Read Online Soul Circus by George P. Pelecanos - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: George P. Pelecanos
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for himself. He brought them frosted pilsner glasses he stored in the fridge for his guests. They sat in leather chairs grouped around a leather couch studded with nail heads, a glass-topped table in the center of the arrangement. Italian leather on the couch, Durham guessed, soft as it was. Foreman did have nice things. Why wouldn’t he, with the prices he charged?
The room was paneled in knotty pine. Foreman had always wanted a room like this, a room that he imagined a secure man would own, and now he had it. To him, the wood had the smell of success. There was the pool table and a deep-pile carpet, wall-to-wall, and a wide-screen Sony with a flat picture tube, the best model they made, with a DVD player racked beneath the set. His stereo, with the biggest speakers they had in the store, was first-class. He had a gas-burning fireplace in here, too, and the bar with the imitation marble top. He was all hooked up. He’d rather sit down here and catch a game than go out to the new football stadium or the MCI Center, matter of fact. He’d rather sit down here and chill than do just about anything else.
Durham took a taste of beer. He had a look around the room. Looked like some old man, wore his pants up high, owned it. Foreman was playing some old-school stuff on the stereo, Luther Vandross from when Luther could sing, had some weight behind his voice. Music from the eighties, that fit this place, too.
“Saw your woman,” said Durham, after enjoying a long sip of beer. “She looked good.”
“Thank you, man,” said Foreman.
It made Durham kinda sick just to think about her. Why it was, he wondered, that black men who went for white women always went for the most fugly ones. When a white boy had a black woman she always seemed to be fine. You could bet money on that shit damn near every time.
Foreman’s woman, she had come to the door in some JCPenney’s-lookin’ outfit, no makeup on her face and wine breath coming out her big mouth. Looked like she just dragged her elephant ass out of bed; must have remembered that it was feeding time, sumshit like that. Talkin’ about, “How you two be doin’?” A big-ass, ugly-ass white girl trying to talk black, her idea of it, anyway, from ten years ago.
“Yeah,” said Durham, “she looked good.”
“She’s gettin’ her rest,” said Foreman.
Foreman took a Cuban out of a wooden box on the glass table before him, clipped it with a silver tool set beside the box, and lit the cigar. He got a nice draw going and sat back.
“Saw your brother, Mario, today,” said Foreman casually, as if it had just come into his mind.
“So did I,” said Durham. “Just a little while ago.”
“This was in the morning,” said Foreman. “I had a little transaction with him.”
“Yeah?”
“No big thing. Rented him a gun. Traded him five days’ worth for a little bit of hydro he was holding.”
Walker glanced over at Durham. No one said anything for a while, as Foreman had expected. But he wanted his business with Twigs to be up front, on the outside chance that some kind of problem came up later on.
Durham’s eyes went a little dark. “Now why you want to do that? I’d get you some smoke, you needed it.”
“Well, for some reason, Mario’s always got the best chronic.” Foreman chuckled. “The older I get, seems I need the potent shit to get me high.”
“What, mine don’t get you up?”
“The truth? It hasn’t lately. When Mario lays some on me, I trip behind it.”
’Cause what I give to Mario, I give to him out of my private stash, thought Durham. And you know this.
Durham exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the ache in his stomach. “What he needs a gun for, anyway?”
“Said he was lookin’ to make an impression on someone. I didn’t get the feeling he was gonna use it.”
“He ain’t say nothin’ to me.”
“Boy’s harmless, though, right?”
Durham cut his eyes away from Foreman. “He ain’t gonna do nothin’, most likely.” He
The room was paneled in knotty pine. Foreman had always wanted a room like this, a room that he imagined a secure man would own, and now he had it. To him, the wood had the smell of success. There was the pool table and a deep-pile carpet, wall-to-wall, and a wide-screen Sony with a flat picture tube, the best model they made, with a DVD player racked beneath the set. His stereo, with the biggest speakers they had in the store, was first-class. He had a gas-burning fireplace in here, too, and the bar with the imitation marble top. He was all hooked up. He’d rather sit down here and catch a game than go out to the new football stadium or the MCI Center, matter of fact. He’d rather sit down here and chill than do just about anything else.
Durham took a taste of beer. He had a look around the room. Looked like some old man, wore his pants up high, owned it. Foreman was playing some old-school stuff on the stereo, Luther Vandross from when Luther could sing, had some weight behind his voice. Music from the eighties, that fit this place, too.
“Saw your woman,” said Durham, after enjoying a long sip of beer. “She looked good.”
“Thank you, man,” said Foreman.
It made Durham kinda sick just to think about her. Why it was, he wondered, that black men who went for white women always went for the most fugly ones. When a white boy had a black woman she always seemed to be fine. You could bet money on that shit damn near every time.
Foreman’s woman, she had come to the door in some JCPenney’s-lookin’ outfit, no makeup on her face and wine breath coming out her big mouth. Looked like she just dragged her elephant ass out of bed; must have remembered that it was feeding time, sumshit like that. Talkin’ about, “How you two be doin’?” A big-ass, ugly-ass white girl trying to talk black, her idea of it, anyway, from ten years ago.
“Yeah,” said Durham, “she looked good.”
“She’s gettin’ her rest,” said Foreman.
Foreman took a Cuban out of a wooden box on the glass table before him, clipped it with a silver tool set beside the box, and lit the cigar. He got a nice draw going and sat back.
“Saw your brother, Mario, today,” said Foreman casually, as if it had just come into his mind.
“So did I,” said Durham. “Just a little while ago.”
“This was in the morning,” said Foreman. “I had a little transaction with him.”
“Yeah?”
“No big thing. Rented him a gun. Traded him five days’ worth for a little bit of hydro he was holding.”
Walker glanced over at Durham. No one said anything for a while, as Foreman had expected. But he wanted his business with Twigs to be up front, on the outside chance that some kind of problem came up later on.
Durham’s eyes went a little dark. “Now why you want to do that? I’d get you some smoke, you needed it.”
“Well, for some reason, Mario’s always got the best chronic.” Foreman chuckled. “The older I get, seems I need the potent shit to get me high.”
“What, mine don’t get you up?”
“The truth? It hasn’t lately. When Mario lays some on me, I trip behind it.”
’Cause what I give to Mario, I give to him out of my private stash, thought Durham. And you know this.
Durham exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the ache in his stomach. “What he needs a gun for, anyway?”
“Said he was lookin’ to make an impression on someone. I didn’t get the feeling he was gonna use it.”
“He ain’t say nothin’ to me.”
“Boy’s harmless, though, right?”
Durham cut his eyes away from Foreman. “He ain’t gonna do nothin’, most likely.” He
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