Drama City

'Like Seabiscuit.'

'Bet she looked like that motherfucker too.'

Lee finished wiping the black buckets and pulled himself out of the car. 'You two can finish up. I'm gonna grab a cigarette.'

'You ain't been on shift all that long,' said Momo.

'Fuck y'all,' said Lee. 'I'm gonna have one anyway.'

He dropped his rag and went into the pay area, which was separated from the wash bay by a long glass wall. Customers stood there and watched their cars roll down the line like there was something interesting about it, or like they were trying to catch a mistake. In the pay area a Korean woman, the wife of the owner, stood behind the register. In front of the counter was a display rack of little tree deodorizers, crown deodorizers for the African customers, maps, fluorescent key rings, El Salvador and Guatemala decal flags for the Spanish, and sunglasses that had been in style in 1985.

Wasn't no surprise that Koreans owned this joint. You threw a rock at any small business in the city, thought Lee, good chance you'd hit a slope's head. This woman here smiled and said the same thing, 'Thank you so much,' to all the customers as she took their money, and scowled at the employees when she saw them without a rag in their hands and said, 'Where you go now?'

Melvin Lee passed her on the way to the bathroom.

'Where you go now?' she said.

'To pull on my rod,' said Lee with a friendly smile. She understood the smile but not the words.

'Hurry up,' she said.

Lee went into the bathroom, took a pee, then went out the back door and bummed a menthol from the old man who worked the pressurized hose. He lit the smoke and went around the side of the business, where a few cars were idling in line, and he dragged on the cigarette and let the cool of a Salem hit his lungs.

I get off paper, thought Lee, and I won't have to put up with none of this bullshit anymore.

Rico's silver BMW pulled into the driveway entrance. Miller stopped alongside the brick wall of the building, where he could not be seen by the drying crew, and landed on his horn.

'Stupid-ass kid,' said Lee, crushing the cigarette under his boot.

Lee walked to the BMW and stood by its driver's-side window. Miller's white T-shirt was streaked and splattered with blood. His eyes were electric and alive.

'What happened?' said Lee, a sense of dread hitting him like a slap in the face. 'Thought I told you to stay put.'

'Law came for you, Melvin,' said Miller. 'I took care of it, man. For you.'

'Aw, shit, Rico.'

'Melvin, you gotta get in the car. They gonna be comin' for you now, for real.'

'Rico…'

'Get in.'

Lee walked slowly around the car. He dropped into the shotgun bucket and looked over at Miller.

'Where we goin'?'

'My place,' said Miller. 'You gonna see where I stay at now.'

Deacon Taylor lived in one of the new condos around U Street, within walking distance of the Lincoln Theater, Ben's, and many nightclubs and bars. His place was nicely furnished, with a granite-counter kitchen and a bathroom with limestone walls and a huge jetted tub built to hold three. He was only blocks from where he did his dirt, but in terms of the lifestyle, he was far away.

Deacon was listening to some Ronald Isley when the buzzer sounded at the front door. He checked his security camera and saw that it was police, the same Homicide team he'd spoke to earlier, come to see him for the second time that day. Deacon kept nothing in the apartment, no excessive amounts of cash and no guns or drugs, not even weed, so he was not worried. But he was curious to know why the MPD was back so soon. The men on the other side of the door identified themselves, and Deacon worked several locks to let them in.

'Yeah,' said Deacon.

'It's us again,' said Detective Steve Bournias, a stocky white man with a thin mustache.

'I can see that.'

'Sorry to bother you,' said Detective Reginald Ballard.

'We've got a problem, though,' said Bournias. 'Wonder if we can't get a little bit more of your time.'

'This about those murders over on Crittenden? I already told you, I don't know nothin' about it.'

'This isn't about those murders.'

'Well, what is it about? I'm busy—'

'Fellow by the name of Melvin Lee, used to work for you. Probably still does, but that's neither here nor there.'

'Now wait a minute—'

'Melvin Lee,' said Ballard. 'Lives on Sherman Avenue?'

'What about him?'