Soul Circus(109)

“What’s goin’ on, family?” said Strange. He hugged Lionel, then Janine. He kissed her and kept his arm around her shoulder after breaking their embrace.

“We’re just getting acquainted,” said Janine, smiling at Devra.

“Everyone’s nice,” said Devra.

“Yeah, they’re all right,” said Strange.

“Where you been, Pop? Keeping the streets safe for democracy?”

“While the city sleeps,” said Strange.

“Hungry?” said Janine.

“You know I am.”

“I saved you some meat loaf.”

“Knew there was a reason my car turned down this street on its own.”

“You could have stopped at any old restaurant,” said Janine.

“It wouldn’t be home,” said Strange. He kissed her again, and this time did not break away. “Ain’t nothin’ better than this.”



QUINN went home to a quiet, empty apartment. He hadn’t heard from Sue Tracy all day and hadn’t expected to. She and her partner, Karen, were close to finding a girl they’d been looking for for the past month or so. They’d planned to snatch her off the street that night.

The message light on his machine was blinking and Quinn hit the bar. It was Sue, asking him to call her on her cell.

He took off his shirt, washed his neck and face over the bathroom sink, and washed under his arms. He changed into a clean white T-shirt, went to the kitchen, found a Salisbury steak dinner in the freezer, and put it in his microwave oven. He set the power and time and touched the start button, then moved out to the living room and phoned Sue.

“Sue Tracy.”

“Terry Quinn.”

“Stop it.”

“Where are you?”

“Out at Seven Locks with Karen. We got our girl. We’re processing the paperwork with the police, and her mother is on the way.”

“Can you come over?”

“It’s gonna be a couple of hours.”

Quinn looked at his watch. “Christ, it’s late.”

“Too late?”

“No, no. I want to see you.”

“Good. Did you have a productive day?”

“A lot happened,” said Quinn. “I don’t know about productive.”

“What about Linda Welles? Anything?”

“Yeah, plenty,” said Quinn, too quickly. “I’ll give it to you when you get here.”

“You might be sleeping.”

“Wake me up.”

“I’m going to, believe me. Listen, Terry, they’re calling us in. Love you.”

“I love you,” said Quinn.

The line went dead. Quinn stared at the phone.

I’ll give it to you when you get here.

He had a couple of hours to kill before Sue would be by. Enough time to go down there, get it, and have it for her when she arrived.

It wasn’t about finding Linda Welles. It was about doing something, and in the process, getting back a piece of his pride. He knew this, but he pushed the knowledge to the back of his mind.

Quinn went to the kitchen. He had a few bites of the Salisbury steak and some of the accompanying potatoes and mixed vegetables. Just enough to make his hunger headache fade but not enough to make him heavy and slow. He threw the rest of the dinner in the trash. He drank a large glass of water and walked to his bedroom.

Quinn retrieved his Colt, a black .45 with checkered grips, a five-inch barrel, and a seven-shot load, from his chest of drawers. He released the magazine, examined it, and slapped it back into the butt. He racked the slide. Quinn had bought the piece, a model O, after a conversation in a local bar.

It never would have happened, I had my gun.

Quinn holstered the Colt behind the waistband of his jeans and put on his black leather jacket.

Okay, so he’d been punked. He could fix that now.

He thought of Strange. He hadn’t lied to him. He’d gone home like he’d promised.

Quinn grabbed some tapes, a pen, and the Linda Welles file on his way out the door. He walked out into the night air, letting the mist cool his face. He ignitioned the Caprice and put Copperhead Road into the deck and turned it up. As he was going south on Georgia, the traffic lights flashed yellow. Quinn’s long sight was gone and the lights were a blur. He downshifted coming out of the tunnel under the pedestrian bridge leading to the railroad tracks. A freight train neared the station as he passed. Going up the hill, Quinn punched the gas.



IN Far Southeast, Quinn stopped the Chevelle on Southern Avenue near Naylor Road. He withdrew his Colt and flicked its safety off, then refitted it under his jacket. He turned off Southern and drove up Naylor. He passed the well-tended Naylor Gardens complex, the buildings deteriorating in appearance as he moved on. Up past Naylor Plaza he saw the group of young men sitting on the front steps of their unit at the top of a rise of weeds and dirt. He swung the Chevelle around in the street and parked behind a red Toyota Solara with gold-accented alloy wheels and gold trim.