George Pelecanos - The Way Home

Maybe he took a look at you and saw what the life would get him, thought Ben.

“Kids be hardheaded sometimes,” said Ben.

“Exactly.” Lawrence looked over at Ben. “Gimme that bottle, man. You hoggin that shit.”

Ben handed him the bottle. Lawrence drank sloppily, and some of the vodka and juice rolled down his chin. He fitted the bottle between his legs and made a sweeping gesture with his hand toward the street.

“City don’t look like it did,” said Lawrence. “Got bars and clubs for white people now in Northeast. On H Street. You believe it? Graybeards down by my way talk about H Street burning down during those riots they had, what, forty years ago. Took a while, but now the white folk got their hands in this, too. They were waitin on it to hit bottom all along so they could buy it up cheap. Just like they did on U.”

As usual, Lawrence had oversimplified the situation and taken the conversation into the realm of conspiracy. There were all kinds of people, owners and customers, in these new bars and restaurants, not just whites. They were young and they dressed better than Lawrence and Ben, and probably had more school. They had a little money and they wanted nice places to sit and hang with their dates and friends. One or two of these nightspots had opened up, and then they started to multiply. It was progress, and people got displaced because of it, and that was a shame, but Ben didn’t feel it was all to the bad. On this street here, there were lights on in windows that had once been dark, and jobs for people who needed work, and folks spending money to keep it going. Anyway, once the ball started to roll, wasn’t anyone could stop it.

“No Metro on H Street,” said Ben, recalling what Chris had told him earlier in the day. “That’s why it took so long to turn.”

At 8th, near the bus shelter that was always crowded with locals, a group of young men were running across the street, stopping traffic, yelling at the occupants of cars.

“It ain’t turned all the way yet,” said Lawrence.

“What about your nephew?”

“Right. Ali Carter’s trying to help him out. Ali’s at that place down on Alabama Avenue, Men Move Upstairs, or whatever they call it. He’s workin with at-risk kids, finding them jobs and stuff. I respect that, you know?”

“So?”

“He means well, but I feel like he selling my nephew short. Tryin to put Marquis into a Mac -Donald’s or a Wendy’s.”

“It’s somethin.”

“But he’s better than that. Boy needs a real job. Like the kind of work you and White Boy do.”

“What about it?”

“I was thinking, you know, White Boy’s father could maybe put Marquis on. Teach him so he learns a trade. So Marquis doesn’t have to take some dumb-ass job where he got to wear a paper hat and get laughed at.”

“Lawrence, I don’t know. I mean, we got our crews set. I don’t see Mr. Flynn hiring anybody new right now.”

“You can ask, can’t you? This for my nephew, man.”

“Yeah, I can ask.”

“You my boy, B. You know this.”

They drove down to the new baseball stadium on South Capitol Street. Ben had not yet seen it except in photographs. There was no game that night, but the stadium was lit up and they parked and admired it, and finished what was in the bottle. A security vehicle drove by, and its occupant shone a light in their car, accelerated, and turned a corner up ahead.

“He gonna come around again,” said Lawrence, cranking the ignition of the Cavalier. “They always got to be funny.”

Lawrence drove east on M Street and they went past a corporate headquarters of some kind. The road wound and dipped down along the old marinas, where modest powerboats were docked, some sitting beneath colorful Christmas lights strung overhead, tucked in along the banks of the Anacostia River. Lawrence kept on cruising and pulled over near a land leg of the Sousa Bridge, in a spot where old men and kids sat on overturned plastic buckets and fished during the day; it was deserted now.

Lawrence reached under his seat and found a joint of weed he had freaked in a Black amp; Mild wrapper, and he slipped it into the breast pocket of his oversize shirt.

“Let’s walk,” he said.

They got out of the car and crossed the road. Lawrence used a lighter to fire up the blunt, and by the time they had made it to the railroad tracks it was live. The road down here dead-ended eventually, so if the police were to roll through, which they did often, it would be trouble. But Lawrence only carried enough weed to eat and be done with if need be. The police could make out that you were high, they could smell it on you, they could even see the smoke coming out your mouth, but they couldn’t do shit if you had none on you. Lawrence knew the law, or so he told anyone who would listen. He felt that he was slick like that.

He offered the blunt to Ben, who took it and drew on it deep. Ben loved to get after it, but he only smoked occasionally with Chris outside work, and sometimes with his girl, Renee. He was careful to get his head right in places where he was comfortable and around people he trusted and felt safe with. Tonight, though, he made an exception. Lawrence was all right. He could be, sometimes. It would be bad manners to turn him down. Also, Ben was near gone on the alcohol. When he got like that, he craved a little marijuana to take him up further and, at the same time, even out his high.

They walked the tracks and smoked the joint down. Laughing and wasted, they returned to the car. Lawrence got the bottle of Popov from the Cavalier, and the two of them sat on the hood, facing Anacostia Park across the river, watching the lights from the bridge lamps play on the water, passing the alcohol back and forth, drinking warm vodka and feeling its burn.

“Pretty from here,” said Ben.

“East of the river?” said Lawrence. “Nicest part of town, you ask me. That’s the high point of D.C. High and green. You ever been on the grounds of Saint Elizabeth’s?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“They got a bench on the top of a hill where you can sit and look down at the whole damn city. I mean, it’s nice.”

“Why were you there?”

“I got sent there. Understand, I wasn’t crazy or nothin like that.” Lawrence looked at Ben, then looked away. “I just didn’t want to be in regular lockup no more. I’m talkin about when I was incarcerated in the a dult facility. People always muggin you and, you know, challenging you. I got tired of it. So I acted all messed up.”

“What’d you do?”

“It ain’t all that important what I did. Point is, I got moved. They transferred me over to Saint E’s for a little bit. Had some good-ass meds in there, too.”

Ben reached for the bottle. The lights on the water had blurred, and the bridge split apart and kind of flew off and came back together.

“Sounds tough,” said Ben.

“Well, it was better than the joint. But I could only fool them white coats for so long.”

“Anyway, it’s all behind us.”

“Yeah, it’s past,” said Lawrence. “I ain’t goin back to none ’a that.”

“Neither am I.”

“I just wish shit was easier.” Lawrence took the bottle from Ben’s hand and swigged from it. He wiped vodka from his chin. “I guess I’ll be workin the rest of my damn life. Ain’t gonna be no money tree growin in my yard.”

“There is such a thing, though. For real.”

“Shit.”

“I saw one. Wasn’t no tree, though. It was a bag.”

“Fuck you talkin about, man?”

“I found a bag of cash today,” said Ben. “Me and Chris did, on the job.”

“How you gonna lie like that?”

“I’m not. I counted it myself. And I put it back where it was my own self, too.”