DC Noir
Introduction
Notes On D.C. Noir
Recently, on the way to a witness interview on the 1600 block of W Street, S.E. with detectives from Washington, D.C.’s MPD Violent Crimes Branch, I passed through the low-rise, government-assisted dwellings off Langston Place in Ward 7. There, in a dirt and concrete courtyard patched with the last of winter’s snow, was a make-shift memorial of sorts to a teenaged murder victim who had allegedly been in the life himself. Grouped around a steel pole were various forms of stuffed animals, teddy bears and the like, along with plastic flowers and some balloons, long depleted of their helium, lying on the ground. The site contained no R.I.P. tags or name identifications of any kind. It’s what’s known as a “tribute” in this part of town.
That night, in the comfort of my home, I sat down to read the Washington Post. The above-the-fold story on the front page of the Style section, which jumped inside and took up many column inches, concerned an author from wealthy, mostly-white Ward 3, who had written a book about the anxiety of today’s Washington woman, who has to deal with “soul-draining perfectionism,” shuttling kids to soccer matches, nighttime Girl Scout cookie meetings, and finding the right art camp and piano teacher for her kids. Buried in the Metro section of that same newspaper were the latest crime fatalities, all occurring far away from those houses on the high ground of Cleveland Park and Chevy Chase. The victims, many unnamed, all young, got two paragraphs of space inside the section.
By now you may think you know where this is going. But the truth is, it’s just an anecdote that describes “that thing” D.C. - area residents live with every day. The reason so much space was devoted to the article about “today’s Washington woman” was because it would be read by a large number of Washingtonians, who could relate. Yet just as many read the Crime and Justice capsule inside Metro, because they might have heard the gunshots outside their doors, or they might have known the victims or the shooters, or both, when they were children. Yes, this city is polarized, but that’s a too-easy observation, and it denies the District’s complexity as a whole. In fact, it would be inaccurate to repeat the notion that there are two D.C.’s.
Here’s another myth debunked: This is not a transient city, as it is often ludicrously described. A very small percentage of the population comes and goes every four-to-eight years, blowing in and out of town with whatever presidential administration sets up temporary camp. The vast majority of the citizens, many who came up from the South, have lived here for generations. Others came and still come from overseas, or emigrated from other states, chasing opportunity and riding the great prosperity boom/hiring rush of the post — World War II years. Many arrived with a desire to be a part of early — ’60s Camelot.
I imagine they stayed because they liked it. There are easier places to live, but few as interesting. Nowhere in this country is the race, class, and culture divide more obvious than it is in Washington, D.C. And the conflict does not bubble below the surface — this American experiment is dissected and discussed, in-your-face style, every day.
Other things: The citizens of Washington have no vote or meaningful representation in the House or the Senate of the U.S. Congress. No taxation without representation, except for the citizens of the nation’s capital. The federal government controls the purse strings here, and the policymakers dole out the money according to their own motives. Since there is no vote to massage, politicians and presidents have historically ignored the neediest people of this city, as there’s little upside to reaching out. Walk into any public high school in the District, take a look around, and see a stark illustration of an absolute failure of governance.
That the kids always suffer is nothing less than a national disgrace. But the communities, realizing that the financial gatekeepers have turned a blind eye toward their children, have dug deep and looked in their own backyards for solutions. Coaches, teachers, big brothers and sisters, mentors, church groups, and other volunteers are the real heroes of this city, and have stepped up in a big way to impact the lives of our young men and women. Still, there is a great deal of bitterness on the part of Washingtonians toward the federal government.
So don’t expect all the locals to get misty-eyed over monuments, inauguration balls, or care about the society sightings inside Style. What might get them emotional is the sight of someone who shares their memories. The ones who remember Riggo breaking that tackle in ’83, Len Bias’s jersey number, Phil Chenier’s baseline jumper, Frank Howard’s swing, or Doug Williams throwing downfield like God was talking in his ear. The ones who saw Aretha as a child performing with her father onstage at the Howard, or Sinatra at the Watergate barge, or Trouble Funk at the old 9:30, or Hendrix at the Ambassador, or Bruce at the Childe Harold. The ones who play Frankie Beverly or EWF at Sunday picnics in Rock Creek Park. The ones who have Backyard Band, Minor Threat, Chuck Brown, William DeVaughn, Shirley Horn, and Bad Brains in their record collections. The ones who know that Elgin Baylor came out of Spingarn, or that Adrian Dantley and Brian Westbrook were DeMatha Stags. The ones who hear the voice of Bobby “The Mighty Burner” Bennett on the radio and can’t help but grin. The ones who bleed Burgundy and Gold. The ones who will claim that they know your distant cousin, or tell you they like the looks of your car, or, if it needs to be replaced, mention that it’s a hooptie. Or the woman at the Safeway who hands you your receipt and tells you to “have a blessed day.” Or the matriarch on your street with the prunish, beautiful face who raised six sons and now lords over a house holding many of their children.
It’s about the collective memories of the locals, and also about the voices. If you close your eyes and listen to the people of this city, you will hear the many different voices, and if you’ve lived here long enough, the cadences and rhythms, the familiarity of it, the feeling that you are home, will make you smile.
This is a collection of short stories that, in the context of crime/noir fiction, attempts to capture those voices. Why crime fiction? It involves a high degree of conflict, which drives most good fiction. It also allows us to explore social issues and the strengths and frailties of humanity that are a part of our everyday lives here.
In the interest of inclusion, we have tried to explore every quadrant of the city and many of the neighborhoods within them, and have not forgotten the federal city and downtown. We have enlisted the well-known and the someday-will-be. The writers include lifelong Washingtonians, imports and exports, a gentleman who is currently incarcerated, a police officer, an actor, bloggers, journalists, blacks, whites, Hispanics, males and females, and yeah, even a Greek American.
With pride, and always with hope and anticipation, here’s a look at our D.C.
George Pelecanos
Washington, D.C.
November 2005
Part I
D.C. Uncovered
The confidential informant
by George Pelecanos
Park View, N.W.
I was in the waiting area of the Veteran’s Hospital emergency room off North Capitol Street, seeing to my father, when Detective Tony Barnes hit me back on my cell. My father had laid his head down on the crossbar of his walker, and it was going to be awhile before someone came and called his name. I walked the phone outside and lit myself a smoke.