What It Was by George P. Pelecanos Page B

and plain wasted. Others walked toward their homes, minding their own. But the general landscape was quiet. Even the punchboards had called it a night.
    Strange walked down the sidewalk unarmed. He had a retractable baton in the trunk of his car and sometimes he carried a Buck knife. But he was about to commit a B-1, and to have a weapon attached to it meant mandatory time. His aim was to get in, find what he was looking for, and get out. No violence, no complications.
    As he approached the door beside the market, he quickly scanned the area and saw no one who appeared to be law. He was unconcerned with witnesses. His plan was to enter the house as if he owned it. He put his hand inside his sleeve,turned the knob on the open door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.
    He stood silently in a kind of small foyer and listened. He heard nothing but the ticks and creaks an old house made in the middle of the night. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a pair of latex gloves that he’d taken from a box Carmen had brought home from the hospital. He fitted the gloves on his hands.
    “Hey!” said Strange, and heard only the echo of his own voice.
    He went up the stairs, his gloved right hand riding the banister up to the second-floor landing. He knew where he was going because Vaughn had detailed the layout. But first he needed to ensure an alternate exit. Instead of heading straight to Coco’s office, he went in the opposite direction, down a hall, past a row of small rooms that ended with a dirty window leading out to a fire escape going down to the alley.
    Strange unlatched the window. As he did it, he heard a noise from the first floor. A knock on the door, and then the door swinging open. Two men, talking loudly and unconcerned about the racket they were making. Then their footsteps, heavy on the stairs.
    FANELLA AND Gregorio ascended the staircase. Gregorio had a .38 holstered inside his jacket. Beneath Fanella’s white raincoat was an Ithaca pump-action twelve-gauge that had been cut down and fitted in a sling. Gregorio pulled his revolver as his feet hit the landing and waited for Fanella’s instructions. Fanella looked toward the front of the building,saw an open door that led to a large room. He moved his chin in that direction, and Gino Gregorio pointed the gun there. It was understood that he would shoot if he felt the need.
    Fanella opened his raincoat and drew the shotgun. He proceeded to walk down the hall methodically, looking carefully into each open room, kicking in the doors of those that were closed. It was soon obvious to him that these rooms were empty. Still, they approached the main room gun-ready. Only when they stepped inside and saw that it was unoccupied did they lower their weapons.
    They had seen the light in the window from the street. Fanella found it odd that there was no one here. He was confounded, and he was somewhat disappointed. He looked around at the red furniture, the red velvet drapes, the brass bed.
    “Least we come to the right place, Gino.”
    “It’s a whorehouse, Lou.”
    “You think?”
    Fanella slipped the shotgun into the sling, then walked to a bar cart and picked up a bottle of Crown Royal. He poured some into a tumbler, drank half of it down, made a sour face, and dropped the glass to the floor.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Some boofer poured rotgut into a Royal bottle.”
    They tossed the room but found no heroin. Before they exited, Gregorio watched Fanella reach into a box and drop something in his pocket.
    “Who’s that for?” said Gregorio.
    Fanella said, “My wife.”
    WHEN STRANGE was certain they had left, he reentered the house. He’d watched them, sitting as far back as possible on the fire escape, through the dirty window. He’d made out their race, size, hair color, guns, and the white raincoat the larger man wore.
    Strange went down the hall to the large office, where a light had been left on. Carefully, he moved the curtain