I don’t know why, but I start thinking about Leslie and wonder what she’s got going for the weekend. Usually one, sometimes two of those days would include me. I’m really hoping it will again someday. Not much can bring me down, but this situation with her definitely is. Didn’t know I could feel this way. It’s like my heart has turned into an aching muscle—poetically speaking. And now since that occasionally overwhelming passion for Leslie has been realized and gone unfulfilled, that pain has found its way to my brain. I think they call it heartsickness, something I have been avoiding for a long time. I’m brave, except when it comes to those “affairs of the heart.” I take another swig from the flask, see if that’ll help suppress this sensitive side of me.
I focus my attention back on the house. The patio light either has a low-watt bulb or the fixture is dirty as shit, but it’s bright enough for me to make out some of the faces as they exit. One of them is Little Manny. He’s carrying a white plastic grocery bag with what looks like “Safeway” written on it. He hops down the stairs, scoops up his bike, and rides south on 17th to Euclid. I watch him until I can’t see him anymore, as he cuts left in the direction of the Ritz.
I check my watch for the time.
It’s rolled by.
Almost twenty-two hundred hours.
Little late for a kid that young. Parents might forgive it if he’s bringing home a little something that helps with the food and rent, though. He’s carrying something good in that bag. Probably money that’s going to Cordell. Narcotics Branch or 3D Vice has gotta know about this place. The chief more than likely has them working on petty shit, like what most of the residents with money are complaining about most. In Adams Morgan that can be anything from panhandling to public drunkenness. I know they’re not getting into any long-term drug investigations nowadays. That’s what Luna complains about most. The department’s definition of long-term is anything that’ll take more than twenty-four hours. No one works cases anymore.
About an hour after I see the kid leave, I notice two men walking up Euclid from the area I saw him biking into. The two men meet up with one of the crew boys on the corner at 17th. The taller, fatter one looks like Cordell Holm, and the short, stout one looks like his muscle. Can’t make out his face, but I’m pretty sure it’s Little Monster. He was always like Cordell’s second shadow unless Cordell had him go off and do something he didn’t want to get caught up in, like beatin’ some crackhead, or someone else who couldn’t pay, senseless. They enter the row house without knocking, like they own it.
I observe a few other men roll in and out throughout the night. At about one thirty, I see the fat one again. He stands on the stoop as if he’s surveying his land. That gives me enough time to focus in on him.
It is Cordell.
He’s put on a good hundred pounds since I last saw him. All that takeout his boys must be delivering. His hair is nappy, and he’s grown himself a goatee, but he still carries himself the same, despite the weight. He walks back down the stairs and then to Euclid, where he heads east, in the direction he came from. He walks like an inmate in control of the prison yard, but only ’cause his boys are nearby. I watch him until he cuts left and out of my line of sight. He’s gotta be going into the Ritz complex. There’s not much else in that direction and on Mozart except for a smaller apartment building on the east side, across from the rear of the school. But it’d be easier for him to get to that building walking north on 17th, then taking the driveway and cutting across the parking lot.
He’s gotta be bedding down in one of the apartments at the Ritz. Probably even has himself a few units there, including a stash house. It’s a tough place to hit and even tougher to get a buy out of, so it’d be the perfect spot. Again, nothing I’d chance hitting. All of Cordell’s family and crew members would be breaking outta the walls if I got caught walking the stairs or any of the hallways in that building. Still, it’s tempting. I gotta remember why I’m here, though, and it ain’t to build up my personal stash.
Damn if I don’t start feeling a little like a cop again.
Fifty-nine
The clouds are breaking up and daylight’s pushing through.
It’s Saturday.
Oh-six-twenty hours.
The corner’s clear. A couple of lights are still on in the row house. Blinds prevent me from seeing any movement inside.
Playboy’s car is still there. He might have his own girl, or maybe he’s dreaming of what Tamie might’ve been like. Who knows what the fuck Little Monster’s doing in there. Wouldn’t want to be in a room next to his, though.
I don’t want to call it yet. I’d like to see who exits in the morning. They might be using a rear door, making this nothing but a waste of time, but I don’t want to chance trying to find a new location to set up. I wouldn’t be able to find a good parking spot anyway. It’s best to stay put.
I’ve damn near snorted up most of what I brought with me. Flask is empty and I gotta take a mean piss. Fortunately, the Oxys I’ve been takin’ keep me constipated, so I don’t have to worry about that. I find an empty Gatorade bottle on the floor behind my seat. It’s still got the cap on it. I keep a couple of empties around for this purpose. They serve me well, since they have a big opening.