“He did, huh?”
“And we in the ring, performing like the white man expects us to. One big ring of souls, killin’ each other while Mr. Charlie claps. You think it’s like that?”
“I don’t know if it is or if it isn’t. But take a look around you, boy. What else we gonna do? ’Cause there ain’t nothin’ else.” Jones shook his head. “Nothin’.”
Long was high. He stared through the windshield. He saw nothing and no way out. Though the night air was warm, he felt a chill run through him. The cold feeling went all the way down to his feet.
“Don’t you ever get scared?” said Long.
“Not really,” said Jones. He looked away from Long then. He did get scared sometimes. But he couldn’t tell his friend that he did.
The cousins emerged from a stairwell in the apartment complex, crossed the parking lot, and walked toward the Nissan.
Jones chucked up his chin. “There they go, Nut.”
“I see ’em.”
Jones turned the ignition. “Time to go to work.”
chapter 19
STRANGE and Quinn had some barbecue at a place Strange liked, around 18th and U, then went over to Stan’s, near McPhearson Square, for drinks. The crowd was unpretentious, mixed race and class. The house signature was a full glass of liquor with a mixer side. The music was always tight. This was Strange’s idea of a bar.
The tables in the main area were full, so Strange and Quinn found stools at the stick.
Strange drank Johnnie Walker Red with a soda back. Quinn had a Heineken. Here, My Dear was on the house stereo, and the bartender was letting it roll from front to back.
“Marvin’s masterpiece,” said Strange.
“He was local, right?”
Strange nodded. “He came back to sing at Cardozo once, after he got huge. But they say he wasn’t really into being back in D.C. All those memories with his old man, I guess. Course, he had all sorts of demons, not just family stuff. I remember back in the seventies, cats were walkin’ around sayin’, Is Marvin gay?”
“It bothered you, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m not gonna lie. And I’m not sayin’ he was or he wasn’t, ’cause I don’t know. But I couldn’t understand the concept then and I still can’t get all the way comfortable with it today. You get old enough, you’re gonna see young people doin’ shit you can’t get behind, either. Y’all’s generation is all right with a man being with a man. I’m not exactly against it, but don’t expect me to embrace it, either. In my time, it’s not the kind of thing we were taught to accept.”
“All of these hatreds get taught,” said Quinn.
“Sure they do,” said Strange. “We get schooled by the people around us, and it stays inside us deep.”
“Yesterday, when I tricked that kid into giving me his mother’s apartment number?”
“Olivia Elliot’s boy.
“Him. You should have seen the way he was looking at me, Derek. Like he should’ve known from the get-go that the white guy was gonna fuck him.”
“That’s like blaming the meter maid’s color for the ticket she wrote. You were just doing your job.”
“The job stinks sometimes.”
“You took those kinds of looks regular when you were a cop. Like you were part of the occupying army or something. On my side, when I wore the uniform, I caught that house-nigger rap all the time. Again, it’s part of the job.”
Quinn finished his beer and asked Strange if he wanted another drink. Strange put his hand over the top of his glass. Quinn signaled the bartender and was served another Heineken.
“So anything we do,” said Quinn, “it comes under the heading of just another job.”
“If you accept it going in, yes.”
“Like Granville Oliver?” said Quinn. “That just a job to you, too?”
Only Janine knew the truth: that Strange had been responsible for the death of Granville Oliver’s father, back in 1968. That Oliver had spared the lives of two killers at Strange’s request, in exchange for Strange’s help, less than a year ago.
Strange looked into his drink. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“You were making a living before you took Oliver’s case. You didn’t have to take it.”
“I know you think it’s wrong.”
“Damn right I do. Piece of shit killed or had killed, what, a dozen people. He infected his community and he ruined the lives of all the young men he took on, and their families.”
“Most likely he did.”
“Then why shouldn’t he die?”