Drama City

'Make the story better,' said Miller, 'if you know her name.'

'How am I supposed to remember her name, all the girls I done had?' Lee grinned. 'I can tell you one thing about her, though.'

'What?'

'She looked like your little sister.'

'Hmm.'

'Matter of fact,' said Lee, getting into it now, 'it might could have been your sister. Dark as it was that night, I couldn't tell.'

'Did she scream?'

'Like I was murderin' it, son.'

'Then it wasn't my sister.'

'Why you say that?'

'My sister don't scream when you fuck her,' said Miller.

'That's 'cause you ain't doin' it right,' said Lee. Only Lee laughed.

Not much later, DeEric Green and Michael Butler came out of the row house and got into the Escalade. When they pulled off the curb, Rico Miller fired up the BMW and followed the Cadillac north, back to NJ Enterprises, Nigel Johnson's storefront on Georgia Avenue.

CHAPTER 11

Lorenzo Brown went through his voice mail and got his paperwork up to date before clocking out of the office. He said good night to Mark, Irena, and his other coworkers, and patted the heads and stroked the bellies of his favorite animals, those who ran free and those caged in the basement kennel. Many were not pleased to be in cages, but all were better off than they were before they had been impounded. The lucky ones would be adopted and get second lives in good homes.

Out on the sidewalk, Lorenzo went two doors down to the spay clinic to check on Queen, the old lady's cat from over near Kennedy Street. The calico was shaking in the back of her cage.

'You all right,' said Lorenzo, putting his index finger through the links. Queen edged forward and rubbed her face against his skin. 'You gonna feel different, is all, when this is done. More calm.'

The Humane employees parked their work trucks and personal cars on Floral Place, a residential court behind the office alley, accessible through a break in a narrow stand of trash trees and brush. Parking stickers for that particular zone were available to residents only, so the employees were constantly dodging tickets from traffic control. The court folks were cool; the residents back there did not complain, knowing they could call on the dog people and get a quick response if they had a problem on their street.

Lorenzo got into his Pontiac Ventura, a 1974 he had bought on the cheap from the brother of a man he'd befriended in prison. The man had tipped him to the car and given him his brother's address, over in Far Northeast. The Ventura, GM's sister car to the Chevy Nova, was a green-over-green two-door and held that strong 350 engine, highly regarded in its time, under the hood. It had been in poor but serviceable shape when Lorenzo bought it, but at eight hundred dollars the price was right. After he turned it over to his boy Joe Carver, who had always been good with cars, the vehicle was more than right. Joe had installed new belts, hoses, plugs and wires, ball joints, and shocks. He'd replaced the muffler and the dual pipes, injected Freon into the cooling system, and reupholstered the back and front bench seats. Once that was done, Lorenzo had washed and detailed the Pontiac under an oak on Otis and stepped back to admire it. The Ventura had nice, clean lines.

The Pontiac was old and needed a paint job and new chrome, but it was a runner. Young men driving drug cars, who knew only of German luxury automobiles and upscale rice burners, laughed at him at streetlights, but he got compliments occasionally from men older than he was. They called it 'that Seven-Ups car,' and when he asked them what they meant, they said, 'The movie, youngun.' If it was a movie, it was before his time, but Lorenzo said politely that he'd have to check it out someday. He'd never been one to watch movies, but it was something he was meaning to get around to. He had gotten into books in lockdown some, for the first time in his life. The prison librarian, a pale man named Ray Mitchell, had turned him on to street stories by writers like Donald Goines, Chester Himes, and this dude Gary Phillips, had his picture on the dust jackets, big man with Chinese eyes, looked like the real. So movies, yeah, maybe he would start to check out some of those. He'd like to read more books too. He sure did have time.

Lorenzo drove south on Georgia, into the city. Dusk had fallen on the streets.

Down near Fort Stevens, in the retail strip between Brightwood and Manor Park, he parked and entered the Arrow Cleaners. Lorenzo had his uniform shirts cleaned and pressed there. It was an extra expense, but he felt that a man needed to look right, like he cared about what he was doing, when he was on the job. This place here always gave him good service. The owner-operator, a Greek named Billy Caludis, showed him respect. Caludis had hung a Dick Gregory poster up on the wall, another reason for Lorenzo to patronize the shop. Lorenzo had read Nigger in prison too.

'No starch, on hangers,' said Caludis, handing Lorenzo his order across the counter. 'Right, Mr Brown?'

'Right,' said Lorenzo. 'You have a good one.'

Coming out of the store with his shirts in hand, he saw Nigel standing on the sidewalk with two of his people out front of his place, NJ Enterprises, on the other side of Georgia. Lorenzo opened the back door of the Ventura and laid his shirts flat on the seat. Those hooks they put in most cars were long gone from this one.

'Hey, Renzo!' said the booming voice of Nigel Johnson. 'Hey, man, what you doin'?'

Lorenzo turned, stayed where he was, shouted across the lanes of north and southbound traffic to his friend. 'Just got off work. 'Bout to head home.'

Nigel put his hands on his hips and bugged his eyes theatrically. 'And you just gonna, what, drive that race car away without stoppin' to say hello to your old boy?'

Lorenzo hesitated, then locked down his car. Nigel was right. Wasn't any harm in visiting now and again. It sure wasn't like Nigel was gonna try and make him re-enlist. It had been a while since they'd spoke. Lorenzo waited for a break in traffic before crossing the street.