In the midst of this extraordinary tension, private investigator Derek Strange has found a woman whose testimony could mean death or freedom for the crime lord. He wants her to talk-but first he'll have to find a way to keep her alive.
Step by step, Strange and his partner are drawn into the darkness, confronting gunrunners, drug dealers, and ordinary people caught up in the ruthless violence of the business. SOUL CIRCUS is a heart-stopping thriller that could only have been written by George Pelecanos, the writer who "has gone from cult favorite to acknowledged master" ("Booklist").
Author Biography: George P. Pelecanos is a screenwriter,
independent-film producer, award-winning journalist, and the author of the bestselling series of novels set in and around Washington, D.C., where he lives with his wife and children.
About the Author
Hometown:Silver Spring, Maryland
Date of Birth:February 18, 1957
Place of Birth:Washington, D.C.
Education:B.A., University of Maryland at College Park, 1980
Read an Excerpt
By George Pelecanos
Warner VisionCopyright © 2003 George P. Pelecanos
All right reserved.
Chapter OneThe chains binding Granville Oliver's wrists scraped the scarred surface of the table before him. Manacles also bound his ankles. Oliver's shoulders and chest filled out the orange jumpsuit he had worn for half a year. His eyes, almost golden when Strange had first met him, were now the color of creamed-up coffee, dull in the artificial light of the interview room of the D.C. Jail.
"Looks like you're keeping your physical self together," said Strange, seated on the other side of the table.
"Push-ups," said Oliver. "I try to do a few hundred every day."
"You still down in the Hole?"
"You mean Special Management. I don't know what's so special about it; ain't nothin' but a box. They let me out of it one hour for every forty-eight."
Strange and Oliver were surrounded by Plexiglas dividers in a space partitioned by cubicles. Nearby, public defenders and CJA attorneys conferred with their clients. The dividers served to mute, somewhat, the various conversations, leaving a low, steady mutter in the room. A thick-necked armed guard sat watching the activity from a chair behind a window in a darkened booth.
"It won't be long," said Strange. "They finished with the jury selection."
"Ives told me. They finally found a dozen D.C. residents weren't opposed to the death penalty, how'd they put it, on principle. Which means they found some white people gonna have no problem to sit up there and judge me."
"Four whites," said Strange.
"How you think they gonna find me, Strange? Guilty?"
Strange looked down and tapped his pen on the open folder lying on the table. He didn't care to take the conversation any further in that direction. He wasn't here to discuss what was or was not going to happen relative to the trial, and he was, by definition of his role as an investigator, uninterested in Oliver's guilt or innocence. It was true that he had a personal connection to this case, but from the start he had been determined to treat this as just another job.
"The prosecution's going to put Phillip Wood up there first," said Strange.
"Told you when I met you the very first time he was gonna be my Judas. Phil can't do no more maximum time. Last time he was inside, they took away his manhood. I mean they ass-raped him good. I knew that boy would flip." Oliver tried to smile. "Far as geography goes, though, we still close. They got him over there in the Snitch Hive, Strange. Me and Phil, we're like neighbors."
Wood had been Granville's top lieutenant. He had pled out in exchange for testimony against Oliver. Wood would get life, as he had admitted to being the triggerman in other murders; death had been taken off the table. He was housed in the Correctional Treatment Facility, a privately run unit holding informants and government witnesses in the backyard of the D.C. Jail.
"I've been gathering background for the cross," said Strange. "I was looking for you to lead me to one of Phillip's old girlfriends."
"Phil knew a lot of girls. The way he used to flash ... even a bitch can get some pussy; ain't no trick to that. Phil used to drive this Turbo Z I had bought for him around to the high schools, 'specially over in Maryland, in PG? Drive by with that Kenwood sound system he had in there, playin' it loud. The girls used to run up to the car. They didn't even know who he was, and it didn't matter. It was obvious he had money, and what he did to get it. Girls just want to be up in there with the stars. It's like that, Strange."
"I'm looking for one girl in particular. She swore out a brutality complaint against Wood."
"The prosecution gave you that?"
"They don't have to give you charges, only convictions. I found it in his jacket down at the court. This particular charge, it was no-papered. Never went to trial."
"What's the girl's name?"
"Devra Stokes. Should be about twenty-two by now. She worked at the Paramount Beauty Salon on Good Hope Road."
Oliver grunted. "Sounds right. Phil did like to chill in those beauty parlors. Said that's where the girls were, so he wanted to be there, too. But I don't know her. We went through a lot of young girls. We were kickin' it with 'em, for the most part. But we were using them for other shit, too."
"What else would he have used a girl like Devra Stokes for?"
"Well, if she was old enough, and she didn't have no priors, we'd take her into Maryland or Virginia to buy a gun for us. Virginia, if we needed it quick. We paid for it, but she'd sign the forty-four seventy-three. What they call the yellow form."
"You mean for a straw purchase."
"A straw gun, yeah. Course, not all the time. You could rent a gun or get it from people we knew to get it from in the neighborhood. It's easy for a youngun to get a gun in the city. Easier than it is to buy a car. Shoot, you got to register a car."
Strange repeated the name: "Devra Stokes."
"Like I say, I don't recall. But look, she was workin' in a salon, chance is, she still doin' the same thing, maybe somewhere else, but in the area. Those girls move around, but not too far."
"Phil's gonna say I killed my uncle, ain't that right?"
"I don't know what he's going to say, Granville."
Oliver and Strange stared at each other across the desk.
"You standin' tall, big man?" said Oliver.
Oliver was questioning Strange's loyalty. Strange answered by holding Oliver's gaze.
"I ain't no dreamer," said Oliver. "One way or the other, it's over for me. The business is done. Most of the boys I came up with, they're dead or doin' long time. One of the young ones I brought along got his own thing now, but he's cut things off with me. Word I get is, he still got himself lined up with Phil. Shoot, I hear they got two operations fighting over what I built as we sit here today."
"What's your point?"
"I feel like I'm already gone. They want to erase me, Strange. Make it so I don't exist no more. The same way they keep poor young black boys and girls out of the public's eyes today, the same way they did me when I was a kid. Warehousin' me and those like me down in the Section Eights. Now the government wants to bring me out and make an example out of me for a hot minute, then make me disappear again. And I'm a good candidate, too, ain't I? A strong young nigger with an attitude. They want to strap me to that table in Indiana and give me that needle and show people, that's what happens when you don't stay down where we done put you. That's what happens when you rise up. They want to do this to me bad. So bad that they'd fuck with someone who was trying to help me to stop it, hear?"
You left out the part about all the young black men you killed or had killed, thought Strange. And the part about you poisoning your own community with drugs, and ruining the lives of all the young people you recruited and the lives of their families. But there were some truths in what Granville Oliver was saying, too. Strange, following a personal policy, did not comment either way.
"So I was just wondering," said Oliver. "When they try to shake you down - and they will - are you gonna stand tall?"
"Don't insult me," said Strange. "And don't ever let me get the idea that you're threatening me. 'Cause I will walk. And you do not want me to do that."
Strange kept his voice even and his shoulders straight. He hoped his anger, and his fear, did not show on his face. Strange knew that even from in here, Oliver could have most anyone killed out on the street.
Oliver smiled, his face turning from hard to handsome. Like many who had attained his position, he was intelligent, despite his limited education, and could be a charming young man at will. When he relaxed his features, he favored his deceased father, a man Strange had known in the 1960s. Oliver had never known his father at all.
"I was just askin' a question, big man. I don't have many friends left, and I want to make sure that the ones I do have stay friends. We square, right?"
"Good. But, look here, don't come up in here empty-handed next time. I could use some smokes or somethin'."
"You know I can't be bringin' any contraband in here. They bar me from these meetings, it's gonna be a setback for what we're trying to accomplish."
"I hear you. How about some porno mags, though?"
"I'll see you next time."
"One more thing," said Oliver.
"What is it?" said Strange.
"I was wonderin' how Robert Gray was doin'?"
"He's staying with his aunt."
"She ain't right."
"I know it. But it's the best I could do. I got him all pumped up about playing football for us this year. We're gonna start him in the camp this summer, comin' up."
"That's my little man right there. You're gonna see, that boy can jook. Check up on him, will you?"
"I get the time, I'll go by there today."
"Stay strong, Granville."
Strange signaled the fat man in the booth and walked from the room.
Out in the air, on the 1900 block of D Street in Southeast, Derek Strange walked to his car. He dropped under the wheel of his work vehicle, a white-over-black '89 Caprice with a 350 square block under the hood, and rolled down the window. He had a while to kill before meeting Quinn back at the office, and he didn't want to face the ringing phone and the message slips spread out on his desk. He decided he would sit in his car and enjoy the quiet and the promise of a new day.
Strange poured a cup of coffee from the thermos he kept in his car. Coffee was okay for times like this, but he kept water in the thermos when he was doing a surveillance, because coffee went through him too quick. He only sipped the water when he knew he'd be in the car for a long stretch, and on those occasions he kept a cup in the car with a plastic lid on it, in which he could urinate as needed.
Strange tasted the coffee. Janine had brewed it for him that morning before he left the house. The woman could cook, and she could make some coffee, too.
Strange picked up the newspaper beside him on the bench, which he had snatched off the lawn outside Janine's house earlier that morning on his way to the car. He pulled the Metro section free and scanned the front page. The Washington Post was running yet another story today in a series documenting the ongoing progress of the Granville Oliver trial.
Oliver had allegedly been involved in a dozen murders, including the murder of his own uncle, while running the Oliver Mob, a large-scale, longtime drug business operating in the Southeast quadrant of the city. The Feds were seeking death for Oliver under the RICO act, despite the fact that the District's residents had overwhelmingly rejected the death penalty in a local referendum. The combination of racketeering and certain violent crimes allowed the government to exercise this option. The last execution in D.C. had been carried out in 1957.
The jury selection process had taken several months, as it had been difficult to find twelve local residents unopposed to capital punishment. During this time, Oliver's attorneys, from the firm of Ives and Colby, had employed Strange to gather evidence, data, and countertestimony for the defense.
Strange skipped the article, jumping inside Metro to page 3. His eyes went to a daily crime column unofficially known by longtime Washingtonians as "the Roundup," or the "Violent Negro Deaths." The first small headline read, "Teen Dies of Gunshot Wounds," and beneath it were two sentences: "An 18-year-old man found with multiple gunshot wounds in Southeast Washington died early yesterday at Prince George's County Hospital Center, police said. The unidentified man was found just after midnight in the courtyard area behind the Stoneridge apartments in the 300 block of Anacostia Road, and was pronounced dead at 1:03 a.m."
Two sentences, thought Strange. That's all a certain kind of kid in this town's gonna get to sum up his life. There would be more deaths, most likely retribution kills, related to this one. Later, the murder gun might turn up somewhere down the food chain. Later, the crime might get "solved," pinned on the shooter by a snitch in a plea-out. Whatever happened, this would be the last the general public would hear about this young man, a passing mention to be filed away in a newspaper morgue, one brief paragraph without even a name attached to prove that he had existed. Another unidentified YBM, dead on the other side of the Anacostia River.
River, hell, thought Strange. The way it separates this city for real, might as well go ahead and call it a canyon.
Strange dropped the newspaper back on the bench seat. He turned the key in the ignition and pushed a Spinners tape into his deck. He pulled out of his spot and drove west. Just a few sips of coffee, and already he had to pee. Anyway, he couldn't sit here all day. It was time to go to work. (Continues...)
Excerpted from Soul Circus by George Pelecanos Copyright © 2003 by George P. Pelecanos. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
No fantasy land here. We are taken to places in DC that are known only to locals,EMS and police. The psychological landscape is as dense as the tension of the tale. Though the elements of humanity are universal, it is refreshing to view the city away from K St And the White House.
The case against drug dealer Granville Oliver is so tight that state execution is a sure shot especially since his deputy Philip Wood testified against him. Desperate, Granville¿s attorney hire DC private investigator Derek Strange to coax Wood¿s former girlfriend Devra Stokes, who once filed a brutality complaint against him, to testify so she can destroy his credibility leading to life instead of death for his client. At the same time, Strange¿s partner, former cop Terry Quinn¿s has a client, pathetic small time hood Mario Durham, who hires him to find his missing girlfriend Olivia Elliot. Mario is the older brother of the head of the notorious Six-hundred Crew in Washington Highlands. Terry knows his client lies about love forever, etc., as Terry wants his stolen drugs that she took from him. Other sleuths also work cases, as DC is a place for job security for private investigators. The eleventh appearance of Derek Strange is a powerful private investigative tale that shows how little society is doing to help teens make it. The Durham siblings are on the career path of criminality with no detours. Even prison time will do no more than slow down the pace of their fall. Guns and butter are the market place as both can be purchased easily and relatively cheaply. Still even with such a strong message, the tale is loaded with action, plenty of life and death scenes, and the return of long time characters like Foreman, and a surprise guest appearance by Nick Stefanos. This gritty urban thriller will leave most readers agreeing with the hero¿s thankful belief that his home is an oasis of love and care in a deadly desert. Harriet Klausner
This one is basically the end of the Strange/Quinn books (though there is one more featuring a young Derek Strange). Featuring major drug dealing operations, random violence hitting major characters and our heroes turning out to be at least as troublesome as the villains, this is the one, you can really see the Wire scripting that Pelecanos would go on to do. Recommend.
To be completely honest, Soul Circus was not bad. Although not being one of the best, it was definitely an interesting read and also mentioned topics in which I particularly find myself vigorously researching. It is a bit disturbing at first to accept that some of these events actually occur. This book definitely does not smooth the topics over for the readers, but that is actually one of the qualities of this piece of writing. It gives me a sense of reading a non- fiction, which I find myself typically more fond of. Personally, I recommend this book to a more mature audience. The reason being that the topi mentioned, tend to be a bit raw in context. The vocabulary is in no way hard to understand. However, the constant references to sex and women could be a bit much for a 10 year old to handle; given his or her maturity level. If you find yourself to be all for a very active book relating to drugs, crime, and don't mind the occasional derogatory and sexist references, go for it! However, if you find yourself easily offended and not very into the topic of killings and crimes, maybe this isn't the book for you.
I enjoyed this book from beginning to end. I just wish I had read Hell to Pay first. Derek Strange is a great character. If you enjoy reading James Patterson books with detective Alex Cross you should enjoy this, though a bit more edgy.
This is only the second of Pelecanos's books I have read. (The first was 'Shoedog,' a startling exercise in noirish minimalism and a vivid recreation of existential characters caught in a hopeless, doomed caper.) In 'Soul Circus,' the existentialism pervades the characters' lives (with the exception of Derek Strange, who seems to be rock-solid and decent, the anti-hero's anti-hero who hunts bad people while understanding why they're bad he has a peculiar compassion for these people). The power and accuracy of the street language in 'Soul Circus' left me reeling. I've never read dialogue so flat-out realistic. It just jumps off the page. The novel is depressing, but I don't think Pelecanos set out to write a comedy. The word 'gritty' has often been used to describe his work, and that's a pretty accurate word for me. He's unique. Nobody writes so-called 'crime' novels the way he does: the dialogue not only shines, but seems to serve as a narrative device to propel the plot toward his central point (to me at least): the meaningless, out-of-control madness of doomed people who prey on each other. Pelecanos's novels are works of art. He is an original crime writer who writes brilliantly of doomed characters caught up in their own absurd world without seeming to realize that their world is indeed absurd (in the philosophical sense). To use an oxymoron, the characters seem to be hopeful nihilists. Great achievement by a great and gifted writer.
With his 11th novel bestselling author George Pelecanos offers another powerful, disturbing and highly readable story set on the mean streets of Washington, D.C. Private investigator Derek Strange with the aid of Terry Quinn again takes center stage as turf battles erupt in violent grabs for territory and money. Accomplished voice performer Richard Allen adds just the right amounts of menace and bravado to his reading, ably inhabiting the skins of both good and bad guys. When a D. C. crime boss is captured and imprisoned he seems a shoo-in for the ultimate punishment. Lawyers representing the gang leader hire Strange to help in getting a lighter sentence. A witness is needed to cast doubt on testimony against the drug lord, and that witness might just be an angry former girlfriend. After all, hell hath no fury like a you-know-who. Meanwhile with the crime boss in jail two young drug dealers are jousting for the apparently up for grabs neighborhood and profits to come. It is, as Pelecanos makes clear, a vicious circle that goes round and round in an amoral neighborhood where fear rules and friendships are forsaken. Pelecanos writes thinking man's thrillers, as his legions of fans will attest.
Pelecanos has well constructed plots but, honestly, I read his books for the insight he has into the lives of people, how they talk, and how they think. His characters are complex and fascinating. I heard Pelecanos talk recently and he described his work as urban westerns and it seems right to me. The characters' conversations on cars, sex, drugs, booze, and music add an extra dimension. He nails the rythm and flow of conversation of working-class city people. He does not sugar-coat anything.