George Pelecanos - The Way Home

“I’ve gotta get going,” said Chris.

Mindy reached across the table, put her hand on top of Chris’s, and squeezed it. “They threatened my granddaughters. The big man said the little one would… he said the little man would cut their heads off. Do you understand what I went through that day?”

Chris gently pulled his hand free from hers. “Don’t speak of this conversation to anyone. Ever. Not even if you get a sudden case of conscience. Especially not if you read something about these men in the paper or see it on the TV news. Don’t ever speak on this again.”

“I won’t, Chris.”

“And it’s Chris Flynn.”

He got up out of his seat and walked from the restaurant. She watched him cross the parking lot to the white work van with the magnetic sign that read “Flynn’s Floors.” Realizing now that he was the owner’s son. She wondered if he was going to kill the men who had visited her and murdered his friend. She was not a violent person, but she found herself hoping that he would do just that.

“You finished?” said Toi, reaching for the main dish of uneaten food. “You want me to box it up for you?”

“No,” said Mindy, wiping a tear that had threatened to break from her eye. “Just get me the check.”

Toi went back to the waitress station, smiling to herself, thinking of the tall blond man who had humbled the bitch and made her cry.

Sonny Wade and Wayne Minors had moved out of the hotel in the badlands of the eastward strip of New York Avenue. In addition to the foreign tourists, who seemed shell-shocked to find themselves in such a place, the hotel was heavy with low-level criminals of various stripes, people drinking themselves to death, and one-night-stand women, both professional and amateur. Hence, a police car was often in the parking lot, either surveilling the premises or responding to a call. Sonny was aware that their old vehicle stood out, especially in Washington, where everyone, even those without the means, seemed to be driving late-model cars. Plus, their plates were certainly on the hot sheet now. It was not a good idea to stick around.

Sonny and Wayne were uncomfortable in cities, and in this one they felt particularly out of place. It wasn’t just that they were among many blacks and Spanish. The white people made them feel different, too. Sonny and Wayne had been institutionalized for most of their lives, and they did not know how to dress, converse, or wear facial hair like straights. In an urban environment, they were socially inept.

After checking out of the hotel, Sonny and Wayne drove down to the bus depot near Union Station. Sonny had suggested it, as he had always had luck making friends in those kinds of places. They were looking for girls of a certain type, and they had what was needed to make their acquaintance: cash and drugs.

They had taken off a meth dealer at gun- and knifepoint in Wheeling, West Virginia, on the way to Washington, after they’d purchased the Mercury. Wayne enjoyed snorting the powder, and though Sonny did not partake, being a Jack-and-Coke man himself, he wanted his little friend to be happy. So they had gone to a bar to find a way to make a purchase. There they met a young dealer who had the distinct body odor and the pale, poorly complected look they were searching for, and when they followed him to his garden apartment to party and cop, they decided to relieve him of his money and premeasured, snow-sealed goods. Sonny ransacked the apartment while Wayne held his knife to the boy’s throat. The threat of murder made it easy. Sonny didn’t have to show the boy his tattoo.

At the bus station, they found what they were looking for, a girl named Ashley and her friend Cheyenne. Sonny had spotted them first and pegged them as runaways, hookers, or both. Neither had baggage or a backpack, and he guessed they were doing the traditional bus depot hustle. He approached both girls and engaged Ashley in conversation, choosing her because of her generous bosoms, a feature that had always closed the deal for him. Her face was plain, but she was young, and she had a belly on her like many young women did these days, but he didn’t mind. While Sonny spoke to Ashley, Wayne stood back against a wall, tapping his foot nervously and head-shaking his long center-parted hair away from his face. Sonny waved him over. As Wayne neared the girls, the one named Cheyenne could not hide her look of revulsion, but she was no prize herself, bone skinny, dotted with acne, lank hair. Her features softened when Sonny mentioned the meth. Wayne added that it was “high-octane hillbilly coke” and didn’t burn “too awful goin up the nose.”

Sonny and Ashley quickly negotiated a fee.

“Let’s do it,” said Sonny. “Trouble is, Wayne and me don’t have a place to throw no shindig.”

“We know a spot,” said Ashley. “You studs got a car?”

“A beauty,” said Sonny.

Wayne, who figured himself a proper gentleman around the ladies, uncurled his fist and made a sweeping motion with his hand, as if he were pointing to a red carpet.

“Ladies,” said Wayne. “After you.”

On the way to their destination, they stopped at a liquor store for a big ball of Jack Daniel’s, a liter of Coke, multiple cases of Coors Light, and, because Wayne thought they’d like it, a package of wine coolers for the girls.

Chris phoned Ali down at his office and asked for Lawrence Newhouse’s cell number.

“I’m ready to talk to Lawrence,” said Chris. “I just wanna find out if he or Ben discussed the money with anyone. For my own peace of mind.”

“Okay,” said Ali.

Chris waited. “Well?”

“I’m gettin it.”

“There a problem?”

“You sound different,” said Ali. “Your voice got that hard thing to it. The way it used to when you had the need to show the world how tough you were.”

“I’m still broke up about Ben. That’s all.”

“It’s more than that. You sound like you got purpose.”

“Give me the number, Ali.”

“Here it is.”

Chris wrote it down. “Thanks.”

“You gonna get up with Lawrence, maybe I oughta come with you.”

“I’d rather see him alone.”

“Y’all could meet right here in my office.”

“I’ll hit you later,” said Chris. “Tell you how it went.”

Chris ended the call. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he stared at his cell awhile as if he were deciding, but it was theatrical hesitation. He had already made the decision, and he punched Lawrence’s number into the grid.

“Who is this?” said Lawrence Newhouse, his voice raspy and low.

“Chris Flynn.”

“What you want?”

“I know who killed Ben.”

After a long silence, Lawrence said, “Who was it?”

“Two men. I met them last night.”

“So?”

“The money you stole was theirs. They killed Ben over it. It’s safe to say that Ben didn’t give you up. If he had, you’d be dead now, too.”

“Did you give me up, White Boy?”

“No.”

“Why? All a sudden, you my friend?”

“I’m gonna need your help.”

“I guess we should meet, then.”

Chris said, “Where?”

The National Arboretum was situated on four hundred acres of trees, fields, and landscaped plants bordered by New York Avenue to the north and the Anacostia River to the southeast. Thousands of cars drove along its black fence every day, and the park was open to the public, yet it seemed underutilized by Washingtonians, perhaps because of its ugly gateway and the overinflated reputation for violence of the neighborhoods around it.

Chris Flynn drove his van past the information center and gift shop, located near the New York Avenue entrance, noticing the many Jeep security vehicles parked in the lot. It was in his makeup to take note of such things, and to rank private cops in a low position on his police scale. Private security meant they must not have any serious trouble back here, beyond kids smoking weed.