Strange’s cell rang. He unclipped it from his belt. The caller ID read “Unknown.”
“Derek Strange here.”
“It’s Nathan Grady. Where you at?”
“Southeast.”
“Mario Durham’s been shot to death. I’m at the crime scene right now. Thought you and your partner would want to know.”
“Damn.”
“He went cleaner than the Elliot girl. You can come over if you want to have a look at him. I’m gonna be here awhile.”
“Give me the directions,” said Strange.
Strange told Quinn the news, then followed him into Far Northeast.
DEWAYNE Durham was sleeping on the mattress in the second-floor bedroom when his cell rang and woke him. He had not heard or even been subconsciously aware of the two shots McKinley had fired out in the alley. Durham had been in a very deep sleep, and he had been dreaming. As he reached for the phone, he tried to bring back pieces of his dream. Something about his mother, but he couldn’t recall what it was.
That homicide detective, Grady, was on the phone. He was calling to tell Dewayne that his brother, Mario, had been shot dead over in Northeast. One bullet to the head, close range. “What kind of gun?” said Dewayne. Grady found the question odd but told him that it had most likely been a .45, as a spent shell casing had been found near Mario’s body. Dewayne asked him how they knew it was Mario, and Grady described his Redskins getup, telling him that the clothing description coming over the radio was what had sent him to the scene.
Dewayne shook his head. Fool never even thought to change his shit.
Grady told Dewayne that he’d called him first as a courtesy. That he would call his mother next if he wanted him to. Dewayne said he’d prefer to go to her place, give her the news in person. Then he could come to the scene and identify the body if that was what the detective wanted him to do. Grady said fine, and not to rush, since the ME crew and photographers would be there for some time. He gave Dewayne the address and cut the line without saying good-bye.
Dewayne Durham sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed at his face. If he was gonna cry, then now would be the time. Get it done up here, alone, then go down and tell Zulu what was going on. But he couldn’t even will himself to cry.
He’d shed tears with his mother later on, he supposed. Seeing her cry, that would be what would set him off. But for now all he could think of was the get-back. Wondering who hated him enough, and who was bold enough, to do something like this to a member of his family. Because that person had to know that he’d signed his own death certificate tonight.
Dewayne picked up the stainless Colt .45 with the rosewood checkered grips that lay on the floor and got up off the mattress. He slipped the gun under his waistband and slanted it so that the butt was within easy reach of his right hand. Then he went down the stairs.
Bernard Walker sat at the card table in the soft glow of the candlelight. There were a couple of Slim Jims and an open bag of chips lying on the table, along with Walker’s Glock. Walker was listening to some go-go, the new 911 PA tape he’d bought off a street vendor, on his box, but the volume was way down low.
“I kept it soft,” said Walker, looking up at Durham, “so you could sleep.”
“I’m up now,” said Durham. “And I got some news.”
ULYSSES Foreman handed Horace McKinley a full magazine. McKinley slapped the clip into the butt of his Sig.
“There we go,” said McKinley, smiling. His gums were spiderwebbed red, and some of the blood had seeped into the spaces between his teeth. “Don’t feel so naked now.”
“Brought you that first-aid shit you asked for,” said Foreman, eyeing the big man’s saddlebag chest. There was a damp burgundy stain on his wife-beater, where his right tit was.
“Gimme it,” said McKinley. He holstered the Sig in his warm-up pants and reached for the white plastic bag that held the gauze and tape. “What I owe you for that?”
“Nothin’,” said Foreman.
“You can take your jacket off, you want to.”
“I’ll just leave it on.”
“Got your shit on underneath, right?”
“You know I do.”
“Have a seat,” said McKinley. “I’ll be right back.”
Foreman watched McKinley go into a hall toward the kitchen. It was shorter to go through the dining room, but McKinley would have trouble squeezing through the space. Fat motherfucker must have stock in McDonald’s, Burger King, and KFC all at the same time, thought Foreman. He couldn’t understand how a man could let his body go like that.
In the kitchen, McKinley washed himself over the sink. He had water and electric, unlike those Little Orphan Annie motherfuckers across the alley. As he thought of them, he glanced through the back-door window and saw the house on Atlantic, lit by candlelight. Looked like Dewayne Durham and Bernard Walker were having one of those romantic dinners and shit. Now would be a good time to interrupt him.