ran a thumbnail between his front teeth, keeping his eyes on mine.
“So,” McGinnes said. “They’ve got the boy.”
“If you don’t mind, Johnny,” I said, “I’ll take what I came here for.”
McGinnes went to the corner of the stockroom, moved some boxes, and returned with something in his arms. He unwrapped the oilcloth it was in and brought it out.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted,” he said. “So I brought a solid automatic. Nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power. Push button magazine release.” With a quick jerk of his wrist the clip slid out into his palm. “Holds thirteen with one in the chamber. Right here is the safety—you can operate it with your thumb while your hand’s still on the grip. If you’re not sure the safety’s on, try cocking the hammer.”
“Thanks.” I held out my hand.
“I brought an extra clip.” He pulled that out, placed it with the pistol, and put them both in my hand. “It’s your up, man.”
I rewrapped everything in the oilcloth and put it in my knapsack, then hung it over my shoulder.
“You guys coming upstairs?”
“I am,” Andre said.
“I think I’ll hang,” McGinnes said. “Catch a buzz.”
Malone and I climbed the stairs. As we neared the landing, we heard McGinnes coughing below. Malone stayed with me all the way to the front door, where he stopped me with a grip on my arm.
“Hey, Brother Lou,” he shouted at Louie, who was still behind the counter. “I’ll be takin’ a break.”
“You already had a break,” Louie said tiredly.
“Then I’ll be takin’ another.”
“What’s up, Andre?” I asked.
“Let’s go for a ride,” Malone said. “I got a proposition for you, Country.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
MALONE SAID, “Pull on over, man.”
We were in the southbound lane of North Capitol, near the Florida Avenue intersection. I pulled over and cut the engine. Malone rolled the window down, leaned his arm on its edge, and put fire to a Newport.
On the east side of the street was a casket company, a beauty parlor, and a sign that read, “FISH, UBS.” Hand-painted on the door, in dripping, wide red brushstrokes, was, “Closed for Good.” To our right stood a Plexiglas bus shelter on a triangle of dirt that the city called a park. A man in a brown plaid overcoat slept in front of the shelter’s bench, where another graybeard sat and drank from a bagged bottle. Further down the street, near P, a Moorish carryout and a “Hi-Tech” shoeshine parlor graced the block.
The sidewalks were teeming with activity. Those not seated on stoops paced within the confines of their block. A woman in a two-piece, turquoise jogging suit stood with her hands on her hips and yelled gibberish at the unconcerned people walking past. Her flat buttocks sagged much like her sloping shoulders. Straight ahead, less than two miles down the strip, rose the Capitol dome.
“Look at it,” Malone said. “This is our city, man. Just look at it. Right in the shadow of the motherfuckin’ Capitol. And they be throwin’ eighty million dollar inauguration parties.”
“You came from a neighborhood just like this,” I said, “and you made it out. It’s no different than it was twenty years ago.”
He chuckled cynically and blew out some smoke. “Don’t tell me it’s no different, man. On these streets they kill you now for a ten dollar rock. And the media, all they be talkin’ about: ‘The Mayor Snorts Coke.’ But nobody really cares about these people, because it ain’t goin’ down in Ward Three. It’s just niggers killin’ niggers. Meanwhile, you read the Washington Post—they supposed to be ‘the liberal watchdog of the community,’ right?—well, check it out. Some white woman gets raped in the suburbs, it makes page one. Now go to the back of the Metro section, where they got a special spot reserved for the niggers. They call it ‘Around the Area,’ some shit like that. And it’s always the same little boldfaced type: ‘Southeast Man Slain, Northeast Man Fatally Shot.’” He tossed his butt out the window. “One little paragraph, buried in the back of the paper, for the niggers.”
“You and me have talked about this a hundred times, Andre. What’s it got to do with today?”
He looked out the window and squinted, then ran a finger along the top of his thick mustache. “I remember my first day of work at Nathan’s. I got dressed that morning, real sharp. When I walked out of my place that day, I knew I was serious, I was so hooked up, I was proud.”
“I remember,” I said, and