“What’s this we’re listenin’ to?” said McGinnes.
“Thin White Rope,” said Stefanos.
“Sounds like the singer’s on the toilet, strainin’ one out.”
“Tight group. Saw ’em at the 9:30 last week. Guy named Petersen, used to be in the Insect Surfers, opened up for them. Davey Con Carne, he calls himself now. Bad show.”
“Yeah, okay. Slow down, Nick, you’re gettin’ too close. He’s gonna make us, man.”
“‘Make’ us? Nice expression, Johnny, real street. What, did you hear that on Hardcastle and McCormick or something?”
“I think it was Scarecrow and Mrs. King.”
Stefanos pulled over to the curb as the Bronco turned left off of 14th and went down Colorado. The driver stopped behind a black Trans Am that was parked in front of an Irish bar.
“Salt-and-pepper team,” said McGinnes as a mustached black man stepped out of the Pontiac, locked it, walked over to the Bronco’s passenger side, and opened the door.
“Here we go,” said Stefanos.
The Bronco headed south. Stefanos and McGinnes did the same.
“Man’s takin’ the scenic route,” said McGinnes as they drove down Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House. Across the street, in Lafayette Park, a city of tent dwellers covered the green.
“Reaganville,” said Stefanos.
“What am I supposed to do, take the day off and shed tears?”
“Oh, so they’re not really hungry, long as the rest of us are doing okay, right?”
“You’re losing them, Nick.”
“No, I’m not.”
Ten minutes later both cars were on East Capitol Street, driving toward the Anacostia River.
“Looks like we’re leaving D.C.,” said McGinnes.
Stefanos said, “I know.”
In Maryland, along Central Avenue, Stefanos eased up on the gas and pulled into a half-vacant strip mall off the highway. He had hung back, watching the Bronco roll down the service road behind the mall. He parked in the last space in front of the mall and cut the Dart’s engine. They could still see the Bronco as it came to a stop beside a few black imports in front of a bungalow backed by a small forest of trees.
The two men got out of the Bronco. McGinnes watched the black man with interest as he and the white man walked toward the house, stepped up onto the porch, and went through the front door.
“Nick?”
“What?”
“Nothin’, I guess.”
Stefanos and McGinnes sat there for the next ten minutes and killed the rest of the six.
“You get the address?” said McGinnes, crushing an empty in his hand and tossing it over his shoulder to the backseat.
“Got it.”
“Then that’s it. We did what we said we’d do.”
“I guess.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t feel like we’re finished yet, Johnny, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s funny, I feel the same way.” McGinnes put on a pair of shades. “I gotta take a piss.”
“I gotta take one, too,” said Stefanos.
They got out of the Dart, walked to the side of the strip mall, stood side by side, and urinated on the bricks.
McGinnes pissed his initials on the wall, then zipped up his fly. “Now that we’re out here—”
“What?”
“You’re curious, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you’re not.”
“Okay, I’m curious. And that malt liquor’s fucked with my head just enough to make me do something stupid.”
“I just wanna see what’s what. Maybe there’s some extra geld in it for us.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll do the talking.”
“Wasn’t any doubt in my mind that you would.”
They turned and walked toward the bungalow at the end of the road.
“Where is he?” said Richard Tutt.
“Who?” said Tyrell, sitting in his chair.
“Don’t be cute. On the phone earlier you told me you had the thief.”
“You mean that little white bird dropped out of the sky?” said Antony Ray. “One with the busted wing? Cheep, cheep, cheep.”
Ray laughed, reached across the table, and touched Short Man Monroe’s hand.
Alan Rogers sat in a chair pushed against the wall. He looked at Kevin Murphy, standing back by the door.
“Kidnapping’s a capital crime,” said Tutt, “case you geniuses didn’t know.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Tyrell.
“You better hope he lives. Add murder to the charges and you’re lookin’ at an automatic death penalty.”
“What charges? You gonna charge me with somethin’, Officer Tutt?”
“This ain’t D.C., Tyrell. Here in Maryland they don’t fuck around. Better tell that miniature psycho boy of yours and cousin An-tony the news.”
Monroe sat back, moved his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. He spun the Glock slowly on the table so the grip came to rest in his hand.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Tutt, “I see the gun, Short Man. You’re one tough case, aren’t you? Real tough with little boys. Oh, but look what happened to you when you came up against a full-grown man. That record store owner cut your little ass down to size real good and quick, didn’t he? Had to go and kill a couple of kids just to make yourself feel tall.”
“Come on,” said Monroe, rising from his chair. “You wanna go, let’s go.”
Antony Ray put his hand on Monroe’s chest, pushed him down in his seat.
“This ain’t the time,” said Ray.
Monroe stared at Tutt and smiled. Tutt breathed out slow. Tyrell looked into the fire, ran one long finger up and down his cheek.
“Where’s Golden?” said Murphy in a very quiet way.
“Our voice of reason,” said Tyrell. “Always glad to know we got an ice-cool mothafucker like you on our side.”
“Where is he?” said Murphy.
Tyrell made an elaborate motion with his hand. “Bedroom on the left.”
“He gonna make it?”
“Far as I know. Alan been takin’ care of him, givin’ him water and food. Alan’s in love with a girl, case you haven’t heard — turned him all sensitive and shit.”
Murphy nodded at Rogers. “Alan did good. Because you have to keep him alive. My partner here spoke the truth. It’s important for all of us that he lives.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Officer Murphy,” said Tyrell. “Golden’s worth nothin’ to me dead. ’Specially since Clay and that white dude he works with still got our money.”
“Who told you that?”
“Eddie told us. And me and Alan and Short are going to see Mr. Marcus Clay after dark and talk about a trade. See if we can’t get together on some other points, too. Might take a little persuadin’, understand, but he’ll come around.” Tyrell looked curiously at Murphy. “You got a problem with that?”
Murphy said nothing.
Antony Ray’s fingers spread the blinds on the bay window. “Aw, shit,” he said. “What the fuck we got here?”
They all looked through the window. Two white men, one nearing middle age and one on the young side, walked the gravel road toward the house.
“Cops,” said Monroe.
“Are they?” said Tyrell.
Tutt squinted. “None I ever seen.”
“This some kind of bust, man? ’Cause if it is—”
“I’m tellin’ you, Tyrell, I don’t make those two as cops.”
“You and Murphy get your asses to the back till we figure out what the fuck they want.”
Alan Rogers stood up and pressed his back to the wall. Antony Ray stayed in his seat. Monroe picked a towel up off the floor and draped it over the automatic he held in his hand.