“Just stay on Wilder. He probably gonna be droppin’ that boy off at his mother’s, sumshit like that.”
“We don’t need to be messin’ with no kids, Gar.”
“Go on, man,” said Potter, chinning in the direction of the royal blue Oldsmobile leaving the parking lot. “Try not to lose him, neither.”
LORENZE Wilder’s car was a 1984 Olds Regency, a V8 with blue velour interior, white vinyl roof, and wire wheel covers. The windows were tinted dark all the way around. It reminded Wilder of one of those Miami cars, the kind those big-time drug dealers had down there, or a limousine. You could see out, but no one could see inside, and for him it was the one feature of the car that had closed the deal. He had bought it off a lot in Northwest for eighteen hundred dollars and financed it at an interest rate of 24 percent. He had missed the last three payments and had recently changed his phone number again to duck the creditors who had begun to call.
Lorenze saw Joe running his hand along the fabric of the seat as they drove south on Georgia Avenue.
“You can get your own car like this someday, you work hard like your uncle.” In fact, Lorenze Wilder hadn’t had a job in years.
“It’s nice,” said Joe.
“That’s like, velvet right there. Bet your father got a nice car, too.”
Joe Wilder shrugged and looked over at his uncle. “I ain’t never met my father, so I don’t know what he drives.”
“For real?”
“Mama says that my father’s just . . . She say he’s gone.”
Of course, Lorenze knew all about the family history. It was this very thing Lorenze and his sister had argued about, that had set her shit off. She didn’t want the boy to know about his father, that was her business. But here it was now, affecting him, Lorenze. Standing in his way. All he wanted was a little somethin’, a way in. Lorenze tried not to think on it too hard, ’cause it only made him angry.
He glanced over at his nephew. Joe Wilder’s helmet was next to him on the bench seat. He held an action figure in his hand, some guy in tights. Sunglasses had been painted on the man’s rubber face.
Lorenze let his breath out slow. He hadn’t been around kids too much himself. But as kids went, his nephew seemed all right. Lorenze made himself smile and tried to put a tone of interest in his voice.
“Who’s that, Joe?”
“The Rock.”
“That’s that Puerto Rican boy, right?”
“I don’t know what he is, but he’s bad. I got a whole rack of wrestlers like this at home.”
“Bet you ain’t got no good ice cream at your mama’s place.”
“Sometimes we do.”
“What kind of ice cream you like?”
“Chocolate and vanilla. Like, when they mix ’em up.”
“I think I know where this one place is.” They were south of Howard University now, and Lorenze turned the wheel and went east on Rhode Island Avenue. “Let’s see if it’s open, okay?”
Had Wilder bothered to look in his rearview, he would have seen a white Plymouth following him from four or five car lengths back.
“HE ain’t droppin’ that kid off,” said White.
“Just keep on doin’ what you’re doin’,” said Potter.
Carlton Little passed the fat bone over the front seat to Potter. Potter took it and hit it deep. He kept the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could stand it. He exhaled and killed the forty of malt and dropped the bottle at his feet. The music from the radio was loud in the car.
In the Edgewood Terrace area of Northeast, still on Rhode Island, Potter saw the blue Olds slow down up ahead. It turned into a parking lot where a white building stood, fronted with glass and screens.
“Keep drivin’ by it,” said Potter.
As they passed the building, Potter saw that it was a take-out ice-cream joint, had a sign out front looked like a kid had drawn it. Next to it was a 7-Eleven with plywood over its windows and red condemnation notices stuck on the boards.
“Drive around the block, Coon.”
White made a left at the next intersection, and the next one after that. Potter reached into his waistband and drew the .357 Colt that he had there. He broke the cylinder and checked the load. He jerked his wrist to snap the cylinder shut, as he had seen it done in the movies, but it did not connect, and he used his free hand to finish the job. He tightened his fingers on the revolver’s rubber grip.
“Get your shit ready, Dirty,” said Potter.
“I’m tryin’ to,” said Little, with a nervous giggle. He had his 9mm automatic out from under the front seat. He had released the magazine and was now trying to slide it back in. Little had gotten this Glock 17, the current sidearm of the MPD, from a boy he knew who owed him money, a drug debt erased. But Little hadn’t practiced with it much.
“Boy,” he said, “I am fucked up.” The magazine found its home with a soft click.
White brought the car back out to Rhode Island, about fifty yards south of the ice-cream place.
“Park it here and let it run,” said Potter.
As they pulled along the curb, Potter watched Lorenze Wilder and his nephew up at the screen window of the joint, the place where you ordered and paid. Wasn’t but one other car in the lot, a shitty Nissan. Well, it was September. The nights had cooled some.
“What’re we gonna do?” said White.
“Wait,” said Potter.
The person worked in the ice-cream place, had a paper hat on his head, Potter could see it from back on the street, was taking his time. Potter looked around the block. He didn’t see anyone outside the few residences that were situated around the commercial strip, but there could have been some people looking out at them from behind curtains and shit, you never knew. Later on, they might remember their car.
“Take it around the block again, Coon,” said Potter. “I don’t like us just sittin’ here like this.”
Potter pulled the trans down into drive and rolled out into the street. As they neared the ice-cream shop, Potter saw Wilder and his nephew walk toward the Olds. Then he saw the kid hand Wilder his cone and head back toward the shop. The kid was going around the side, where they had hung some swinging signs over a couple of doors.
“Keep goin’!” shouted Potter, and then he barked a laugh. “Oh, shit, that boy’s goin’ to the bathroom! Hit this motherfucker, man, go around the block quick. Just drive straight into that ice-cream lot when you get back onto Rhode Island, hear?”
White’s foot depressed the gas. He fishtailed the car as he made the left turn, and the tires squealed as he made the next one.
“You ready, Dirty?” said Potter.
“I guess I am,” said Little, his voice cracking some on the reply. He bunched up the McDonald’s trash by his side and flung it to the other side of the car. He thumbed off the Glock’s safety and racked the slide.
“Motherfucker thinks he gonna rise up and take me for bad,” said Potter. “He’s gonna find out somethin’ now.”
White made the next turn, and Rhode Island Avenue came up ahead. His hands were shaking. He gripped the wheel tightly to make the shaking stop.
JOE Wilder went around to the side of the building. He had to pee, and his uncle had told him they had a bathroom there. His uncle said to go now so he could enjoy his ice cream without squirming around in the car. But when Joe got to where the men’s room was, he saw that someone had put one of those heavy chains and a big padlock through the handle of the door.
He could hold it for a while. And the thought of that ice cream, the soft chocolate-and-vanilla mix, made him forget he had to go. He went back to the car and got inside.
“That was quick,” said Lorenze, handing Joe his cone.
“It’s all locked up,” said Joe. “But it’s all right.” He licked at the ice cream and caught some that had melted down on the cone.