Soul Circus

“What we gonna do now, then?”

“Let’s roll over to Foreman’s first and buy us another gun. I spoke to him, and he’s still got this Sig I had my eye on for a while. He’s expecting another piece later on today, too, case we need it. He’s got a boy he uses, gonna make a run.”

Montgomery pulled the keys to the Benz from his pocket and twirled them on his finger. “I’m ready.”

“We gonna have us our little war, I guess.”

“Might not happen too soon. Durham’s got his head turned around, lookin’ after that fool brother of his.”

“That might be the time to hit him,” said McKinley, rising laboriously from the chair. “While he’s weak.”

ULYSSES Foreman stood on the back deck of his house, smoking a cigar. Ashley was back in their room, packing for her trip down to her daddy’s in southern Maryland. She had the stereo on in there, Chaka Khan singin’ about “I’m every woman,” Ashley singing along. She loved Chaka. So did Ulysses, back when she was with Rufus. That was a fine motherfucker right there.

Foreman held one arm out and flexed as he drew on his cigar. He needed to get over to the gym, looked like he was starting to atrophy. Man had to pay attention to his body, especially in times like these.

It had been a morning. A call from Dewayne Durham about that brother of his and that goddamn gun. That was his own fault, renting the Taurus to Twigs. Once a fuck-up, et cetera. Foreman should have known. Apparently Mario had claimed that he knew about the gun being hot, too. Foreman had told Dewayne that this wasn’t so, but he wasn’t sure it had registered all the way. Now he’d have to do something for Dewayne just to keep his fire down. A gift, that would work; he could lay a gun on him, nothing too expensive, but no cheap-ass Lorcin, either, nothin’ like that. The kid from Alexandria was making a run for him today; he’d have him pick something up.

Then he’d talked to Horace McKinley, who had acted all unconcerned that he had sold that gun to Durham’s boy Jerome Long, who’d gone and used it on the cousins. The fat man acting unconcerned, but always strategizing. Foreman wondered what he’d want in the end.

Foreman moved his head around some, back and forth, trying to get the ache out his neck. Shit was just building up.

“I’m ready,” said Ashley, behind him.

He hadn’t heard her, with all that thinking he’d been doing. But he could smell that body spray she liked, raspberry, from that “collection” of Nubian Goddess fragrances she bought at the CVS.

Foreman turned. She had on some shorts-and-top thing, looked like pajamas to him. When he’d said so she’d laughed and told him that it was a daytime outfit she’d bought at Penney’s. She was carrying a glass of chardonnay in one hand, had one of her Viceroys in the other.

“You done packing?”

“Said I was ready, sugar. I was wondering, should I take my gun?”

“Leave it,” said Foreman. “You won’t need it down on that farm, anyway. And the way you drive with that lead foot of yours, you might get pulled over. No reason to risk that.”

Ashley moved forward, held her cigarette away so that the smoke didn’t crawl up into his eyes. He could smell the wine and nicotine on her breath as she kissed him deep. The woman could hoover a man’s tongue. He had hit it that morning, just a couple of hours ago, but he felt himself growing hard again. He reached down and stroked the back of her thighs, felt the ridges and pocks there. He liked everything about her, even those marks.

“I love you, Ulee.”

“I know you do.”

“Couldn’t you just say it back?”

“I show you every day, don’t I?”

“Wish you could come with me.”

“So do I, but I got business to attend to. Keep your cell on, hear?”

“I will.”

“You always say you will, but then I get that voice says, Leave a message.”

“I’ll keep it on.”

“I’ll call you later.”

From the front steps, he watched her pull away in that Cougar of hers, feeling strange as she turned onto Wheeler Road, like maybe he should have gone with her this time, just gotten the fuck away. But this house, the woods, the seclusion, it had all been bought with sweat and hard work; none of it came easy. You needed to remember how much you loved your lifestyle when it came time to protect it. That’s why, despite the funny rumbling in his gut, he was hanging back here today.

A car soon came down the drive, that boy was gonna make the buy and some girl he knew. A little while from now, Foreman figured, McKinley and that sidekick of his, one with the long arms they called Monkey, they were gonna be rollin’ in here, too.

DETECTIVE Nathan Grady stood over Donut, who sat on the couch. Donut had invited Grady to have a seat with him, but Grady had said that he preferred to stand. Always look down on the person you were interviewing, and crowd them when you could.

Donut’s legs were scissoring back and forth, and sweat had formed on his upper lip, betraying his friendly, accommodating smile.

“So you don’t know about the whereabouts of your friend Mario.”

“Nah, uh-uh.”

“And you weren’t aware that he was wanted on a murder?”

“No, I wasn’t aware of that situation right there.”

“Seems like everybody in Anacostia’s heard about it but you.”

“Now that you tell me, though, I feel real bad about that girl got herself dead.”

“You haven’t heard from your friend in the past few days, have you?”

“Been a long while. I was just wonderin’ today where he been at.”

“I suppose we could go into your phone records. Ask around with your neighbors, too. Maybe they’ve seen him coming in and out of here.”

“You should. I’d like to know my own self where he is.”

Grady rocked back on the heels of his Rocksports. He looked back at the uniformed officer standing by the door, then lifted his head and made a show of sniffing the air. Donut watched him, thinking, Here it comes.

“That marijuana I smell, Dough-nut?”

“I don’t smell nothin’.”

“You got some priors, so it made me think, you know, you might still be dealing.”

“That was the old me. I been rehabilitated. And I go to church now, too.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I looked around?”

Donut shrugged. This motherfucker did find something, it wouldn’t be but an ounce or so. What they call personal-use stuff. He’d be on the street in an hour, and the charge would get thrown out, anyway, come court date. He knew it, and so did this bobo with a shield. As for the stuff he had that looked like crack, shit, that wasn’t nothin’ but baking soda cooked hard. Make them all look stupid when they got it back to the lab.

“You know what an accessory-to-homicide conviction would do to you, with your history?”

“I got an idea. But, see, I don’t know where Mario is.”