Read Online What It Was by George P. Pelecanos - Free Book Online Page B

ladies,” said Zoot. “I dress to the left, as you can see.”
    “You look like a hairdresser,” said Fanella.
    “Fuck you and buy me a drink.”
    They had cocktails and got around to why they had come. Zoot told them where they could find Roland Williams, the man they were looking for. He said the information had come from a law enforcement officer he had “on retainer” and the tip was golden. For his trouble they picked up the tab but gave Zoot nothing extra. It was understood that he was still connected, however tenuously, to the outfit, and always would be.
    “Where can we look at some women in this town?” said Fanella. “You know what I’m talking about. Ann-Margret types.”
    Zoot gave them a suggestion.
    Fanella and Gregorio went down to the Gold Rush, a burlesque club low on 14th. No cover, no minimum. Daphne Lake and her “exotic revue” were performing. Daphne’s protégées were double-D gals with plenty of flank and ass,but, to the disappointment and annoyance of Fanella, they showed no wool. Disoriented in their new surroundings, they walked the streets and came upon a theater, the Playhouse, showing a stroke picture called
Bacchanale.
“You must see Uta Erickson!” it said on the marquee, and they bit. Sitting there in the auditorium with the raincoat creeps who were moaning as they jacked off into newspapers and socks. It was distracting, but eventually Fanella’s trousers got tight, and he went to the bathroom and rubbed one off in the privacy of a stall. Returning to his seat, he tugged on Gregorio’s jacket and told him it was time to go.
    “The movie’s not finished,” said Gregorio.
    “Foreign pictures stink,” said Fanella. “Come on.”
    The Lincoln was where they’d left it, around the corner from the Gold Rush. Fanella cruised out of town, careful to stay within ten miles of the speed limit. He had a switchblade with a bone handle in his pocket. Under the driver’s seat was a loaded .38. In the trunk were two cut-down shotguns and slings, handguns of various calibers, bricks of ammunition, a baseball bat, a pair of lead-filled saps, a set of butcher knives wrapped in soft cloth, and a white raincoat. Fanella did not want to have to shoot a police officer over a traffic stop. His people would not like it if he went to jail before completing his task. He and Gino had work to do.
    ROBERT LEE Jones was seated in the chair beside the red velvet couch where Shirley “Coco” Watkins lounged in her office, drinking pink champagne, enjoying a Viceroy. Her new ring was in a silverware box under the bed, where she kept her jewelry. Jones was having King George scotch cut with alittle bit of water. In the rooms down the hall, Coco’s girls were working.
    “Time for me to move out,” said Jones. “Gonna room with Alfonzo for a while over in Burrville. I can’t be stayin here.”
    “For real?”
    “I’m too hot.”
    “You the one lit the stove.”
    “You see me sweatin?”
    “I never have before.”
    “I’m not stressed. I got cash now, Coco. Couple a thousand. Fonzo offed the product wholesale and we split the take.”
    “You woulda made more, you sold it by the piece.”
    “I got no interest in heroin. Just money.”
    “So if you’re flush, what’s your problem? You got a bed right here.”
    “People been seein us together. I ain’t about to wait for the law to show up. Me and Fonzo got a chance to make some real coin now.”
    Jones produced a pack of Kools from his breast pocket, flipped it, and extracted a menthol out of the hole he had torn in the bottom of the deck. He lit it with a match from the Ed Murphy’s Supper Club book he had taken from Odum’s apartment.
    “What are y’all’s plans?” said Coco.
    “We’re goin at Sylvester Ward.”
    “Two-Tone Ward? The numbers man?”
    “Him. Fonzo been sittin on him and knows his routine.”
    “Shit. You gonna take off Ward now.”
    “Because we can.”
    She blinked demurely. There was esteem and affection