George Pelecanos - The Way Home

Ali’s focus was on getting the young men jobs and making sure they held them. To do this he communicated with parole officers, defense attorneys and prosecutors, and the staff of Ken Young, the recently hired reform-minded director of the District’s Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services. He dealt with the members of the District’s Absconding Unit, who tracked down kids who had skipped supervision, and he reached out to potential employers throughout the area, in particular those who had seen some trouble in their own youth and were willing to give his kids a try.

Without realizing it or having it in mind, Ali Carter was becoming connected and making a name for himself in the city. He liked his work and tried to forget that he was earning little more than minimum wage, which left him close to the poverty line.

“Any other problems?” said Ali.

“That man just aggravate the shit out of me, man,” said William Richards.

“Mr. Masters?”

“Mr. Slave master. He al ways tryin to tell me what to do.”

“He’s paying you ten dollars an hour. It’s his right to tell you what to do.”

“I don’t need that job.”

“He’s trying to introduce you to the culture of work.”

“Huh?”

“Mr. Masters knows how hard it is to come back from jail time. He doesn’t want you to have to go through that. He’s trying to teach you how to work so that work becomes routine for you.”

“I don’t need him to teach me that. I know how to work and I damn sure can make some money. That’s one thing I can do.”

“Listen to me. It’s important that you have a legitimate job right now and keep it, so that when you go to your hearing, you can stand before the judge and say that you’re gainfully employed. Do you understand, William?”

“Yeah.” But his slack posture and lack of eye contact said that he did not.

“Did you get your paycheck?”

“Here in my pocket.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Take it that check-cash place round my way.”

“They charge you big for that, don’t they?”

“So?”

“I been tellin you, you should open a checking account at the bank. They charge much less than that store does. And they’ll give you an ATM card. You can manage your money better and get to it any time.”

“My mother got to take me to that bank, right?”

“To open the account? Yes.”

“She too busy.”

“You asked her?”

“No, but I’m about to. Next week.” William stood abruptly out of his chair. He drew his cell from his jeans, opened it, and checked it for text messages.

“We straight?” said Ali.

“Huh?”

“Look at me, William.” Ali stared into his eyes. “You’re good with this job, right?”

“Yeah,” said William. “But I’m not wearin no clown shirt. That ain’t me.”

Ali watched William slip out of his office. He didn’t reflect on William or strategize on what to do with him next. At seventeen, William was at a point in his life where he had to choose a path for himself. Ali would be there for him if need be, but he wouldn’t spend an inordinate amount of time on him if he continued to display his current level of resistance. Ali had many boys, and though they rarely expressed it verbally, some of them recognized the value in the hand that was being offered to them. It was unproductive for Ali to focus on one who was not willing to meet him halfway.

For the next hour, Ali made some phone calls. One was to a midlevel manager at the new baseball stadium, where Ali had been trying to get a couple of his boys put on. He knew that there were plenty of workers needed at the concession stands as well as less-desirable positions of the janitorial variety. Thus far the stadium officials had been unresponsive. The manager had said something about the need to present a more polished face to the public. Ali actually understood this from a business standpoint, but he vowed to be persistent. He’d call Ken Young. Young had direct dealings with stadium officials and the ear of the mayor, who had hired him from out of town.

There was a cursory knock on the glass storefront door, and a man pushed through it. Almond-shaped eyes, skin that in some lights looked yellow. He now wore his hair in braids. He was twenty-six but looked ten years older. Ali could see that he was high.

“ ’Sup, Holly? ” he said.

“Lawrence.”

“Can’t your boy visit a minute?”

Ali nodded warily as Lawrence Newhouse crossed the room.

Damn, boy,” said Lawrence Newhouse, looking around the office. “You oughta fix this joint up some.”

“We got no money to speak of,” said Ali. “None extra, anyway.”

“Still,” said Lawrence.

The space consisted of two desks, one for Ali, one for Coleman Wallace; a computer with slow dial-up service that they shared; and file cabinets. Also in the room were a foosball table with a cracked leg, a television set with no remote, a roll-in blackboard, several chairs, and a ripped-fabric couch. Ali did his best to make it a place where the boys would feel comfortable hanging out. Everything had been donated. It wasn’t nice, but it was good enough.

“What can I do for you, Lawrence?”

“Wonderin why I stopped in, huh.”

“Been a while.”

“Bet you think I’m lookin for work, somethin.”

“No, I didn’t think that.”

“I got work, man. Got this thing where I detail cars.”

“That’s good.”

“What you doin here, it’s for young men at risk. You know I’m not at risk.”

“And you’re not that young,” said Ali.

Lawrence chuckled and pointed a finger at Ali. “That’s right.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“It’s about my nephew. Marquis Gilman?”

Ali knew him, a nonviolent boy of average intelligence, funny, with lively eyes. Marquis was sixteen, up on drug charges, a recent dropout of Anacostia High School. He had been picked up several times for loitering and possession. His heart wasn’t in his work. He was a low-level runner who didn’t care to run.

“Marquis is one of my clients,” said Ali. “I’m tryin to help him out.”

“He told me. Want you to know, I appreciate it. He stays over there at Parkchester, with my sister and me. She’s havin a little trouble containing him. You know how that is. Boys that age just don’t think right. They wired up stupid in their heads.”

Ali nodded. He wouldn’t have put it that way, but Lawrence had the general idea. No one knew more about teenage brain scramble and bad decisions than Lawrence Newhouse.

“I’m lookin out for him, though,” said Lawrence. “I got no kids myself, so he as close to one as there is.”

For a moment, Ali thought of his own uncle and shook his head.

“What’s wrong?” said Lawrence.

“Nothin,” said Ali.

“So let me tell you why I’m here. Marquis said you tryin to hook him up with a job.”

“I’m trying. So far we haven’t had much luck.”

“What, you tryin to put him in a Wendy’s, sumshit like that?”

“At this point, we need to find him a job anywhere. Then, if he doesn’t want to return to school, I’ll get him started on earning his GED. Get him used to work and study. Change his habits. Marquis has all the necessary tools.”

“That’s what I’m sayin. He’s better than some fast-food job. I mean, he could do better right now. I been talkin to Ben Braswell. You know I still stay in contact with my man.”

“And?”

“Ben workin with White Boy, laying carpet. Both of them make good money at it. That’s the kind of thing I’d like to see Marquis get into. Learn a trade, and I’m not talkin about operatin no deep fryer.”