George Pelecanos - The Way Home

“They don’t bury people here, Lawrence. It’s a park.”

“I ain’t say nothing about being buried. Why you always got to act so superior?”

“I wasn’t-”

“Let’s just go.”

They walked up the path together. They crossed the road to the parking area, near the rest room structure. Chris’s van was beside Lawrence’s Cavalier.

Lawrence nodded to its rear doors. “Ben’s tool belt in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see it.”

Chris unlocked the van, opened its rear, and handed Lawrence the belt. From one of its pouches Lawrence took Ben’s double-sided Crain razor knife and felt its weight and balance in his hand. The knife had a contoured wood handle and a heavy gauge three-inch blade that hooked at the end.

“Can I have it?” said Lawrence.

“Why?”

“Poet’s justice,” said Lawrence.

Chris nodded. “Hit me up.”

“I plan to arrange this quick,” said Lawrence. “We don’t need to think on it too much.”

“Right.”

“Be ready, White Boy.”

Lawrence back-pocketed the carpet knife and walked to his car. Chris’s blood pounded in his ears as he watched him drive away.

Sonny and Wayne had been partying all day in a white asbestos-shingled rambler on a generous piece of land bordering a community center in a place called Riverdale Park. Though the town was only a couple of miles off the District line in Maryland, there were trees and large lots as well as baseball and football fields visible from the backyard, and it felt familiar to both of them. They were comfortable here and relaxed. There were many Spanish in the neighborhood, and some blacks, but that didn’t ruin it for them. It was as good a place as they’d been in since they had come to D.C.

The girls, Ashley and Cheyenne, had directed them out here via Kenilworth Boulevard, more miles of shit-laid road to their eyes, so it had been a nice surprise when they pulled into this neighborhood of quiet and green. Ashley said that she and Cheyenne were friendly with the boy, Chuck, who was renting the house. It was a group home for three undergraduates who attended the University of Maryland, and Chuck was the only one who’d stayed for the summer while his roommates had gone back to their hometowns. Chuck came from upstate New York money, had illegal habits, worked in a comic-book store, and was weak but sweet. He’d given them permission to crash there any time and told them where the key would be, under a flowerpot on the front stoop. They three-wayed him when he wanted it, and unlike most drug users, he shared, so it was a good arrangement. Chuck would be cool with them bringing their two new friends over for some fun. He wouldn’t mind.

Sonny was outside the house, drinking a Jack and Coke from a plastic cup. Shadows had gathered and faded as night darkened the yard. Crickets rubbed their legs together, and the sound soothed him.

Sonny was high, maybe drunk, but in control. He had taken Ashley into one of the bedrooms as soon as they got there, asked her to strip for him, and told her to walk around. Predictably, she had a rose tattoo at the small of her back and one that matched just above her pubic line. She had cat eyes, freckles on her nose, and melon tits. It took a while, but he became aroused and he called her over to the bed, where he pushed the twins together, made them Siamese, and gave her a friction hump. It never took him long, and when he was done he was done for the day. He sat with her for a while as she snorted meth and he drank his cocktails, and he became bored, listening to her talk about bullshit, faster and faster, and listening to Wayne give it to Cheyenne in the adjoining room, the skinny girl making a whole mess of noise, Wayne showing off to his old cell mate, sending plaster chips off the wall, bottom-knocking that gal fierce, like he was hitting a pound of raw hamburger.

After, they all joined up back in the living room and commenced to partying group-style. The girls got down to panties and brassieres, which they no doubt thought was sexy, but to Sonny’s mind just exposed Ashley’s fat and Cheyenne’s birdlike build and acned back. Wayne had his shirt off, showing off his wiry frame, not an ounce of body fat on that boy at all. They were all doing the crystal except for Sonny, with Wayne pounding Silver Bullets behind the speckled white. Wayne had no bottom for beer when he did meth. Ashley and Cheyenne found a colored station on the radio they liked, and both of them were rapping together to what passed for a song these days, and they got up and did some kind of jungle-jump to it as Wayne clapped out of time and shouted them on. Eventually Wayne and Cheyenne went back into the bedroom, and Ashley drifted off, lit some candles, and drew herself a bath. Sonny took a nap.

When he woke up, the house was quiet. He fixed a drink and went outside and saw that the Mercury was gone. He had a seat on the stoop and as night came he thought of his situation and what would come next.

He tried to envision his future, but nothing came to mind.

It occurred to him that he was where he wanted to be. A lifetime of incarceration, starting at the boys’ detention center in Sabillasville, continuing on through several adult facilities, leading to the last, the federal joint in Lewisburg. All that schooling, and what he learned was: Live in the now. Take what you want, have no dreams, ride free. Like it said in the song by that wild country boy he loved: There are those that break and bend / I’m the other kind.

His cell phone rang. Sonny flipped it open and answered the call. When he was done talking, he put the cell back in his pocket and nodded tightly.

The Mercury pulled up in front of the house. Wayne got out, carrying a bunch of supermarket daisies, and crept across the yard. He stood in front of Sonny and head-shook his center-parted hair.

“You got that look,” said Wayne. “Somethin’s happenin.”

“Outta the blue, I just got a call from some coon. Said he had my money and was lookin to give it back.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Only Chris Carpet has my number. From the caller ID. So he’s got a partner.”

“You think it’s a trap? Maybe he called the law.”

“He didn’t even call out for the patrol car when it passed by his yard last night, and that was life and death. He ain’t that type.”

Wayne grinned and his face folded in upon itself. “So it’s on.”

“I reckon. Whoever I spoke to is gonna phone me tomorrow and tell me when and where.”

“Huh,” said Wayne.

“What are the flowers for?”

“They’re for my girl.”

“Your girl? We paid that little heifer to fuck you, son.”

“She’s a nice young lady.”

“She stinks.”

“Watch what you say.”

“She stinks like a menstruatin polecat.”

“Your mother does,” said Wayne.

Sonny snorted as Wayne slipped into the house.

Not much later, an old Honda coupe stopped on the street and a white boy got out of it. He walked gingerly toward Sonny. He was overweight and had long hair and a black T-shirt stretched tight over an hourglass figure. He stopped in front of the stoop where Sonny still sat.

“Who are you?” said the boy.

“Friend of Ashley’s. You?”

“Chuck. I live here.”

“So?”

The boy named Chuck tried to hold Sonny’s gaze, but he could not. His shoulders slumped and he stepped carefully around the big man, opened the door to his place, and walked inside.

Sonny smiled.

Chris Flynn sat shirtless on the edge of his bed and used one hand to pop the joints of the other. He had turned off his cell and had no landline, but now there was an incessant knocking on his apartment door. His van was on the street, so he couldn’t pretend that he was not at home. He walked to the door and opened it. Katherine stood in the hall. She was lovely and agitated. Angry even, for her.