“Shit. That’s the house there. To the left. Don’t fucking slow down. Just go. Man, you gonna burn the fuck outta me.”
“Relax. You stay low, they can’t see shit. You’re referring to the house with the two guys on the front porch, right?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Fucking get me out of here. I can’t be seen in a car with someone like you.”
“Now you fucking hurt my feelings.”
I prop my left elbow on the edge near the window and cup the left side of my face with my hand so they can’t make out my face. I drive at regular speed and pass them.
I make a left on Clifton and head back to 14th.
“Is there another spot you might want to show me?”
“Naw, man. That’s the only place I know outside of Seventeenth and Euclid. There be a couple places up there, but like you said, they probably be up outta there right now.”
“Did you recognize those two on the porch?”
“I didn’t look to see them good enough.”
“How do you know about the house?”
“A lot of ’migos be stayin’ in there.”
“Like the two you been holding for?”
“No. I told you I don’t know where they live.”
“What do they do outta this house, then?”
“They got some rooms up in there they rent out, but mostly for the ’migos. A lot of drinking and gambling. All that kinda shit.”
“What’s Cordell’s connection to that house?”
“He might keep some girls up in there and a couple of his boys. He’s got a piece of it.”
“Is it a stash house?”
I can see out of the corner of my eye that he looks at me funny.
“I don’t know that kinda shit, but I don’t think so. There be too many people in and out of there for him to keep his shit there.”
“He got some prostitutes working out of there?”
“Yeah, I said he got some girls in the house.”
“You been in there before?”
“Not like that, man.”
“You never went in to get your dick sucked?”
“No. No. I can’t afford any of them girls.”
He looks at me like he might have said the wrong thing.
“I don’t mean anything like that about your niece, all right?”
“But you’ve been in the house before?”
“Yeah.”
“Where do the girls stay?”
“I think they keep themselves in the basement. They got a lot of rooms in that house.”
I make a right on 14th.
“You still didn’t tell me how you know about what goes on in there.”
“This is my ’hood. I grew up here, man.”
“Where do you live?”
“C’mon, now, why I gotta tell you that?”
“Because I asked.”
“My moms and pops have a house on Girard.”
“What hundred block?”
“Shit. I told you what you want to know, so why do you need to get personal?”
“What hundred block?”
“Fourteen hundred. Shit.”
“You still live there?”
“Yeah, I stay up in there.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“No, you don’t gotta do that. Just let me out back where we was parked and I’ll walk. Don’t be goin’ and dropping me off where I live. You trying to get me killed?”
“I can do that myself, fuckwad. Now take me to your house so I can see you walk in. I want to know where to snatch you up if you’re lying to me.”
When it’s safe, I make a U-turn and head north, toward Girard.
“I ain’t lying to you.”
“Just the same. You’re going to show me the house.”
“Fuck, you’re—” but he doesn’t know how to finish the thought.
I know that look he’s giving. I know it well. It’s the kinda look you have when you recognize your own kind. Or is it?
I quickly let it go ’cause I’m probably reading too much into it.
I turn onto the 1400 block of Girard. It’s a whole new crew in this area, and they play just as hard as the boys on Euclid. A lot of them hanging at the apartment building when we make the turn. First dead body I ever saw was on this block. He was on the sidewalk in front of the corner building, his head bent down into the gutter and his blood spurting out like a spout.
“Where’s your house?”
“Get past this shit here, man. Drive on.”
Before we hit 15th, he points to a row of two-story connected row homes on the right.
“The one right there past the alley.”
It’s a one-way street, so I park on the other side, near a large community center. I remember when it was a smaller abandoned building with busted-out windows and occupied by squatters. Looks like DC did something right for the neighborhood by replacing it with a community center.
“Your parents still live there?”
“Just my moms. My pops passed on.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He doesn’t respond; he’s probably not used to hearing people offer their condolences.
I grab the bag of crack off his lap, reach in, and take five dime bags out of it. I drop the zips in his side coat pocket and then the large baggie back in my coat.
“What the fuck kinda cop are you, man?”
“The broken kind.”
I turn the car off, find the handcuff key on the key ring, and reach over to unlock the cuffs.
“Bend forward,” I tell him.
When he does, I unbind him.