Drama City

'I knew DeEric fucked up.'

'How so?'

'Green came up on some kid retailing on one of Deacon's corners. He told this kid to step off, thinking the corner was mine. Made a dumb mistake, is all. Deacon's people came back at him, I guess.'

'Was Butler with Green when he made the mistake?'

'No. I only had him ridin' with DeEric to pick up the count, watch how we do. I wanted Michael to learn. That was my fuckup there. Michael wasn't cut out for that kind of drama.'

'You think Deacon ordered the hit?' said Lorenzo, turning down Mississippi Avenue, going along the park known as Oxon Run.

'I don't know,' said Nigel.

Lorenzo drove through the open gate of a fenced complex and parked the Tahoe in the lot of a group of squat brick apartment buildings on Mississippi.

'I got work to do, Nigel.'

'So do I. But look here: This the last conversation we gonna have about this.'

'No question.'

'I don't want you involved.'

'You don't have to worry about that.'

'I mean it, Lorenzo.'

'So do I.'

'You need me again, for anything, you call me direct. Leave a message and I'll get back to you.'

Nigel said his phone number; Lorenzo wrote it on the notepad clipped on the dash of the truck.

'You didn't tell my mother about the killing, did you? I don't like to upset the old girl.'

'I didn't say a thing.'

'Take care of yourself,' said Nigel, and he cut the line.

Lorenzo radioed Cindy and told her he had arrived at the location of the complaint. He then got out of the Tahoe, leaving the motor running and the air conditioning on full, and locked the door with his spare key. He went up the hill toward the apartment building to make his call.

CHAPTER 17

Nigel Johnson stared at the disposable cell phone, one of many he kept in the office. He leaned back in his leather chair and listened to it creak. His enforcer, Lawrence Graham, slight as a fourteen-year-old boy, sat on the edge of Nigel's desk.

'What your man say?' said Graham. It was always your man when he spoke of Lorenzo Brown. He resented the fact that Nigel still held Lorenzo in such high regard.

'Looks like it was two of Deacon's killed DeEric and Michael,' said Nigel. 'Melvin Lee and a boy name Rico.'

'Rico Miller. I don't know where Rico stay at, but Lee work up at the car wash on Georgia. I could wait until he gets off his shift.'

'I ain't ready to drop him yet.'

'I'm just sayin'. You want me to do it, I will. I'll put work in on Miller too.'

'It might come to that. But I want to talk to Deacon first. Give him a chance to tell me how he gonna carry this.'

'I can get word out with Griff that you lookin' to talk.'

'Do it. Set up a meet, someplace neutral, that's what he wants.' Nigel slid the cell phone across his desk. 'And get rid of this burner.'

'You want me to leave outta here now?'

'Yeah. Homicide gonna be callin' on me soon, I expect. Better if I'm here alone.'

'Anything else?'

'Have someone arrange the funeral home. Buy some T-shirts from that boy in Petworth. Get the flowers at the usual place. Send some to DeEric's mother too.'

'What about Michael's mother?'

'Fuck that bitch.'

Graham left the shop. Nigel sat heavily in his chair, staring through the plate glass window to the street.

Lorenzo walked to the entrance of a squat brick apartment building that held four units. He was familiar with the layout of the complex and could describe the interior of the dwellings without having been in this actual structure. These kinds of apartments, minimally maintained and surrounded by black iron fences, were common in Southeast. In his early years, Lorenzo had lived in one just like these, here in Congress Heights.

Outside, kids were plentiful, cracking on one another, riding bikes, and making up games on the dirt-and-weed grounds. Mothers, most in their teens, stood around with one another, smoking, talking with men and young men who were not the fathers of their children. A couple of the older kids hard-eyed Lorenzo as he passed. He was not police, but he was some kind of official, which put him on the other side. A boy in a wife beater and loose pants, no older than fourteen, got on a cell phone as he watched Lorenzo enter the building.

Inside, the building smelled of fried food, with the faint tang of urine and feces in the mix. A dog barked from behind one of the two apartment doors on the second floor. Lorenzo went directly to the first-floor dwelling of Felton Barnett, the man who had left the message on his machine.

Barnett answered Lorenzo's knock. His eyes carried the baggage of repeated late-night alcohol consumption. He was small, middle-aged, and fastidiously dressed.

'Remember me?' said Barnett.

'Yes,' said Lorenzo. It was not a pleasant memory. For some reason, Barnett reminded Lorenzo of a rodent in man's clothes.

Barnett had contacted the office months ago with what turned out to have been a nuisance call. Lorenzo had responded, been polite, and shown him respect, something Barnett was apparently not used to. Now Lorenzo was Barnett's personal officer. When he phoned the Humane Society, he dialed Lorenzo's direct number.

'I got a problem, a very serious problem up in two-B. Dog been up there barking for two days straight.' Barnett, who smelled of beer and cigarettes, pointed a thin finger at Lorenzo. 'Y'all need to respond quicker than you do.'

'I just got the message this morning. If you had called the main number—'

'I did call it, this morning.'

'If you had called it originally, they would've sent someone out yesterday.'

'I don't want someone, said Barnett, standing ramrod straight. 'You're my man. When I call, I want you.'

'You got a key to the apartment?'

'I'm the resident manager,' said Barnett. It was like he was telling Lorenzo that he was the king of New York.

'Let's go check it out.'

They went up the stairs and approached 2B. On the landing, the barking was incessant and loud. The smell of feces was strong. Lorenzo's headache was back full-on.

'You tried contacting the resident?'

'Boy who rents this place don't reside here. You want to know what I think?'

Lorenzo began to knock on the door.

'He keeps drugs and money up in here,' said Barnett, tired of waiting for Lorenzo to reply.

'Go ahead and open it,' said Lorenzo.

Barnett used his key to unlock the door, then stepped behind Lorenzo. Lorenzo pushed on the door and opened it enough to look inside.

A cream pit bull with a brown eye patch stood in the corner of the living room, baring its teeth, barking maniacally at Lorenzo. The room was bare, the floor nearly covered in feces. The dog's coat carried several deep lesions, some of which appeared to be infected. The dog's ribs were highly defined in its coat, and its eyes bulged in their sunken sockets. Flies nested in one prominent lesion and were bunched in clumps on the dog's ears. Flies buzzed about the room. There were blood streaks on the wall where the animal had tried to rub at the cuts. There was an empty aluminum bowl, pocked with teeth marks, on the floor.

Lorenzo backed onto the landing and closed the door.

'Go back to your place,' he said to Barnett. 'Write down the name of the man who rents this apartment and any other information you have on him from his lease.'

'What are you going to do?'

Lorenzo took the stairs without answering and went directly to the Tahoe. He got Cindy on the radio and told her of the situation, and when she asked if he would like MPD assistance, he told her that he could handle it himself. He got the choke pole out of the truck and headed back into the building. As he went through the door, he heard comments and laughter from the young men gathered outside.

In the apartment, Lorenzo breathed through his mouth to avoid the stench. He looked carefully at the barking dog. He whistled to it softly.