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 movement 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’?”