George Pelecanos - The Way Home

“I don’t think Marquis is ready for that right now. It’s a man’s job, for one. Heavy lifting and hard work. And it’s a trade that requires experience. You have to know what you’re doing.”

“White Boy’s father got the business, right?”

“Chris’s father owns it,” said Ali. “That’s right.”

“Then he could put Marquis on. I mean, shit, he put Ben on, and you know Ben ain’t no genius.”

“Chris’s father already hired some guys from our old unit. Remember Lonnie and Luther? Plus Milton Dickerson and that boy we used to ball with, Lamar Brooks. Lamar’s the only one who worked out, and he left to start his own thing. It was me who asked Mr. Flynn to give them a try, so I can’t go back to that well right now.”

“Marquis ain’t never been incarcerated. He was in that pretrial jail at Mount Olivet, but no hard lockup.”

“Marquis isn’t ready,” said Ali, holding Lawrence’s gaze.

Lawrence smiled. “All right. Maybe I’ll just talk to Ben. See what he got to say.”

Ali rose from his chair, telling Lawrence it was time to go. Lawrence stood, and the two of them walked toward the door.

“Damn, you all swole,” said Lawrence, looking Ali over. “I remember when you was one step off a midget. You always did have a chest on you, though.”

“I got one of those late growth spurts,” said Ali. He was now a man of average height with a fireplug build.

Above the door, where boys who were exiting the office could read them, were framed, hand-lettered lyrics: We people who are darker than blue Don’t let us hang around this town And let what others say come true.

“What’s that mean?” said Lawrence, pointing at the lyrics.

“Means, don’t become what society expects you to become. Be better than that.”

“Damn, boy, you like Crusader Rabbit and shit.”

“Not really.”

“What you gonna do after you save all these young niggas down here? Run for president?”

“I think I’ll just stay here and work.”

Ali held the door open for Lawrence, who walked down the sidewalk toward his vehicle, an old Chevy, parked on Alabama Avenue. Two young men stood outside the storefront, talking loudly, laughing.

“Y’all want to come inside?” said Ali.

“What for?” said one young man.

“You can watch television.”

“Ya’ll ain’t even got cable. Or a remote.”

“Play foosball if you want,” said Ali.

“That shit broke,” said the other young man, and he and his friend laughed.

Ali went back into the office, thinking, He’s right, it is broke. He made a mental note to get some duct tape and fix it, when he found the time.

Thomas Flynn’s last stop of the day was at a Ford dealership in the Route 29 corridor of Silver Spring. It was where he bought his E-250 cargo vans and had them serviced. He dealt with the manager, Paul Nicolopoulos, a good-looking silver-maned guy in his fifties taken to double-breasted blazers and crisp white oxfords. Nicolopoulos always introduced himself as Paul Nichols to his clients, just to make his life easier. Increasingly, many of his customers were Hispanics and other types of immigrants, and they had trouble with his name, which his proud Greek immigrant grandfather had refused to change.

“Just give me the cheap stuff,” said Nicolopoulos, watching Flynn measure the space with his Craftsman tape. They were in the used-car office, set up in a trailer. Nothing about it was plush.

“I’m gonna sell you the olefin,” said Flynn. “Twenty-six-ounce commercial, level loop.”

“The service guys walk through here all day with their boots on, and they’re not delicate. It’s like they got hooves.”

“The olefin’s made for high traffic. It’s not pretty, but it’s plenty tough.”

Flynn drew the tape back into the dispenser and clipped it onto his belt. He produced a pocket calculator and began to punch in numbers. He typically took the cost, added his profit, then tacked on the personality defect tax or, if he liked the client or owed him something, gave him a discount. In this way he arrived at a final figure.

“Don’t hurt me,” said Nicolopoulos, watching Flynn calculate.

“I’ll only put the head in,” said Flynn.

“Pretend that I’m a virgin,” said Nicolopoulos.

“I’ll be tender and kind,” said Flynn.

“Afterward, will you brush the tears off my face?”

“I’ll take you to McDonald’s and buy you a Happy Meal.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

Flynn closed the calculator and replaced it in his breast pocket. “Twenty dollars a square yard, including installation and takeaway.”

“Is that good?”

“I dunno. Did you give me a good price on my vans?”

“I did the best I could.”

“Me, too,” said Flynn.

“When can you put it in?”

“Early next week.”

“Perfect,” said Nicolopoulos.

Out in his van, Flynn called in the order to the mill. He phoned Chris, who was still in Bethesda with Ben, and checked on the status of the job. The two of them were slow, but Chris was conscientious and did decent work. Flynn tried not to lose patience with Chris, though sometimes, depending on his mood, he did become agitated. The trick was to avoid comparing Chris and Ben’s work to that of Isaac and his crew. No one was as fast or efficient as Isaac, but in general Chris and Ben were fine.

Which wasn’t the case with some of the other ex-offenders Flynn had tried to help. At the urging of Chris’s friend Ali, he had hired, at various times, several men who had once been incarcerated at Pine Ridge. A couple of them, genial guys named Lonnie and Luther who had been in Chris and Ali’s unit, had issues with drugs and alcohol, rarely reported to work at an acceptable time, and dressed inappropriately. Another, a large man named Milton, could not grasp the mechanics of installation. Flynn ran a business that grew and was perpetuated by referrals, and who he sent into his clients’ homes made or broke his reputation. He had to let them go.

There was one guy, a quiet, polite Pine Ridge alumnus named Lamar Brooks, who Flynn had hired and who had acquitted himself well. Lamar was ambitious, had his eyes wide open, and quickly learned the trade. After six months he bought a van and tools, went out on his own, and started an installation service, subcontracting for small carpet retailers in the Northeast and Southeast quadrants of the city. Flynn saw the failure of Lonnie, Luther, and Milton as insignificant in the face of Lamar’s success. And though Chris did not verbalize it, Flynn sensed that Chris appreciated his efforts on behalf of his friends, and that alone had been worth the aggravation a few of these young men had caused.

“So you guys are almost done?” said Flynn into his cell.

“Should be out of here in a half hour,” said Chris.

“What are you doing tonight? You want to come to dinner?”

“Can’t.”

“You have plans?”

“Yeah.”

“I met a young lady named Katherine today,” said Flynn. “Works over at TCFI?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you seeing her?”

“A little.”

“Don’t be so effusive,” said Flynn.

“I’m busy here.”

“What’s her story?”

“I gotta get back to work, Dad.”

“All right. Come by for dinner sometime; your mom misses you. I’ve got a book to give you, too. Guy named Paul Fussell.”

“I’ve read Fussell.”

“Have fun tonight,” said Flynn.

“I need to finish this job… ”

“Go.”

Flynn headed home. It had been a decent day. No serious fires, no major mistakes. Not too busy, but he had closed a couple of deals, and there would be steady work for all his people in the coming week.