Hell To Pay

shame yourselves now, hear?”

The Panthers met the Cardinals in the center of the field, touched hands as they went down the line. The Panthers said ‘Good game’ to each player they passed, and the Cardinals mumbled the same words in reply. Dante Morris stared into the eyes of the pug-nosed boy who had cracked on their uniforms, but Morris didn’t say a word, and the boy quickly looked away. At the end of the line the Cardinals’ coach shook Strange’s hand and congratulated him through teeth nearly clenched.

“All right,” said Quinn, as the team returned and took a knee before him. “I liked the way you guys played today. A lot of heart. Just remember, it’s not always going to be this easy. We’re going to be playing teams who have better athletes and are better coached. And you need to be ready. Ready in your minds, which means you keep your heads in the books during the day. And ready physically as well. That means we’re going to continue to practice as hard as we ever have. We want the championship this year, right?”

“Right!”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Right!”

“What time is practice Monday night?” said Strange.

“Six o’clock on the dot, be there, don’t miss it!”

“I’m proud of you boys,” said Strange.

chapter 17

LATER that afternoon, Quinn sat behind the counter of Silver Spring Books reading The Pistoleer, a novel by James Carlos Blake. His coworker, Lewis, was back in the military history room, straightening the shelves. A homeless intellectual whom everyone in the area called Moonman was sitting on the floor in the sci-fi room, reading a paperback edition of K. W. Jeter’s The Glass Hammer. A customer browsed the mystery stacks nearby.

Quinn had put Johnny Winter And on the turntable, and the molten blues-metal classic was playing at a low volume throughout the store. Syreeta, the owner of the business, who was rarely on site, had instructed the employees to play the used vinyl in stock to advertise the merchandise. This disc, with its faded black-and-white cover portraits, had recently been inventoried as part of a large purchase, a carton of seventies albums.

Quinn cherished these quiet afternoons in the shop.

The mystery customer, a thin man in his early forties, brought a paperback to the register and placed it on the glass counter. It was Elmore Leonard’s Unknown Man No. 89, one of the mass-market publications Avon had done with the cool cover art depicting a montage of the book’s elements; this one displayed a snub-nosed .38, spilled-out shells, and an overturned shot glass.

“You ever read his westerns?” said Quinn. “They’re the best, in my opinion.”

“I go for the crime stuff set in Detroit. There’s a lot of different Leonard camps and they’ve all got opinions.” The customer nodded to one of the speakers mounted up on the wall. “Haven’t heard this for a while.”

“It just came in. The vinyl’s in good shape, if you want it.”

“I own it, but I haven’t pulled it out of the shelf for a long time. That’s Rick Derringer on second lead.”

“Who?”

“Yeah, you’re too young. Him and Johnny, the two of them were just on fire on this session. One of those lightning-in-a-bottle things. Listen to ‘Prodigal Son,’ the cut leads off side two.”

“I will.” Quinn gave the man his change and a receipt. “Thanks a lot. And take it easy, hear?”

“You, too.”

Quinn figured this guy had a wife, kids, a good job. You’d pass him on the street and think he was your average square. But one thing you learned working here was that just about everyone had something worthwhile to say if you took the time to listen. Everyone was more interesting when you got to know them a little than they initially appeared to be. That was the other thing he liked about working in a place like this. The conversations you got into and the people you met. Of course, he had met plenty of people on a daily basis in his former profession. But it almost always started from an adversarial place when you met them as a cop.

Quinn read some more of his novel. A little while later, Quinn watched Sue Tracy cross Bonifant Street on foot. She was wearing her post-punk utilitarian gear and had a day pack slung over her shoulder. Quinn’s heart actually skipped, watching her walk. He was imagining her naked atop his sheets.

The small bell over the door rang as she walked in. Quinn let his feet drop off the counter, but he didn’t get up out of his seat.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“New in town?”

“I missed you.”

“I’ve been missing you, too.”

“Got on the Metro and walked up from the station. Can you get away?”

“I can probably sneak out, sure.”

“It’s a beautiful day.”

“I’ve got my car here. We can, I don’t know, go for a ride.”

Tracy looked down at the book in Quinn’s hand. “What’s that, a western?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“What’s with you and your partner? Strange went on about some scene from The Magnificent