Soul Circus

“Pull back,” said Long. “They gonna see us, we sit here too long.”

They were on the cross street, looking at the Nissan idling, smoke coming from its pipe. Jones backed the Maxima up so that they were out of the Coateses’ sight. He kept the engine going and turned the radio off.

“Now they can’t see us,” said Jones, “but we can’t see them.”

“I can hear their car,” said Long, a shake in his voice. “They still there.”

It was true. They could hear the motor knocking on the cousins’ car, and the same music they’d been listening to coming from its open windows.

“Go on, then,” said Jones. “You gonna do it, do it now, cause now’s the time.”

“I will.”

“Just walk right up to that car and fire inside it. Head shots if you can. You got five in that motherfucker, right?”

Five’s all I need, thought Long, intending to say it, wanting to be loose and cool, but unable to because his mouth was so dry. It was like those dreams he had sometimes, when he’d be tryin’ to speak and couldn’t get his lips unglued.

“Go ahead, Nut,” said Jones, his voice gentle. “I’ll pick you up there.”

“Lil’ J,” said Long.

“You don’t have to say nothin’. You know I got your back.”

Long got out of the car and closed his door without force. His legs were weak as he crossed the street. He held the blue revolver tight against his leg and he made it to the side of the market, where he flattened his back against its brick wall. He looked back at his friend for a moment, then pushed away from the wall. He turned the corner and stepped off the sidewalk. He walked toward the Nissan idling along the curb.

IN the market, James Coates unrolled some cash as the woman behind the counter bagged up his shit.

“Put them rinds on top,” said James.

She was some kind of slope. He didn’t know which kind and he didn’t care. All of them who had these stores looked the same to him. This one had a kid, had one of those big-ass heads with a flat face. He was sitting near the entrance to the back room, playing with some toy cars and shit.

The woman placed a six-pack of beer in the bag, along with a pack of White Owls and a large plastic bag of pork rinds up top. She took his money, gave him his change, smiled, and thanked him.

James Coates said nothing. He took the bag off the counter and cradled it under his left arm. He heard gunshots from outside and turned his head.

LONG approached the Nissan. The music was coming loud. Still the same song, Long thinking, How long can this motherfucker play? He could see the head of one of the cousins, bobbing as he sat low in his seat. He could see the cluster of little tree deodorizers hanging from the rearview. He could see no one on the passenger side. The other one must be in that store, thought Long. But he didn’t look at the store. He needed to keep moving. His pace was steady, and his adrenaline was pushing him toward the car.

The cousin behind the wheel turned his head some as Long came up on him. His expression was like nothing as Long shot the gun directly into his face. The cousin’s blood came back at Long in a spray, and Long fired again and one more time as the cousin pitched over to the side. The cousin’s face was all over the interior of the car, and Long dropped the Taurus to the asphalt and puked up what he’d had for lunch.

He felt something like the stab of a knife between his shoulder blades and he heard a gunshot at the same time and knew he’d been shot hisself. He fell onto his back and kind of turned his head to the side and saw the other cousin walking toward him. The other cousin had a bag of groceries or sumshit in one hand and a gun in the other, and he was smiling and tears were going down his face.

Long tried to get to his feet, but he couldn’t move at all. He could feel the puke chunks on his lips and it felt warm on his behind where he’d shit hisself.

The cousin was standing over him now. His eyes were mad-bulged as he pointed the gun at Long’s face.

“Aaah,” said Long.

Long saw the cousin’s gun hand shake. He saw the cousin’s finger pull back on the trigger. He tried to scream but never got it out.

JAMES Coates fired three rapid shots – face, neck, chest – into the jumping body of Jerome Long. He heard the cry of tires on asphalt and turned.

A Maxima was fishtailing around the corner. He could hear the engine roar as the driver pinned the gas. The car was coming right at him.

Coates fired into the windshield. He stayed where he was and he kept firing and he felt himself lifted off the street and a shower of beer and pork rinds around him. The world spun crazily, and he heard himself gurgle and felt nothing but confusion. His back had been broken and so had his neck. His eyes saw nothing forever.

The Maxima sideswiped two parked cars down the block and came to a stop near the next corner when it crashed into a telephone pole. Behind the wheel, Allante Jones sat low, his jaw slack, his eyes fixed. Had he been able to see, he would have seen a spidered windshield and upon it his own blood. A bullet had entered his forehead, tumbled through his brain, and ended his life.

Outside the market, the street was quiet, except for a Missy Elliot song coming from the open windows of a Nissan 240SX.

Inside the market, a woman named Sung locked the front door, extinguished the lights, and sat down on the floor with her little boy. His name was Tommy. She held him tightly and told him not to cry.

Chapter 21

WHILE Quinn went into a market on Georgia for a six, Strange idled the Chevy along the curb and made a couple of calls on his cell. He talked to Janine, found out what she had learned from his requests earlier in the day, and told her he’d be home after picking up Greco at the row house on Buchanan. Then he found attorney Elaine Clay’s card in his wallet and punched in the number to her pager. He talked about the private investigator she used and learned how to reach him.

“He straight?” said Strange.

“He’s got his ghosts, if that’s what you mean,” said Elaine. “He’s trying to beat drinking, and I think it’s a long fight. But on the work side of things, there’s no one more straight.”

“Stefanos,” said Strange, reading aloud what he’d written.

“Stefanos,” said Elaine, putting the accent on the correct syllable. “These Greeks get touchy about their names.”

“I heard that,” said Strange, knowing then where he would try to meet this Stefanos face-to-face. “Thanks, Elaine. Say hello to Marcus for me, hear?”

Ten minutes later, Strange and Quinn stood beside Quinn’s Chevelle on Buchanan Street.

“Can you get out tomorrow?” said Strange.

“Every day, you want me to. Lewis is cutting me back.”

“Phil Wood’s taking the stand tomorrow, so my time is getting short. I could use the company and the help.”

“And you can help me on the Welles runaway thing.”