his place of employment whenever possible, to verify that he was there consistently. It looked as if she had missed that opportunity when she had failed to make all of her calls the day before. She’d have to visit him at his residence on Sherman Avenue.
According to her records, that’s where the offender, a man named Melvin Lee, stayed.