George Pelecanos: Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go

“How about that gun of yours? You get rid of that Browning?”

“I dumped it over the rail of the Sousa Bridge.”

“Good. I just wanted you to know that the law was on it.”

“I got a feeling they’ll be leaving me alone.”

“That’s good,” LaDuke said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope thick with bills. “I came to give you this, as well.”

“Where did that come from?”

“Shareen Lewis. My payment for finding her son. Half of it belongs to you.”

“You keep it. I don’t need it, man. I’m coming into some money, from an inheritance. I’m flush.”

“Take it.” He pressed the envelope into my hand. “We earned it, you and me.”

“All right. I know a kid in San Francisco-he could use the money, I guess.”

And then the half of his face that was not gone twisted back into some sort of smile. “We got ’em, Nick. Didn’t we?”

“What?”

“We took those guys off the street. I mean, it’s something. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Jack. It’s something.”

He dropped the cigarette under his heavy black shoe, crushed it into the concrete, and began to move away. I touched his arm.

“Where you goin’, Jack?”

“I don’t know. I gotta go.”

“How will I find you?”

“I’ll be around,” he said.

He turned and walked into the alley. Th e darkness took him, and he was gone.

I stood there thinking about Jack LaDuke. I looked into the black maw of the alley and blinked my eyes. LaDuke would be deep in that alley now, dabbing at his face with the damp gray handkerchief, in the dark but thooked intonot afraid of it, because for him there was nothing left to fear. Or maybe he was out on the street, staring straight ahead as he walked down the sidewalk, avoiding his reflection in the glass of the storefronts and bars. Wherever he was, I knew he was alone. Like Lyla was alone, and like me. All of us alone, in our own brand of night.

Leaves blew past my feet and clicked at the bars of the riot gate. I slipped the envelope inside my coat and moved out of the light.

I walked to the corner, crossed the street, and headed for my Dodge. I touched my key to the lock, but did not fit it. I stepped away and walked back to the Spot.

Inside, the room was silent, bathed in blue neon. I went behind the bar. I poured myself a bourbon and pulled a bottle of beer from the ice.

I lit a cigarette. I had my drink.

This one started at the Spot.