“Take it easy,” said Tutt.
“Too late for that.”
He pulled away from the curb. He accelerated through a red and kept the speedometer at sixty going north on 14th. He tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder and cracked the full one wedged between his legs.
“Watch it,” said Tutt.
Murphy swerved to avoid a Metrobus coming off a stop. They blew through the Arkansas Avenue intersection and hit the hill. They passed dealers hawking dimes and quarters to the car trade outside a closed liquor store. Murphy nailed the pedal to the floor. Tutt grabbed the armrest.
“Listen,” said Tutt as Murphy finally slowed the car for a red light. “Tonight we sleep on it. You go home and get three sheets if that’s what the fuck you got to do, but me, I’m gonna go back to my apartment and think.”
“’Cause you’re one of those deep thinkers, Tutt.”
“Yeah, well, at least I’m holdin’ onto my shit. And I’m tellin’ you, I’m gonna work us out of this.”
“Ain’t no way out. We’re on the payroll of a drug dealer who had two kids killed tonight.”
“We’re not drug dealers. You just keep rememberin’ that. We’re cops.”
“We’re nothin’,” said Murphy. “And we are fucked.”
Murphy dropped Tutt at his Bronco without another word. He continued north, killing a third beer by the time he hit Takoma. He parked on 4th, gave a hard look to a young man who had given him a hard look as he stepped out of his car.
“You want somethin’?”
“Nah, I ain’t want nothin’.”
“Then don’t be lookin’ like you do.”
Murphy went into Takoma Station, made his way to the bar, ordered a beer and a shot of Cuervo. He choked the tequila down and ordered another. He said something to the man next to him, and the man picked up his drink and moved away. He saw two couples standing at the service end of the stick, pointing at him and laughing. He drained his shot, finished his beer, and left some green on the wood. He walked toward the front of the club. Groups of people parted and made way for him to pass. Out on the sidewalk, he saw that his badge was still clipped to his pants.
Murphy sat in his Pontiac and had another beer. He drove home and went inside.
Wanda was asleep. Murphy sat on the bed and shook her until her eyes opened.
“Kevin?”
He bent forward, put his mouth on her lips, and kissed her. He was hard immediately. It had been so long. He put his tongue in her mouth and ran it across her gums. He kneaded her breast roughly through her housedress.
She pushed on his shoulders. He pulled back, saw that he had smudged her lipstick. She looked like an old clown.
“Kevin!” she said. “You reek of alcohol.”
“Goddamn, girl,” said Murphy, standing straight. “You gonna tell me now how I smell? You who ain’t even had the pride to take a bath in the last week?”
“Oh, Kevin!”
Wanda’s hands fluttered to her face, and she began to cry. Murphy stumbled from the room.
He was in the basement now, and he could hear her still. Crying and pacing across that damn cell of hers she called a bedroom.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and then he screamed as loud as he could, “Shut up!”
He had brought the beers down with him. He drank one quick.
He went to the pool table and racked the balls. He got bored and cracked a beer. He watched some TV. He drank another beer. He got up and went to the Skins Wall of Fame, took down his favorite glossy, Number 25, the autographed Joe Washington he had mounted and framed. He stared at it for a while, swaying on his feet. He noticed his shirt was wet all down the front.
Hypocrite.
He was in front of the heavy bag and it was swinging and he was no longer wearing his shirt. He was bare chested and his knuckles were bloodied and he could hear Wanda yelling upstairs in her room.
Stop please stop please stop
Murphy was at the workbench. His gun cases were down on the bench in a sloppy row. He needed to choose one now.
Kid killer you
He picked up one of the Combat Magnums, broke the cylinder, and took a bullet from the pool of them spilled out on the bench. He thumbed a bullet into a chamber. He laughed.
Fuck you laughin’ at, man? You seen what a gun-eat does to a man. Brain and skull blown out the back, sprayed up on the wall. Eyes bugged from the gas jolt. Nose scorched black from the flames rushing through... Don’t picture it, man. Just think about the Peace.
Tears streamed down Murphy’s face. He picked up another bullet. It slipped from his fingers and rolled. His hand crabbed across the bench as he chased the round.
Don’t fuck around with too much lead, now. Give you way too much time to think, Kev.
Murphy grabbed the bullet, fitted it in another chamber. He spun the cylinder, slapped it shut. He turned the gun and closed his lips around the cool barrel.
Don’t think don’t
Murphy put his thumb on the trigger. With his right hand he locked back the hammer. Tears hot on his cheeks. He heard Wanda’s laughter. He gagged on the barrel and moaned.
Do it do it do it do it
Murphy squeezed the trigger.
Don’t
His eyes crossed, watching the hammer arc forward.
Sunday
March 16, 1986
Twenty-One
Sunday morning: cease-fire time in the city. Cars moved slowly and stopped at red lights. Squares rose early, played with their children, read the paper, went to church. Whores and criminals slept late.
Marcus Clay and George Dozier sat at the counter of the Florida Avenue Grill, located at the corner of 11th and Florida on the tip of Shaw. They had seen each other at church, as they did every Sunday, and Clay had followed Dozier to the grill for a late breakfast.
They sat on red stools where the counter jutted in, back toward the swinging kitchen door. Along the wall, front to back, above the grill and sandwich board and coffee urns, hung framed photographs of local and national celebrities who had visited the diner over the years for some of the very best soul food in Washington, D.C. Clay sat before a photo of Sugar Ray Leonard and his boy, Ray Jr.; Dozier’s view was of a smiling Johnny “Guitar” Watson. Clay and Dozier had grown up together. They’d been coming here all their lives.
“Thank you, Miss Mary,” said Dozier as the waitress set down a half-smoke-and-two-egg breakfast in front of him.
“Sure thing, Detective,” said the waitress. “Here you go, Marcus.”
Clay thanked her and looked lovingly at the chef’s special placed before him: country ham and eggs over easy, redeye gravy, grits, fried apples, and hot biscuits. He dug in.
“So, what do you think?” said Clay.
“We’ll get ’em,” said Dozier. “We’ve got to. Too many people interested now. It made the front page this morning, above the fold, and you know it’s gonna be the lead on the TV news for half the week. The chief already got us together on it late last night. Wait, now, any minute you’re even gonna see the mayor chime in with some of his firsthand knowledge of the drug problem plaguing our city.” Dozier side-glanced Clay.
“So everything you hear about the mayor’s true.”